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syoddeye · 2 days

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big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too.

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private.

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers.

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious.

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing.

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook.

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing.

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss.

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. “Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests.

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps.

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.”

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained.

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.

#ghost x reader #ghost x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #mind the tags #posting and skittering off

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heartysworld · 2 days

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Family Tradition || Lando Norris x Reader

A/N: Honestly, I don't even know where this idea cake from I've been feeling nostalgic recently and I thought back to when I myself watched a wildlife documentary and it made me feel bad for the poor babies. Also please know that this hasn't been proofread yet so it's possible to have a mistake here and there!

Hopefully you enjoy this one, feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

W. C.: 1k+

"Baby look at him, he's so cute!" You exclaimed, looking at the tiny creature that sat at the palm of your hand.

Next you, Lando was just as smitten with the baby turtle in his hand. You could see the tender look of his eyes as his pointer finger went over the shell of the tiny creature whose fins moved in all possible directions.

" How do you know it's a him? For all we know it could be a she!" Your fiance said with a small laugh.

"Call it female intuition.''

"Okay everyone, it's time to get these little guys back to their natural habitat. On 3, everyone can release their baby turtle and we're going to move back a bit so that they have the space they need to craw towards the water!" One of the men responsible for the release of the baby turtles explained while everyone got ready.

All this began as a silly joke between you and Lando about a year ago when you watched a documentary about sea turtles and the hardship the newly hatched babies face when it's time for them to go into the water.

When Lando came home from the gym to find you crying like a baby in front of the TV he couldn't help but laugh when he heard the reason for your tears.

" Oh baby come here." He said as his arms embraced you in a warm hug, the aroma of his freshly applied cologne invading your senses.

"Look at them! They're so sweet and tint and most of them won't even get a change to feel the water!" You continued, sobbing like a baby. " I wish I could do something to help them." You added just as another sob escaped your mouth.

Your then boyfriend felt bad even though he had to fault for the emotions that you were going through. One of his hands ce up to your cheeks, wiping away the falling tears with a tender touch and followed by a gentle kiss on your temple.

"Look at me, baby. I know that's something we can't prevent. But how about this, one day I promise you that we'll go to one of those palces where they help baby turtles find their way to their home. What do you say?" Lando asked, his chin coming to rest atop your head while you nuzzled your face closer to his chest.

"Really? You'd do that for me?" You asked, your voice a bit unclear due to Lando's sweatshirt being in the way. You felt him nod before both his hands took a gold of your face, making you look him in the eyes.

" I'd do whatever I can to make you happy, baby. You should know this by now. Or should I be worried?" He asked playfully, making you swat at his chest for what he just said.

Ever since that day the topic of doing what he promised always somehow found its way in your conversations. That's also how it came to be Lando's present for you after your engagement. A trip to a resort in Bali, but not just any resort but one that specifically offers the chance for those interested to volunteer on the process of releasing baby turtles in the ocean.

"Come on little guy, it's time to go home." You said as you watched the baby turtle crawl off your hand and slowly start swatting at the sand that surrounded it. Meanwhile Lando watched your expression and the reactions that followed, having already released his baby turtle.

A small tear fell down your check and he wasted no time pulling you close to him go provide you with the comfort you needed during such an emotional moment.

"Don't worry Lan, this time these are happy tears." You murmured close to his chest while his hands caressed your soft hair.

" That's all I need to know,baby. Your happiness is what matters most." He said as he felt a sense of pride bloom inside his chest. He was happy to finally be able to do something he knew would make you truly happy and content. A small thank you for all the support and sacrifices you've made to remain by his side during the time you've been together.

"Maybe we can make this a family tradition. You know...come here one day with our children and do this all over again." He suggested, making a small smile appear on your lips as the thought of him being a father and you a mother, sharing such a precious moment with your family, popped up in your mind.

" I like the way you think baby. I like it a lot." You said, patting his chest as he let out a quiet laugh.

Who would've thought sobbing over a wildlife documentary would lead to the appearance of an unique and memorable family tradition for decades to come.

Feel free to send any requests through my asks!

#f1 fandom #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x female reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff #lando norris x oc #boost post #f1 masterlist #f1 au #formula 1

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 3 days

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heyy, I just saw the first episode of season two and I’m completely destroyed. I need to read something with Jacaerys in which reader gives him a hug after what happened 🫶🏻

Request: Helloooo! I saw you were open to requests sooo with this episode- how about instead of Baela being the one to take Jace to Rheanyra, its reader who had been waiting for him since he landed? Jace x reader relationship is up to you!

I have written this a few weeks ago, but let's do a small blurb. Seeing Jace break was just so sad. Grab your tissues 🤧

Warnings: mention of character death, grief

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

On the journey back to Dragonstone, Jacaerys swallowed back his tears. Vermax could feel that his rider was in pain, but he stayed focused on flying home.

Although you couldn’t predict when they would arrive, you knew Jacaerys would fly home immediately upon receiving the letter.

You greeted him outside when he landed, but Jacaerys refused to meet your eyes, focussing on princely duties because he could not bear to face his role as brother and son in that moment. He spoke like a prince, asking to be taken to the Queen so he could give her his report.

Without speaking a word, you walked him to Rhaenyra’s chambers. The guards opened the door for you, nodding their heads at the prince. As you stepped inside, Rhaenyra turned at the sound of your footsteps on the stone floor.

You bowed to the Queen, casting a last glance on Jacaerys before you left the room. ‘’You know where to find me,’’ you whispered to him, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t respond.

While he spoke to his mother about the Vale and the North, Jacaerys was trying to remain professional and keep his composure. He needed to stay strong for her. His voice was steady until he mentioned the North. The name of Cregan Stark brought back the images of the northman delivering the news of Lucerys’s death, causing Jacaerys to choke up on his words.

Rhaenyra held her eldest and they cried together.

When he thought the tears were over, Jacaerys left his mother’s chambers. Servants were politely nodding their head at him on his way to his own chambers, a veil of sympathy on their faces. But Jacaerys paid them no attention as his emotions were threatening to spill again.

As promised, you were sitting on his — your — chambers when he stepped in, waiting for him. You stood when hearing the door, and he broke down completely, his body shaking with sobs as he collapsed into your arms.

You held Jacaerys tightly as he sobbed uncontrollably, his grief pouring out with each shuddering breath.

You always knew him as the strong son of Princess Rhaenyra who held his head high and never let anything affect him. The strength he usually exuded was gone, replaced by the vulnerability of a boy who had lost his brother. It was gut-wrenching to see him cry, his hands clutching at your dress to anchor himself through the storm of his emotions.

‘’He died because of me,’’ he whispered between sobs, his voice raw with pain. ‘’It was my idea to go on dragonback instead of sending ravens.’’

Guilt laced his voice, and you pulled his head back, seeing his eyes red and swollen. You knew no words would stop his guilt. He would have to live with his for the rest of his life. But you could try to show him he was not entirely at fault. It was Vhagar at the commands of Aemond targaryen who killed Lucerys. Not him.

‘’Mayhaps it was your idea, but you couldn’t have known Aemond would be at Storm’s End asking for support from Borros Baratheon. He is the one responsible for this barbarous act,’’ you said, holding his gaze.

—

House of the dragon taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @domoron @ididliquorice @lover-of-helios @lover-of-helios @shine101 @tanyaherondale@mikariell95 @serrendiipty @lantsovheiress @gilliananderfuckme @shine101 @tetgod @clayzayden@memeorydotcom @tnu-ree @futuregws @blackravena @winxschester @mysteriouslydelightfulchaos @xxlaynaxx @secretsthathauntus @pilarxxxaguayo @emmavan39 @stargaryenx @erylilly @bbblackmamba @rainedrop97 @dreamer087 @gothicgay14 @ashlatano7567 @superkittywonderland @justaproudslytherpuff @evesolstice @buckysmainhxe @padfootsvixen @scarletmeii @evesolstice @dkathl @kaywsworld @tetgod @padfootsvixen @domoron @weird-addiction @angeliod @xjennyx2 @adaydreamaway08 @mymultiveres @secretsthathauntus @puffycreamcakes @thirsty4nonlivingmen @naty-1001 @katiepie67 @moshpot24x @hc-geralt-23 @lovelynerdytraveler @saturn-sas @zgzgh @sssjuico10 @tabloidteen @timetoten @deekaag @wondxrgurl @aerangi @strmborns @astridyoo15 @daemonslittlebitch @queenbeestuffs @severewobblerlightdragon @agentstarkid @msliz @vane1999-blog @fairyfolkloresposts @todaywasafairytale07 @otomaniac @zgzgzh @thebeardedmoon @golden-library @kikyrizuki @hnslchw @camy85 @winxschester @armstrongscommentsection @withfireandbl00d @randomstory56 @JudgmentDays-Girl @darylandbethfanforever9 @darylandbethfanforever9 @aegonswife @dakotapaigelove @jays-bullshit

All and more taglist: @kenqki@hawkegfs@gillybear17@black-rose-29@fudge13 @cece05 @laylasbunbunny @gemofthenight @beautyb1ade@mellabella101 @vxnity713 @bisexualgirlsblog@queenofslytherin889 @thatbxtchesblog @softb-tterfly @ethanlandrycanbreakmyheart @xyzstar @graceberman3 @mikeyspinkcup @jackierose902109 @daisydark @laurasdrey @mischieftom @fanatic4niall @peterholland04 @idkwhattonamethisblogs @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @zoeynicolas @thejuleshypothesis @multi-fandom-bi-bitch @lexasaurs634 @notasadgirlipromise @thejuleshypothesis @katherinejess @rafesgirlstuff @lafleshlumpeater @iamluminosity @Anouknani-2305 @books0fever @papichulo120627 @qardasngan @ghostlyvoidydragon @M0rgans1nterlud3 @dahlia-blossom21

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon imagine #house of the dragon

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mysteryshoptls · 2 days

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SSR Jade Leech - Club Wear Voice Lines

Club Wear Jade does not have a vignette.

When Summoned: The mountains; a place that stimulates all five senses― Come, you should revel in this sensation as well.

Summon Line: I have my canteen, compass, and flashlight... That's everything. Fufu, I seem to have become quite accustomed to climbing mountains..

Groooovy!!: Even when visiting the same location a second time, the scenery always presents something new. The mountains are truly fascinating.

Home: Well now, time to head into the mountains.

Home Idle 1: Rainy days in the mountains are just as wondrous. Take moss, for example. There is a vast difference between the ambiance of wet and dry moss.

Home Idle 2: This coming weekend, I plan on heading into the mountains before the sun rises. There are some flowers I wish to see that only bloom in the early hours of the morning. Fufu, I must make sure I don't oversleep.

Home Idle 3: I think I've been able to have a better understanding of how humans use their legs to carry themselves ever since I started hiking. As they say, what one likes, one will learn to do well.

Home Idle - Login: From singing birds to chirping insects; from the crisp fresh air of nature to the flora each distinctive in their own way... [sighs] The mountains are superb. No matter how many times I go, I am always in for a new, surprising treat.

Home Idle - Groovy: I'm ecstatic to have you listen to my mountaineering tales. Here, have another cup of tea. I still have much to tell you.

Home Tap 1: I always make sure to wear a hat while sketching in the wild. Last time, I became so single-minded in my sketches I contracted a sunburn so strong my skin chafed terribly.

Home Tap 2: I attempted to regale Floyd on my climbing exploits, but he feel right asleep within a minute of my telling my story. What a shame we cannot enjoy this hobby together.

Home Tap 3: I've heard the Gargoyle Research Club only has one member. I fear it truly is difficult for those of us with more refined hobbies to find like-minded individuals.

Home Tap 4: I have been keeping minutes in my journal of all club activities ever since its establishment. You wish to read it? Go right ahead... But please promise you won't be startled no matter what you read within its pages.

Home Tap 5: The weather in the mountains are prone to change rapidly. When venturing into the mountains, I wholeheartedly recommend an outfit such as this that is easy to remove or put back on.

Home Tap - Groovy: I smell like dirt? It must be because I was studying some vegetation earlier. I was laying flat on the ground, after all.

Duo: [JADE]: I'm honored to have this time together, Malleus-san. [MALLEUS]: It's much too soon to be impressed, Leech

Requested by @pomefiwhore.

#twisted wonderland #twst #jade leech #malleus draconia #twst jade #twst malleus #twst translation #twst club wear #mention: floyd

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artdcnaldson · 1 day

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need Olympics!au reader to be a little insane. a little bonkers. bouncing on arts cock and asking him to say things like he loves you and how you're the best hes ever had and that hes going to leave tashi, always when hes about to cum so he doesn't have time to think about it - just says whatever if it means you'll let him cum inside. not knowing you're taking it all to heart in your delusional little head. smiling when you nuzzle into his chest and play with his cum, pushing it back in your pussy, thinking about how art is loyal - he just needs a little push - and then he'll be yours, surely.

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: Toxic!Reader, infidelity, SMUT, Tashi catches strays but that’s only bc reader is respectfully insane <3

A/N: okay this was supposed to be a lot shorter but it ended up getting long so if anyone wants more of this AU lmk and I’ll keep going. Okayyyy thank you bye <3

If he was really devoted to his marriage, he wouldn’t be fucking you. A loyal husband wouldn’t have been seeking out a younger woman, wouldn’t have been seeking out you.

You figured that Rio had been your shot— you’d fucked him, planted the seed of infidelity there. You had freed him— you gave him a back door to escape out of.

If nothing else, you gave yourself a fantasy to touch yourself to for the rest of your fucking life. That was something.

Two weeks after Rio, you saw a message from Art in your Instagram DMs. Somewhere safe, hidden from his wife’s prying eyes, you supposed. Even if she saw it, you didn’t really care. Maybe it’d start a fight, send him careening heartbroken into your bed, into your arms.

Can I see you again?

You opened it, left it on read for a couple of hours to make him sweat. When you responded, you played at regret. We shouldn’t see each other… you’re married.

Art was quick to respond. Please?

You smiled. It was just so easy that he had to have wanted out of the marriage. You were just the first one to throw him a rope.

Your home was modest compared to what he shared with his wife, but you figured being in your early twenties and being able to buy a home with cash was impressive on its own. He parked in your garage, had you pinned against the wall the second he crossed the threshold into your home.

Each kiss was hungry, desperate. Tongue licking into your mouth, moaning as he ground his already hard cock against your clothed cunt. I mean, Jesus, you were wearing tiny little shorts, a big Team USA tee shirt. When his hands slipped beneath it, you gasped and arched into his touch. No bra beneath it— nothing between his large hands and your tits.

Every nerve in your body was thrumming, begging for you to reach out and take. His lips never parted from yours as you led him deeper inside your house, kissing you hungrily, like he wouldn’t mind if you just stopped and let him fuck you on the floor.

Someday. You’d like to see him that desperate, that animalistic. But that wasn’t what you needed them, so you just pushed him down onto your couch. The hardwood dug against your knees as you settled between his thighs. He was so hard that you could see the imprint of him against his jeans— long and thick and mouthwatering.

You licked your lips, rubbed him through the thick fabric. He hissed at that first contact and looked down at you with half-lidded eyes.

He could hardly let himself look at you as you pulled his pants down, peeled them off and tossed them to the side. Wet, soft kisses peppered up his thighs as you brought yourself closer and closer to what you really wanted. You nudged his thighs apart, pulse thrumming at the sight of him laid out before you like a feast.

Your hand looked so small wrapped around him, pumping him slowly. His cock twitched in your grip as you spit onto it so each pass of your hand was slick and smooth. He swallowed hard, already panting.

His balls rested between his thighs— full and heavy, carrying loads you needed him to spill inside of your cunt. Your lips met the soft pink flesh and he fucking whined, a broken, needy sort of sound that made heat bloom in your stomach.

You peered up at him as you placed open mouthed kisses to his sack, continuing to pump his length in your hand. You took one of his balls into your mouth and laved it with your tongue, moaning around him. His fingers scratched against the leather of your couch, seeking some sort of grip to tether him, so you took one of his hands and moved it to your hair.

And, really, you could have spent all day between his legs with his balls in your mouth, feeling them pulse on your tongue as you sucked each between your lips. His balls felt so full, so heavy against your tongue. It made you wonder how often Tashi drained them for him— if she took care of him the way you would.

You kissed up his shaft, kitten-licked the head of his cock, sighing contentedly at the salty taste of precum. He moaned, bucking into your grip, towards the wet heat of your mouth.

The fingers he had tangled in your hair tightened as you took him into your mouth. You fought your gag reflex as you relaxed your throat, took him deeper until your nose pressed against the soft skin just above the base of his cock.

It was cute that he was hairless everywhere, all soft and smooth, but you wondered what he’d look like hairier. Maybe you could convince him to ease up on the grooming, just so you could see if you liked it. You moaned just thinking about that tiny bit of control over him as you ground down against your heel for friction.

His hand guided your movements as you began bobbing your head, almost reverent. Almost loving. You gave a contented hum as you looked up at him, meeting his gaze as you swallowed him down to the base again and again and again.

When you finally came up for air after god knows how long, your lips were slick with spit. His cock was shiny from how you drooled on it, messy with spit bubbles around the base. He rubbed his thumb along your jaw, holding your face in his hand.

“God, you’re something else,” He sighed, a pleased smile playing at his lips.

You tilted your head to the side, leaning into the warmth and comfort of his touch. Your eyes fluttered shut, a seraphic smile played at your lips. “Does your wife suck your cock as good as I do?” You asked, almost sweetly.

He took a shaky breath, and you could see the hesitation, the loyalty, the devotion in him fighting against what he really wanted. He wanted you— your perfect mouth, your tight pussy, your willingness to give him anything he wanted, anything Tashi wouldn’t let him have.

“Bend over the sofa,” he said suddenly. You didn’t argue— you accepted the redirection easily, because you knew what he was avoiding. He didn’t want to admit the truth. He tugged your shorts and panties around your ankles, exposing your wet, sticky cunt.

He manhandled you, rough and punishing, like he wanted to work out his guilt inside of your cunt. You were dripping down your thighs, onto the leather beneath your hips. Fuck it, you’d buy a new couch.

“Fuck me,” you gasped, reaching back to claw at his arm, to leave pretty nail marks, to stake your claim. He pushed your head down into the cushions, bullied his fat cock into you again and again and again.

His thumb circled your asshole like he wanted to test the waters. A soft moan escaped you, you pushed back against him as an invitation to keep going. He spat down onto your hole before he pressed his thumb inside, just past the tight ring of muscle. Your toes curled, your eyes rolled back— you were fucking game.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned. His pace was punishing, brutal. From the angle you could’ve sworn you felt him punching at your fucking diaphragm, knocking out your breaths in weak, whiny pants. “You were fucking made to take this dick, huh?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his words. You were. You were you were you were. “Tell me—“ you cried out at a particularly deep thrust, eyes fluttering, rolling back. He continued to tease your ass with his thumb, pushing in, letting you feel full just to pull it out and leave you empty again. “Tell me I— oh, god— that I feel better than her.”

The couch scraped against the floor as he fucked into you, rough and relentless. His thumb pressed even deeper and you fucking keened. “Will that make you happy?” He repositioned your hips, made room to slide a hand beneath you and rub fast on your clit. “Even if I can’t mean it?”

Can’t, not don’t. You fucking sobbed at the sensation and nodded desperately as he played with your body like a toy. “So happy,” you practically babbled, panting onto the leather. Because he did mean it. You knew it, that he was there, bullying his cock into your right pussy instead of at home, for a reason. “Just tell me.”

A beat. Then another. He bent over you, so his chest pressed against your back, so he was crushing you beneath his weight. “You feel so much fucking better,” he said, practically panting in your ear as he fucked you. He was so deep that you felt whole, wished he would just stay there forever. “You’re tighter, and wetter— god— your pussy’s so, so, sweet, it’s fucking soaking me right now.”

You came when he said it, eyes rolling back, practically drooling onto the couch. Your cunt squeezed him, gushing as he bullied his cock inside your spasming walls. He made a weak noise in the back of his throat, like he knew you got off on him praising you and he fucking liked it.

“Are you gonna let me cum inside?” His voice sounded strained with thinly held restraint.

You nodded, whimpered weakly with the intense need for it. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease.” The words fell pathetically from your lips, over an over as he drilled into your sensitive cunt.

He came buried deep inside of you, so you felt the pulse of him, the flood of warmth. You whined as he pulled out and grabbed his clothes off the floor.

“You’re just leaving?” You asked with a frown, with big fat crocodile tears in your eyes as you stood up and pulled your clothes back up.

“Tashi thinks I’m visiting a friend from Stanford,” he said, looking at you with guilt plain on his face. For what he had done to you, or what he had done to her? You couldn’t even tell. It made annoyance sit hot in your stomach. “I can’t stay.”

“I thought…” you swallowed, played up your disappointment. “I thought you’d stay, maybe we could watch a movie, or order takeout. Did you… did you only come here to fuck me?”

He swallowed, looked at the floor. “I didn’t… it’s not that.” His gaze softened and he stepped closer, putting his hands on your shoulders. Touching you almost clinically until you blinked pretty, pathetic tears from your eyes. He pulled you into his arms, and you felt a thrill of victory.

His lips pressed against the crown of your head and you pulled back, peering up at him with glossy eyes. He sighed, let a soft smile spread across his lips. “Takeout sounds great.”

You smiled wide, stood on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his cheek. “Yeah? Okay, just get comfy and I’ll order something for us.”

Art looked right at home in your living room, flipping through your TV for something to watch. You rejoined him on the couch, curled up sweetly against his side. It felt so right; the two of you happy and content and freshly fucked.

You tangled your fingers with his, gave his hand a small squeeze. He smiled over at you, kissed your forehead sweetly.

“Will you kiss me?” You asked softly, meeting his gaze. “Please?”

He leaned in, pressed his lips to yours softly, tenderly. You smiled into the kiss, keeping it sweet and chaste before you pulled back and squeezed his hand.

Yeah, you got your takeout and a movie. It was the least he could do.

@poppy-metal your mind is so amazing <3 I’m going to write the rest of this request also I prommy it’s just too good.

#olympics au #my writing #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson fanfic #challengers x reader #challengers fanfic

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moondirti · 2 days

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i accidentally deleted the ask i received yesterday (like an idiot) so im dumping the rant i left underneath it for archival reasons

what i love most about big ugly brute simon is pairing him with girls who get a little too close. perhaps they catch him staring in public and smile politely, a little daunted but attributing what they can to innocent intent over malice. who treat him with basic decency, or perhaps extend a little extra kindness if they take the dead look in his eyes to be consequence of a rough day. the one's who hold doors open for him, or let him skip in line because he looks like he can really do with the coffee. the maybe he's just misunderstood, never judge a book by it's cover, treat others the way you want to be treated type.

kind, polite, genuinely good girls, who live life by the please and thank you handbook they were given in kindergarten, and were never taught when to keep it to themselves. well-meaning always, yet either foolish or curious when they give a beast the benefit of the doubt.

because while their courtesy is just that in the eyes of conventional society, it has an absolutely foul effect on one simon riley.

say it's because hardly anyone is ever keen on him. certainly not pretty birds, with pretty wrists, and pretty hair and clothes and easily corruptible smiles. at the first sign of warmth, he'll pounce. all animal, blinded hunger. cruel passion he knows you're not built to take, your heart pulpy like saccharine fruit. cruel passion that he will inflict anyway; trailing behind you all the way home, choreographing meetings, pushing your courtesy to its limits by being nothing but a rude brute. he bullies his way into your life, making a man-sized hole where he was uninvited (though he'll contest that. what does a smile mean if not lay over me and print yourself on my womb?). bullies you into submission, weaponising that tenderness to suit his real needs–

not coffee, or a good morning, or anything but a warm cunt and meal to come home to.

i don't think he'd ever ease up the intensity, either. even if you acquiesce or are flattered by the distasteful attention. though simon might soften up to you (in the only way he can: lending his ear while you talk about his day, or walking blocks in the rain to fetch takeout from that specific greek place you've been craving), he's still mean about it. presses you where you're weak, isolates you from your friends. hones derision when you continue to be just as amicable to everyone else. you must be asking for it, see, if you had been asking for it with him. is a big dick about it, callous and nasty as he can be – because you allow him to be, babbling tearful apologies into his chest instead of standing up for yourself.

doesn't believe any of it, of course. he knows you're too sweet for your own good. but he can't help but love seeing you get all desperate when you cry. makes his knees go weak. his head itch. you'll hold on to his arm – soft and wet and repentant, pure silk against his gnarled edges (a point people will always latch onto. how'd he land that? right minger he is) – until he growls something about making it up to him.

which you jump at. good, good, generous girl. will seat yourself, fine china between thighs that could crush you, and choke on his ruddy cock. maybe he holds you down on it, stuffs your nose onto the untamed mess of his pubes until your little legs kick for breath. or, maybe he'll lead you to down to fit your tongue in his ass, tugging himself over you until cum mats your hair. whatever the most vile, debased thing he can conceptualise at the moment is fair game. not necessarily because of the deed itself, but because he lives for nothing more than watching you do it despite not wanting to. to please him :(

sorry im a little crazy about this

#i realised i accidentally reblogged it and went to delete the reblog then deleted the og post 😞 kill me #tw stalking #tw dubcon #simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader #simon riley #ghost #x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader

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ao3commentoftheday · 2 days

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Hi, sorry if this has been asked before, but I'm in a bit of a pickle? I've always enjoyed reading multiple stories with the same kind of premise or exploring the same au in a different way. And quite often I'll come across a concept in another story that I like or inspires me, but want to write it in a different way. But in recent years I've had fandom friends that find people doing that to be basically 'copying' or even bordering on art theft? And now I'm almost petrified to write any of these stories because I'm concerned the author of a similiar story might come and claim I'm copying them. I love the 'yay two cakes!' idea, but some other writers are (understandably) protective of their ideas and aus and I don't want to push anyone's buttons. Is there a strict etiquette to these things?

So here's the thing, anon. I'm gonna be straight* with you. I do not understand fanfiction authors who have a problem with people writing a similar premise to theirs. The whole point of fanfic is to take someone's idea and then do your own twist on it.

To me, copying a fic is taking the exact same story and switching the names or something similarly egregious. I once wrote a story at the same time as another author that included all of these elements in common: College AU, Sex Because Science, Friends to Lovers, researching orgasms, measuring arousal with a watch-like device, classmates being too nosey, pranks, and probably other things that I'm not remembering because this was like 10 years ago. Neither one of us was copying the other. We just had a really similar idea that we both happened to write.

It was that kinda ship, what can I say?

Authors who have that reaction have probably had poor experiences in the past and are being overly vigilant (or even aggressive) as a result. Either that, or they are in a social group with an author who is acting like that, and they've been influenced by them to feel the same way.

At least some of the time, the protective instinct is based on comparing the two stories and seeing who has more comments and kudos and hits. Or believing that the fact that there are 2 similar stories means that fewer people will end up reading both of them. That's a common type of insecurity and/or anxiety amongst creators as a whole, and it's just manifest in this case around inspired by works.

We're all playing with dolls here, but if that doll belongs to a fellow fan (like an OC or an entirely new world, for example) then you really should ask if you can borrow it first.

When it comes to plots and headcanons, though, the polite thing to do is to reach out to the author if you're worried your idea is too similar to theirs, or just use the "inspired by" link if you feel like your story stands on its own. And remember, you can shout people out in the author's notes and even link to a tumblr post if that's where your idea came from.

I'm 10000% in favour of crediting where an idea came from. I'm more wary of claiming sole ownership. That's kind of an Anne Rice move.

#*by which I mean aro/ace since it's pride month and all #asks and answers #did I just call Anne Rice a dick?#I think I might have

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in-another-april · 24 hours

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reader and early seasons spencer are newly dating, spencer wears his glasses around them for the first time and theyre just like 😳😵literally going feral while spence is so confused

summary/prompt + genre - You see Spencer wearing his glasses for the first time, and you’re So Normal about it. | fluff

warnings - none

wc - 503

notes - i'm so ridiciously obssessed with glasses spencer, its unreal. anywayss shy!reader with shy!spencer because i love them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You and Spencer have been going to the library together since you first met. It's always been one of his favorite ways to spend time with you, and now, ever since you got together last month, one of his favorite dates to take you on.

You settle into your usual spot, waiting for him to finish picking out his book. You only look up when he sits down, and your eyes go wide as soon as you do.

Glasses? Glasses. He's wearing glasses. He's sitting right next to you, wearing the most insanely attractive pair of glasses, ones that frame his perfect face perfectly, and suddenly it's hard to breathe.

What's worse is that he doesn't even mention them, quickly kissing your cheek in greeting before pulling out his book. And then he's gone, flipping page after page, completely entranced. You'd miss his attention if you weren't too busy being relieved that he's now too distracted to notice how flustered he's making you.

Plus, it gives you the chance to stare at admire him.

You watch him, wide-eyed, practically gawking at his every move. His hand flexes as he reaches up to adjust his glasses, his other one gently trailing along the paper, his tongue poking out ever so slightly while he's focusing and oh, god, is it hot in here? It feels like it's hot in here.

Unfortunately for you, though, Spencer's way too, well, Spencer to let anything go unnoticed. He feels your eyes on him, looking from his book to you.

"You okay?" He asks gently, tilting his head slightly and oh my god, he looks so good, you're done for.

You scramble to act natural, but it's hard when your book sits abandoned on your lap and practically your whole body was turned to look at him.

"Yeah! Yeah, no, no I'm fine." You try to smile reassuringly, eyes darting back to your book. "I just... I didn't know you wore glasses." You swallow, heat rushing to your face. He's quick to explain, something about running out of contacts? You were too... distracted to really listen, but that sounded like the gist of it. You nod.

"Do you-" Spencer clears his throat, and you're too focused on stewing in your own embarrassment to notice his. "Do you not like them?" The worry in his voice catches your attention, finally looking at him.

"No!" You blurt it out before you can stop yourself. "No, I... I really like them. Like, really, really like them."

"Oh." His voice is soft, a bashful little smile on his face. "I'm glad you like them." He laughs, almost bordering on a giggle, and you don't think you've ever adored someone more.

"Yeah." You smile back, you can't help it. Satisfied, you both go back to your respective books in a comfortable silence.

Until he breaks it. "Guess I'll have to wear them more often, then." He mumbles, mostly to himself, and your head snaps up to look at him again.

"What was that?"

"...Nothing."

masterlist | inbox ← requests open! ♡

taglist - @lover-of-books-and-tea @maskysluvr @aurorsworld @wisteriaspencer @radioactiveinvisible @mandarinmoons @spencereidapologist @lyd14k4y @luvkatryna @khxna @flow33didontsmoke (send an ask or message to be added/removed!)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid fluff #x reader #reid x reader

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babacontainsmultitudes · 2 days

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🤔 Admittedly I was a little disappointed by the reveal (but certainly not surprised the foreshadowing was heavy in this episode lol), but not actually against how Beth (and Will) seem to be playing with it thus far- which is to say that I do think it has a lot of potential, and I suspect there's more to what we're seeing).

;) Big ol' ramble below

Mostly the theory has turned me off until now (at least insofar as I've witnessed it transpire in the fandom at large) because it struck me as so painfully ironic to see Trudy, a 1950s housewife, struggle to exist under the system that she's in, fail to fit the mold assigned to her, and be denied her personhood very literally for it (this being ironic insofar as how it mimics how she would have been treated back then). This and because frankly I just think she's a lot less interesting if she's fully a robot LOL, but I'll hopefully get to that in a bit.

Not that the hints at her mechanical nature and the relevance of Tucker's background were lost on me; I can appreciate why those would contribute to a plausible, fun and I think still mostly harmless theory (now fact). However, minus one or two specific posts I've seen on the matter (namely a recent one suggesting that if Trudy is a robot Beth is probably taking inspiration from The Stepford Wives, :( sorry person who made that post I couldn't find it I wanted to credit yoouuu), I've seen the theory just about exclusively presented in a manner that, rather than explore the metaphorical and political significance of Trudy being partially or fully mechanical, at best disregards the parts of her narrative that are at their core about sexism (among other related things), and at worst negates them entirely (i.e. Trudy only thinking and acting how she does because she's a robot malfunctioning and not because the world itself is causing harm and she rightfully wants something more than the role she was forced into, Trudy not even having any real thoughts and feelings of her own, etc.). I just think it kind of sucks to shove all those important things about her aside and say "actually, there's no person suffering here, she's just a robot" and perhaps worse yet to imply that she does have thoughts and feelings but because they result in Weird™ behavior it must be a problem with her code and not at all relate to what women were subjugated to during this point in American history.

CONVERSELY I don't think Trudy being a robot (or at least partially one) at least from what Beth and Will have presented us thus far, inherently suffers from any of these issues? First and foremost because Trudy definitely appears to possess sentience, thoughts, and emotions of her own, matters which immediately complicate her degree of personhood and don't inherently box her behavior in as a bug in her programming rather than an issue with the world she's been put in, quite the opposite in fact! I think they have a very solid groundwork laid out here to make a strong statement with Trudy's narrative (and perhaps ask the question of what is really malfunctioning here), all the more so since [I pull out a Rebecca Swallows-style conspiracy board] I don't think she's entirely robotic in nature? Actually you should just read Mack's tags in this post cause he has great thoughts on the matter (of which those are just some of them), but if I can direct your attention to one thing in particular, it would be Beth's fact (I *believe* from episode 2) about Trudy never graduating high school because of her essay where she suggested that "perhaps women could one day domesticate themselves", a statement that could of course be interpreted a number of ways but ultimately threatened the patriarchal status quo enough (in suggesting women's independence) to cost Trudy her diploma. Taken on its own this fact appears to contradict the theory that Trudy has always been robotic in nature, because it doesn't really make sense that Trudy would have been set up to go through high school (or school at all really) when Tucker's intention was/is for her to be the perfect housewife. You may then suggest that Trudy's memories of this are fabricated and not actually her lived experiences, in which case firstly perhaps you should reread my earlier point on the robot theory being used to actively negate and otherwise disregard the portions of Trudy's narrative that pertain to sexism and feminism, and secondly it really doesn't make any sense to me that Tucker would implant those kind of memories into Trudy's brain? To be completely honest if she's been a robot from the very beginning (rather than someone who became a cyborg, which is what I'm trying to suggest here), then I don't see why Tucker would program her with actual sentience in the first place (suspending my disbelief here with regards to the possibility of programming sentience to begin with). It seems much more likely to me then that Trudy was not always a robot, and instead altered by Tucker to force her into a role of subordination and remedy her """imperfections""". This option is significantly more interesting to me one, because it implies that Trudy has actually lived a life up until the present, full of its own complexities and strife (and dreams, and real actual memories worth exploring, etc.), and hence is not by any means "just a robot", and second because it amplifies the hypothetical statement being made on the lives of the real living women of the era and how they were treated and seen as being "in need of fixing" for not conforming to gender roles or otherwise acting "out of line" with what was expected of them.

OKAY THIS GOT OUT OF HAND SO I'M CUTTING MYSELF OFF HERE but I wanted to my share my current thoughts what with this ending and where I'm at so hopefully that was at least interesting to whoever has chosen to read through this one okay thank you byyyyyyyyye~

#BREATHES OUT sorry that was so much longer than expected #but isn't it always?#dndads #trudy trout #dndads spoilers #the peachyville horror #dndads s3 ep 4 #dungeons and daddies #*mostly* I'd been keeping my full feelings on the topic to myself #but now that the cat's out of the bag aaah I felt like I had to ramble a little ehehe #ik I haven't been around much lately! This is for a variety of reasons #but rest assured I still give far too many shits about this podcast LOL #aaaaaand uuuh post #(also THANK YOU again Mack for giving me the little push of reassurance I needed to post this one haha)#undescribed #gotta add that later sorry :(

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igotanidea · 3 days

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Smooth criminal: AK!Jason x reader

part 1 : Somebody's watching me

part 2: Run baby, run

Yeah... I know it's been a while. Sorry guys. But here we are :)

***

They say that history repeats itself. That’s its merely a one big circle in which people get lost endlessly, not learning from the past mistakes, instead doing them all over again.

Like an Uroboros, forevermore biting his tail.

And that was how Y/N felt at the moment, shaking over the cup of tea Dick so generously offered her alongside with his hoodie. And even more kindly – not asking any questions of why she showed up at his apartment (or rather under it) in the middle of the night looking crazy.

She was back at the beginning. Back over Jason’s grave, sobbing and shaking while the memories of the news of him being gone forever haunted her mind.

Felt like all her efforts to forget and move on have come to nothing.

“Y/N…”

“No. No please I don’t want to talk Dick-“

“I was just gonna say you can stay here for as long as you like. I don’t know what got you so freaked out, but the Y/N I know – knew – was not the one to get scared over a spider or a mouse. So it must have been serious. Stay.” He grabbed and squeezed her hands reassuringly. “I’m serious.”

“No, no it’s too much to ask for—”

“Good thing you did not ask then.” Dick grinned “Cause I believe I offered It myself.”

“You really didn’t change a bit, Grayson. Same golden, sunshine boy.”

“And you’re still the same, not holding back girl. Woman. How long has it been exactly?”

“Two years.” She sighed

“Two years.” Dick sighed too, his eyes becoming a little blurry from the memories. “I missed you, you know. And not only me. So did Tim and Alfred and Damian and I’m sure even Bruce became a little more grumpy without your presence to challenge him.”

“He’s got enough criminals to keep him entertained I believe?”

“Oh, Y/N, criminals he can handle easily, they are no fun. But having a woman with a sharp mind? That’s something Bruce still needs a lot of training in.”

***

It was shockingly easy to reconnect with Dick.

Or maybe not, given the fact he was always awfully friendly, keeping in touch even with his exes and even having considerably good relations with some villains.

Long story short, in a months’ time she was regularly back in his life and he was back in hers. And much to her surprise, this time it was not a constant reminder of the person she lost, neither filling the void, but rather a soft recollection that she was not the only one who felt the repercussions of Jason being gone.

If anything, after that time apart, it felt like Y/N and Dick’s relationship could finally move past the tragic events and bloom. Not in a romantic sense, because he had Barbara and was making plans in that area, but like a true, deep friendship, cemented with similar feelings.

And she even got the guts to meet with the rest of the batfamily, ditching those girls who left her alone at the party. Slowly, but steadily, she was getting back to her old, familiar self, dropping the act of a girl who wanted to be anything but the version she was when Jason was alive and with her. She was not running from the past anymore, but rather embracing and accepting it. And that was the real healing.

Only that Jason was not gone.

Observing her carefully from the shadows, watching almost every step, be it himself or using his militia. With explicit orders given to not let her know they were there. He had bigger plans coming, and making the same mistake as before, by coming as close as to touch her, could never happen again. Even if somewhere deep inside, the very subdued part of him screamed for that. For the warmth he remembered and knew would come with tenderness and not pain.

She never gave him anything less but love and devotion.

If anything Jason was only cursing himself that he let her step into the Batman world again. That is was his reckless behavior that drove her back into the arms of people, who were nothing but bad news. Who would eventually end up hurting her too.

And he was going to protect his little, innocent princess from that.

So yes, he was watching.

Sending his goons when he knew she was walking back home from work late, to ensure no one would lay a finger on her.

Causing a commotion in the area that happened to be dangerous only so she would choose another way.

Sending her colleagues threat letters so they would drop the chase for the same promotion at work as her.

Beating up a guy who was trying to flirt with her when she was buying coffee-to-go at her favorite place.

Doing it all smoothly, like a professional he was.

Building up a way to execute his master plan that would keep her safe from any danger, real or hypothetical. Forever.

***

“She got home, boss. Safe and sound, not one hair out of place.” One of his militia officers reported to him

“Good.” Jason only grunted in response. One whole month and he was so close to the finale. The end was right in front of him and he had to hold himself back to not make a single rookie mistake that would derail his efforts.

“If I may, sir, why exactly are we wasting resources on some woman? She’s no one important, just a regular—”

“What did you say?”

If the sinister voice wasn’t enough to make the man stop his sentence, the iron grip on his throat did.

“I- I-“

“No one important? Huh? Was that what you said?” Jason mocked tightening fingers on the man's jugular. “Answer me!”

“I- I-“ he was struggling for air.

“Pathetic!” Jason threw him on the ground, retrieving the gun from his holster, pointing it at the man’s head.

“Please, don’t—”

“I should put a bullet in your head for talking about her like that and second one for questioning my plans.” The gun outlet was now pressing into the man’s temple. “You are doing what I tell you, you hear me? No questions. No doubts. You are here to serve me, unless-“ Jason put a little bit of pressure on the trigger.

“No! No please!”

“You’re a piece of shit.” Arkham Knight muttered, taking the gun away. “But I am feeling merciful today. We can’t have blood on the floor when Y/N arrives. Now go! Get out of my face before I change my mind! And you make sure everything is perfect because if not—” he caressed the arms with a cruel glint in his eyes, enjoying the way his officer rushed out of the room, throwing commands left and right, halfway out the door.

“Soon, baby… Soon we’ll be back together…” Jason muttered to himself once he was finally alone.

He was so close to having everything he needed.

@vaniasagitaa @gone-batty-fics @astrelz @not-herexo @deans-spinster-witch @calicocat45 @princessbl0ss0m @rosieandthethorns @beingaturtlespiritually @grierpilots @killerwendigo @teenytinytunes

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #arkham knight x reader #jason todd x you #arkham knight x you #jason todd angst #arkham knight jason todd #dc

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tiredmamaissy · 22 hours

Text

Ralak te Sepawn ieyk’itan: Special Episode VI

Labor of Love - Part III

Masterlist ; Rut/Heat/Knotting Info

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Hyperlinks are attached to specific paragraphs that when clicked on will lead you to its illustration by Ralak's insanely talented creator @zestys-stuff. Thank you so much for allowing me to play around with your characters!

Characters: Metkayina!Ralak (25) x Sully!Omaticaya!Reader (20) featuring Metkayina!Zu’té (29)

Warnings: zero smut, explicit childbirth, water birth, difficult labour, contractions, amniotic fluid, breastfeeding, family fluff, expletives, this is a bit angsty but there’s a happy ending

Word Count: 7.3k

Requested: Yes || No

Author’s Note: the following depicts a very detailed, difficult, and medically inaccurate birth. This is graphic. I am quite literally going to simulate a birthing experience in your pov and I strongly suggest opting out now if anything pregnancy or birth related could make you uncomfortable. Finally, this is most definitely not medical advice, nor should this be used as a reference for what to expect during birth. This is a fanfiction about blue aliens, after all. With that being said, let’s welcome Ralak into fatherhood!! Enjoy 😊

Synopsis: Things were moving too fast until they weren't moving fast enough. The time has come and you're starting to doubt your capabilities. But thankfully your mate is here to guide you through this.

<- Previous

“Okay, Toto. Just do it. Go in there.” Zu’té sounds breathless as he speaks to himself, turning around to face the door. He hears your whimper and his jaw tightens. “Shit. Okay. Right.” Just as he raises his hand to pull back the curtain, he hears a winded voice. “Brother.”

Zu’té spins around to face the voice of an angel—Ralak.

“Oh, thank Eywa. Thank you great mother. Thank you.” Zu’té chants in relief despites being one of the least spiritual persons someone can meet. He knew deep down that Eywa answered his call.

Zu’té makes eye contact with the dishevelled and worn out giant. His attention is immediately drawn to the lengthy gash on his shoulder that seems to have been stitched up in a haste.

“Ay’ana.” Ralak growls when he sees him staring.

The colour drains from Zu’té ‘s face, but before he can respond, Ralak’s ears perk up when they hear what seems to be a low whimpering. It sounds as if you're straining and struggling to breathe. His eyes dart behind Zu’té and then quickly snap back to his brother, filled with panic.

Zu’té just barely shakes his head, urging himself to focus on the most important thing right now.

“Your mate is in labour, tak.”

Ralak’s eyes widen at the confirmation. He knew it. He felt it back inland.

Without another passing second, Ralak pushes past Zu’té and enters his marui. You hear the faint flap of the door and try to shift yourself in order to keep some level of decency.

“I said to leave.” You’re breathless, gripping relentlessly onto the wooden stilt.

Ralak’s frozen in place, taking in the sight of you labouring by yourself. One that no matter how painful, is a sight he has always longed to see. A sense of pride fills his chest, his mate is showing such great strength that it’s admirable. Bringing life to his child is something he will eternally be grateful for.

But then he sees your fingernails. How they've gone dull from all your gripping and scraping, and his sense of pride quickly mixes with shame. Shame that he has left you alone in this.

Your laboured breathing is audible, practically wheezing as you struggle to breathe through the last lap of this contraction. You keep holding your breath and it’s more than evident from the red tinge in your face. Breathing is no longer the thing that you’re most focused on anymore, it’s the pressure between your legs.

He doesn't want to startle you but he can’t just watch you suffer any longer. He approaches you cautiously, examining you in attempts to discern how far into your labour you are.

You're glazed in a layer of sweat, glimmering in the faint light of the first sliver of sun. Your shoulders rise and fall rapidly as you pant faster than a viperwolf pup, and your belly is low and firm as it tightens from the contraction.

Ears laid flat to your skull and brows tightened, you curl over and clutch your stomach. He releases his clenched jaw and lessens the distance between the two of you. He gently places his hands on your lower back, pressing into you with the ball of his palm.

The warmth alone provides a bit of relief for you, allowing you to momentarily catch your breath.

“Zu’té.” You hiss under your breath, surprised he’s even come in, much less laid a hand on you.

You let go of the marui stilt to swat away his hand with a loud smack. The reminder of you labouring in the presence of another man that isn’t him makes him wince.

“Muntxate [wife].” Ralak husks quietly, using his thumbs to rub circles into your back. Your ears lift from your skull and perk up when you realise it’s your mate, back home from the excursion.

Tears overflow and spill down your cheeks. Tears of pain. Tears of exhaustion. Tears of relief.

“Ralak.” You let out a nasally sob, unable to look at him just yet due to the contraction still rippling through you. You speak between your moans, voice cracking.

“You’re back. You’re here. It’s happening, lak. He’s coming. And I—I thought you’d miss it. I thought you weren’t coming back. I thought… I thought—”

“Alright, alright. I am right here with you, tanhì. Mawey, mawey [calm, calm].” He hums steadily, already reaching behind him for his kuru. “How long have you been in labour?”

“D-Don’t know.” Your breath catches in your throat and your knees begin to tremble. “Too l-long.”

Ralak’s heart throbs in his chest at the thought of you enduring this on your own for that long. The contraction is finally subsiding, and you're eager to find relief in your mate. You exhale shakily and grip his wrist as you try to straighten your spine.

“Easy.” Ralak is quick to help you to your feet, holding you by your hip and arm. “Can you stand?”

You nod your head as you slump back into him regardless. “It’s happening, ‘lak.” You wheeze, resting your head on his chest. Despite the slight sting, Ralak smiles, joyful to know his son will soon be born.

“It is, my tanhì.” Ralak hums, swaying side to side with you against his body as he brings his glowing tendrils towards the end of your braid. He’s spent but he knows the exhaustion he feels is nothing in comparison to yours. “I am so sorry I have left you alone in this.”

“‘ts not your fault, my love.” You murmur, lulling your head against his chest. “...not your fault.”

Though your contraction has passed, the pressure in your pelvis has a steady, constant groan vibrating in your throat. It’s a feeling that won’t let up, and the further you progress the more intense it gets. It feels like your body’s at its limit, unable to accommodate your babe any longer.

“Mmmn—tsaheylu, please.” Your plea is drawn out and low, unaware that he’s already one step ahead of you.

When he makes the bond, the pressure is instantly lightened but is quickly replaced with a sharp pain in your shoulder and back. He sucks in a sharp breath and grimaces from the sudden pain and pressure that flows into him.

You gasp and clutch your left shoulder, whipping your head around to look behind you. Immediately, you catch sight of his wound.

Fresh blood spurts out between the ragged stitches and globbed over herbal concoction, dribbling down his chest and back in thin streams.

“Shit.” You curse, ripping your queue away from him, abruptly severing the bond—causing the pressure to come back tenfold. “Fuck—you’re injured.”

“I am fine.” Ralak insists, reaching for your kuru again.

“Tsaheylu will infect it.” You insist, keeping your kuru away from him.

“Ke tare [it doesn’t matter].” He says sharply, catching his tone and softening it. “Allow me, please.”

Ralak reaches for your kuru again, eager to make it up to you—to take the pain for whatever time you have left. But you shake your head firmly.

The fact that making tsaheylu caused it to rupture and bleed, a gash that size will surely worsen with the influence of your labour. Ralak respects your wish, although he’s in disagreement with it. He’d never make the bond without your consent and he feels as if he’s already missed too much of your labour to continue the argument.

“…what happened?” You ask shakily, terrified to know the answer. “Wh-What did they do to you?” You feel yourself begin to tear up.

Seeing him so hurt always made your heart heavy.

Your question catches him off guard, bringing him back to the moment he saw his own karyu. He swallows, having trouble keeping his calm and figuring out what to say. He has no intention of keeping it from you, but truthfully it isn’t the right time to speak of such matters. Not when you’re nearing the peak of the birth of your firstborn.

“Not now. You are labouring.” Ralak says sternly yet gently, reshifting his focus and concern back to you.

And if it weren’t for the unbearable heavy sensation in between your legs you would’ve protested. You nod lazily as your breath hitches repeatedly, your hand finding its way to the lowest part of your abdomen to press into it. Your lengthy groans start up again, you can feel your entire body begin to tense up.

“Another? So soon?” Ralak’s voice falters, concern now evident in his tone. He steadies himself behind you, pressing his hands into your lower back once more.

“Pressure. ‘ts too much.” You pant, leaning forward and using your free hand on the marui stilt for support.

“Pressure?” Ralak tries his best to understand what you mean. Thinking that he’s pressing too hard into your back, he eases up and apologises. You shake your head and quickly replace your hand onto the lowest part of your abdomen with his.

“Pressure!” You yelp the word like a plea for help, hoping he’ll get it without you needing to explain. Talking is becoming more difficult with each passing contraction. When he does finally understand, his eyes widen and brow bones jump.

“Ah—he is moving down, tanhì.” Ralak tries to speak calmly, sliding his other hand over your stomach. His fingers smooth over your skin, taking in its heat and supple texture. He then feels it tighten even more, contracting right under the pads of his digits.

“Tewti [whoa].”

It’s the first he’s ever felt a contraction, despite being a mandated witness to numerous first breath rituals in the clan. He begins counting under his breath, trying to gauge your progression by determining how long they’re lasting. But before he can get into the double digits your low grumble turns into a high pitched cry.

Ralaks ears immediately go flat, hearing a cry like that rip from your throat makes his heart tighten in his chest. He shuffles closer to you upon realising that you're curling over from the pain. Moving quickly, he supports your body weight with one hand to your belly and another over your chest.

“Ralak!” You cry out, “Please! Do something!”

With that, Ralak’s hands slip back down to your lower abdomen, cupping your belly and gently pull upward. This always helped if the baby was sitting too low, relieving some of the heaviness and pressure on your bladder.

Instantaneously, the pressure relieves. Your cry dissipates into a loud sigh, your downturned lips flipping up into a small smile of relief.

“Thank you—” Pop. “—ugh” Gush.

You’re silent, but your face screws into a grimace as the pain rushes back in with a vengeance. You look down in a painful daze, feeling the trickle of liquid down your thighs and legs. Through blurred vision, you watch as a pool forms at your feet, as well as Ralaks.

“Shit.” Ralak mutters under his breath, recognizing what’s just happened.

His head whips around to the sound of the flap of the marui door. He looks behind him, met with the panicked, bulging eyes of Zu’té, who’s staring intently at the scene unfolding before him. He's just worked up enough courage to enter the room.

Zu’té finally makes eye contact with Ralak, and Ralak nudges his chin in the direction of the village, mouthing—‘Get a healer’. Zu’té nods and takes off at full tilt.

“…fuck‘m sorry. My waters...” You mumble, fingers digging into his arms in attempts to keep you standing, to no avail.

Your knees buckle beneath you, and you lose all ability to keep yourself on your feet. Ralak supports you, moving down with you rather than trying to keep you standing. He slowly and gently lowers you to the floor, away from the growing puddle.

“What for? Your water breaking? No need to be.” Ralak chuckles breathily, trying to make it obvious that it’s no big deal—he’s unbothered by it.

“Me-messed you up.” You grunt, breath straining as you lean all your weight back into him.

“You did no such thing.” He reassures you through a quick breath, adjusting you into a more comfortable position.

You lay on top of him, shifting onto your side and off the sharp throb in your lower back. You clutch his bicep with one hand and keep the other snug under your bump.

He’s more so in an awkward position than not, his back now against the base of the bed and his right leg propped up to keep you from rolling back. He has no issue staying put in this position if it means some sort of relief for you.

But your groans only deepen, lengthening and ending with small grunts.

“You alright, mama?” He checks in on you through a whisper, knowing that things move quickly once the water breaks.

You nod your head, trying to be strong, but he can see right through it. And you know it. You sputter out a sob and shake your head, finally admitting the truth—finally facing reality.

“I know, I know, tìyawn. Almost there.”

Even without tsaheylu, he is able to tell how long you have left just based on your sounds and body language. With each little grunt he notices that your face shifts to a brighter shade of pink.

He takes note of your tail, and how it’s now tightly coiled, tucked to the base of your tailbone—out the way. Your shoulders are bowed and your stomach sits low, hard as a rock.

“Oh!—Eywa, ple-ase.” You mumble a plea, eyes squeezing shut when you come to the height of your contraction. “Mmm’fuck—fuck.”

“A little longer.” He places a firm, comforting kiss on the temple of your head. “It will soon be over.”

You feel Ralak’s hand firmly patting your lower back, attempting to put the fire out. But now the pressure’s released, the pain is only more intense—spreading and morphing into a new feeling altogether.

“Ralak—Ralak!” You panic, your head rolling side to side as you strive against this new sensation.

“Right here with you.” He hums, pressing hard into your lower back with the ball of his palm. “What do you need?”

You begin frantically tugging at your soaked loincloth, trying your hardest to get it off of you. Ralak quickly takes over, untethering the knot and slipping it off you.

“Need to—aahaa! I think he’s—haah—he’s—he’s coming!” You yell, unable to fight the new feeling. An urge you’ve never felt before. The urge to push. “Ralak—I’m scared!”

“Listen to your body.” Your mate encourages you with a steady and calm voice.

His gaze snaps down to witness your leg rising into the air and your hand hooking under the back of your knee. His hand cups over yours, helping you support the weight of your suspended leg.

Ralak manoeuvres himself in a way that allows him to support you and see what’s happening. He gently tugs your leg back a little further, having a proper look. He can see just how swollen and tender the flesh between your legs is—ripe and ready. It’s time.

“Muntxate [wife]. Bear down if you need to.”

“I—I—urgh!” You cry out, finally giving into the urge to push, allowing your body to bear down in the way it’s been trying to. Holding your breath, you tuck your chin to your chest and sink your fingernails into Ralak’s bicep, pushing as best as you can in this position.

“Good, good. Good push, tanhì.” His voice is hushed but steady as he watches in awe as your body flourishes. “Syeha si [breathe].”

As the urge subsides, you release your breath and gasp for air a few times. If he’s really coming, you don’t want it to be here. You had both discussed doing this in the comfort of your own lake. The lake in the cave, where your relationship with him had blossomed to begin with.

“Not here.” You say out of breath, legs shaking terribly.

Ralak leans in closer to you, listening carefully to decipher your murmurs. You keep your eyes closed shut, unable to open them anyway. They feel as heavy as you do, weighed down with exhaustion and agony.

But as you feel your stomach tighten and the urge rush back in, you realise that time lessening. “Water—get me in the water, please!”

Ralak hesitates, scanning your body to see if moving you in this state is the right thing to do. He watches as you tense up in agony as you contract, and quickly the realisation dawns upon him, too. At this rate, the babe will be here at any moment.

And if your wishes are to give birth in the water, now is the time to fulfil them.

Ralak scoops you up into his firm clutch, rises to his feet, and rushes out the door. Taking his time down the steps, your grip around his neck tightens just as a groan rumbles in your chest. Your legs squirm in his grasp as they try to snap open.

“Hurry! He’s coming!” You grunt, burying your face into the crease of his peck, biting down to fight the feeling.

Ralak glances down at you a few times, brows gathered from the worry that plagues his heart. He’s holding you tight, so as not to let the wiggle of your body loosen his grip.

“Here.” He huffs out, nearing the entrance of the cave.

Immediately immersing himself hip-deep into the water, he moves hastily, submerging you as he makes his way over to the ledge and helps you into position.

The ledge makes a smaller, more shallow pool in the lake, perfect for you to sit in with your back supported by the bank.

Water is up to your chest, slushing and splashing against your neck as you desperately readjust yourself to get comfortable. Your head is perched on the bank of the lake, hands spread across to hold onto the rocky surface. Your toes grip the floor, rooting yourself to the ground to keep you stable, knees bobbing at the water's surface.

“Fuck! Ralak!” You cry out, feeling your body act on its own accord.

Ralak is already in front of you, one hand on your bump as the other slips between your thighs to feel your progression. All while he’s looking down at you with nothing but concern etched into his features, unsure of what more he can do for you without tsaheylu.

He witnesses your face turn red as you hold your breath again, using as much force as you can to push him out.

Ralaks hand moves from your bump to cup your cheek, his fingernails raking away the streaks of sweaty hair plastered to your face and tucking them behind your ear.

“Syeha si, tanhì [breathe].” He reminds you gently, exaggerating a breathing pattern you had rehearsed a few weeks ago, and you try to match his rhythm.

But you’re stuttering and sobbing, unable to establish a pattern and push at the same time. Your back is on fire and it feels as if the baby isn’t moving any further down.

The contraction finally ends with a loud wheeze and your head slumps back into the rocky bank. You shake your head as you struggle to open your heavy lidded eyes.

Your vision is blurry and spotty. You glance down in a haze and lock eyes for a moment with the worried giant before you, and then you feel yet another contraction wash over you. They are on top of one another—back to back—with little to no break between them.

“Fuck. Please. Please. Plea—” You weep weakly, eyes slamming shut as your chin makes contact with your chest, cutting off your pleas with a lengthy, guttural grunt. You push with what you have left, giving yourself a throbbing headache as a result.

“Pushing so, so well.” Ralak praises you with a hushed voice, feeling something press against his fingers.

As you strain, you feel the delirium set in. The panic of not knowing if you’re capable of doing this. Every inch of you more than ached, yet some parts of you have even gone numb from how long this has been going on.

You can barely get a proper breath in much less breathe the way you should when you’re pushing. You feel like your body may give out at any moment.

“Keep going, y/n.” He encourages you, seeing your exhaustion and feeling you stop.

“Ralak…lak.” You let out a sob and try to relax your body, but end up collapsing back into the rocky surface again. “‘m tired, lak.” You mumble shakily between laboured pants, “...want him out.”

“I hear you.” Ralak tries to reassure you, now supporting both your trembling legs as they threaten to give out. “He will soon be out, tanhì. But you have to keep going.”

“No—oh, no, no.” You cry, tensing up from another agonising contraction. You didn’t think they could get any more painful. “No more. No more, please.”

“Come now, big push for me.” Ralak instructs softly, repositioning himself to help deliver his son.

“Ugh—!” You scream, giving all you have left into this push. Beads of sweat roll down your temples at a concerning speed, and your face shifts to an even more vibrant shade of red. “Please! Please get him out of me!”

“He’s coming out, tìyawn. Keep pushing, almost there. Almost there.” Ralaks voice is low and laced with panic, despite his greatest efforts to keep calm and collected.

This cycle repeats for some time, instilling worry into both you and Ralak. You’re having a difficult time, and it’s taxing on your body to keep this going.

Truthfully he can tell that you’re really struggling, and he’s getting a little more worried as time passes. But then he feels the baby press against his fingers and hope fills him once more.

“That’s it. Push just like that, y/n.”

“Fuck—” And just as last time, you collapse back into the bank, depleted with nothing left to give. You begin to think that maybe everything you’ve been hearing was right.

Maybe you can’t do this.

“I…I can’t.” You sputter defeated, letting your legs go limp either side of you.

“Mawey [calm]. You can. Your body is made for this.” He reaffirms for not only you but also himself, he’s too afraid to lose you. No, he can’t lose you, too. He’s experienced too much loss.

“’s not comin’.” You shake your head lethargically, feeling faint. “He’s stuck.”

Hearing that makes his heart sink. Ronal’s words echo in his mind, putting him in a frantic state. He quickly composes himself, probing the tender flesh to help stretch it out. He feels something slimy and silken, and his ears perk up.

He’s right there. So close.

“He’s not. I feel him, he is right there.” Ralak tries to keep calm for you, attempting to reassure you as he quickly thinks about the next best move.

Zu’té isn’t back with the healer and there's not much else he can do. He looks down at you, taking in just how uncomfortable you look as he tries to imagine just how much pain you’re in. With a position like this, no wonder your back hurts. His eyes widen.

No wonder your progression has stalled.

“Move with me. Easy.” Ralak croons, carefully tucking his arm under your back to sit you up slowly. He throws your limp arms around his neck, and brings you to your knees and then your feet—supporting your weight as you get there.

“Lak, Lak!” You grimace and whimper as you try to work with your mate—your body is already so sore and weak that any movement is torturous.

“Need to get you off your back.” Ralak huffs, holding you in position until you’ve adjusted. You hold on to him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck as you settle into a squat. “A few more pushes, mama.”

“Haa—no, no.” You squeal in desperation, feeling his head descend even further down now that gravity has come into play.

Then your belly stiffens.

You bite the flesh of your cheek until you taste blood and bury your face into the dip of his collarbone—refusing the urge to push. But the instinct overrides you completely, leaving you in a panicked and delirious state.

“Take h-him out! Make the cut!”

“No, no cut. No cut.” Ralak utters a throaty whisper, pushing down into your lower back. “Bear down, muntxate [wife].”

“Ple—ase.” Your broken plea comes out as a low grunt as you shake your head frantically, driving your dulled nails into your mate. “It hurts, it hurts!”

“I know, ma’ y/n. But you must bear down, please.” His voice trembles, filled with worry, but his words are firm—non-negotiable. You continue to shake your head, fighting with what you have left, your laboured breathing deepening as you run out of strength to resist.

Ralak’s worry quickly turns into pure panic. Panic that you’ve really given up. Panic that you really may not make it out of this. That…he’ll lose you. He knows what he must do, despite it being against your wishes.

He gives your kuru a quick stroke, his way of warning you. It sends a shiver through you, but the pain is so excruciating that you can’t resist this, too.

Ralak quickly makes tsaheylu, bringing a brief moment of pure, instant relief, just enough to bring you out of your delirium. His wound reopens, burning and weeping. But not even that could prepare him for your pain.

It feels like each vertebrae in his spine instantaneously shifts out of place. It is excruciating. And strange—that urge to push. He can feel it too. It’s like an itch deep under your skin. Irresistible and uncontrollable.

“Push!” Ralak groans loudly, prompting you to bear down with whatever strength you can muster up.

You scream at the top of your lungs, achieving a frequency and volume so high it can be heard from the village. Ralak’s fingers quickly probe the tenderness between your legs to check your progress once more. Finally, he feels the baby’s head begin to emerge.

“Perfect push, tanhì. Keep going, keep going.” Now he’s winded, flustered and speaking breathily.

Your scream is cut off by your vulgar tongue, “Fuck! Fuck—it burns!” You cry out, feeling a bolt of white hot fire split you in two, making you jerk back. “It’s burning!” You sob, trying to wiggle away from the flame.

“He’s crowning. His head, shit—” He huffs, realising that the babe is coming too quickly, not giving you enough time to adjust, “Stop pushing.” His fingers probe the taut skin in attempts to prevent you from possibly tearing, “Breathe him out. Just as we practised.”

Your fingers dig even deeper into him as your head snaps up to shoot him a deadly glare. Wasn’t he just demanding that you push? To ‘listen to your body’?

You take deep, intentional breaths, eyes flicking down to search the cloudy water as you try your hardest to resist. He can feel your frustration through tshayelu, he can hear your thoughts.

“Syeha si, syeha si [Breathe, breathe]. Let yourself adjust. Let your body push for you.” Ralak tries to explain, using the bond to his advantage and using the bond to his advantage.

‘I can’t do it.’ You think to him, unsure if you’re even doing it right.

“You can. You are. Just like that.” Ralak works with you, probing the tender skin once more as he feels the head emerge. “A little longer.”

But yet, you feel yourself giving in.

“Can't. Help. It.” You whimper, your breath stuttering as it catches in your throat. Tears roll relentlessly down your cheeks. You need him out.

Now.

You drop to your knees and tuck your chin to your chest. “Haah!” Your breath finally releases, and a guttural, lengthy grunt follows after.

Ralak feels you push — hard. He readies himself, steadying his stance as he traces his fingers around the circumference of his unborn’s head to help guide him out.

He is, too, looking down into the murky water, trying his best to see what’s going on. All he can do is rely on his sense of touch and the feeling through the bond to help him.

“Ngh—ugh!” You feel a pop between your legs and the pressure minutely releases.

Just then Ralak feels the rest of your baby’s head emerge. He can feel the curls of his silken hair, and how they’re laid flat to his skull. Ralak nearly breaks down right there, but fights the array of emotions bombarding him all at once to recenter his focus back on you.

“His head is out.” He croaks, supporting the babe's head with the palm of his hand. “Hair like yours.”

Ralak gently unlatches your grip on his shoulder and guides your hand under the water and towards his. Aside from wanting you to feel what he’s feeling, he’s hoping that this will give you the strength to keep going.

You feel the sliminess first, and then the soft, velvety texture of your son's head. You weep, slumping your head into Ralak's chest as you focus on gathering as much energy during the small break from the contractions.

It’s incredible to know that your body created this life.

“Oh god…it’s him.” You barely whisper.

“You are so strong, you know that? Mighty.” Ralak hums, cupping the back of your head with his hand. You lift your head to look at him and he rests his forehead against yours, searching your eyes with his. “One more push for me, okay?”

You nod your head, bottom lip curled over to touch your chin. His hand slips from your neck to your cheek, his thumb wiping away one tear of a thousand. The tightening of your stomach has you tensing up, gripping onto him for support. You groan and moan until the contraction reaches its peak, where you begin to grunt and push against the budding pressure.

He steadies himself once more, quickly slipping his hand off your cheek back into the water. He holds your son's head with one hand, and hooks the fingers of his other hand under his son's left shoulder. It pops out with the help of his gentle tug, and you bear down even harder.

“A little more.” He encourages you, waiting patiently to feel his son's right shoulder emerge. He feels the bridge of his shoulder and Ralak jumps into action, carefully guiding his son's shoulder out. “Perfect, there it is.” Ralak mumbles quickly, hyperfocused on ensuring a safe delivery.

You whimper when the burning sensation comes back, shoving your forehead into his chest. It’s hard to breathe. Every fibre in your being has you wanting to hold your breath for more leverage to get him out. Your noises fade to little choked muffles, quick and uneven.

“Breathe.” Ralak chokes out, feeling your burning lungs through tsaheylu. He immediately establishes a somewhat steady breathing pattern for you to sync into.

“Pwah!” You let out a shaky, harsh breath of air, panting as you try to sync with him. “Urgh—ah!” you groan as you push, surprised by how long this torturous contraction is lasting.

“Please get him out of me, please, please.” You whisper into his chest.

“Shoulders are out, tanhì” Ralak huffs next to your ear, tenderly rubbing his cheek against your temple.

“Catch him, Lak.” You wheeze, your legs shaking uncontrollably from carrying your weight for such a long time. He wants so badly to do the rest for you, now really sensing your weariness through the bond. But he couldn’t, all he could do was support you through every second of this.

“I have him, muntxate [wife].” He whispers, lips pressed to your ear. “Last push.”

A hoarse, empty cry evades your trembling lips as you bear down a final time. Suddenly the pressure releases entirely, and you feel your son slip out of you and into Ralaks hands. You let out a loud moan of relief, immediately pulling away from Ralak’s chest to look down into the water.

“He’s out. He’s here, tanhì. You did it, mama. You did it.” Ralaks cracked voice is full of relief. “He—he is so small.”

You fall back onto your behind, breaking tsaheylu with your mate. Your eyes search for your newborn but you can’t make anything out of the murkiness of the water.

You look up to witness tears fill Ralak’s eyes for the first time as he holds the baby underneath the water. Your back hits the rocky bank of the lake in solace knowing your son is in safe hands.

Then Ralak grits his teeth and lets go.

“Lak. Ralak.” Your panicked, hoarse voice calls for him, but you’re too weak to get up. “Ho-Hold him, Ralak.”

Ralak looks like he’s fighting his own instinct to scoop up his young and cradle him in his chest. And that’s because he is. It’s taking everything in him not to do just that, but he knows that this is the way. The right way.

“Mawey [calm]. First breath.” Ralak gently reminds you of the Metkayina ritual. He knows he must do this, especially in the absence of the Tsahik. “Let him swim.”

You watch intently as the water slowly clears, revealing the wiggle of your newborn's body. “Help him.” You plead with trembling lungs, having a hard time watching this unfold.

Ralak stays close to his newborn, ready to jump into action in an instant. But the babe rises to the top all on his own—swimming directly from the womb. You burst into tears, chest swelling with pride and every emotion under the moon.

Nonetheless, Ralak taps his bum softly, his other hand hovering underneath his son's feet in the case he needs to intervene. This is the first moment where your son has made you both proud.

Your son breaks the water with his face, chubby cheeks and puckered lips. You hear the sound of his little, first breath — pwah. His eyes open as he looks around, catching sight of his father scooping him into his arms.

“You did it, my little one.” Ralak whispers with a crack in his voice, shifting his gaze over to you. “You did it. I’m so proud of you.” He repeats in absolute shock and awe, and this time you know he’s talking to you, too.

Ralak holds his son close to his chest and away from his weeping wound, using his body heat to keep him warm as he makes his way over to you. The babe wails when he catches your scent, squirming in his fathers arms as if he were trying to get to you on his own terms.

“She is right here, son.” He whispers, bouncing him a bit as he places him in your arms, helping you hold him for the first time. “Hold his head.”

Your arms feel like jelly and they won’t stop shaking, but you’re eager to hold your newborn. Ralak tucks himself closely at your side, keeping a precautionary hand under your arm. Immediately, he calms, gurgling and cooing as he listens to the familiar and comforting thump of your heart. It’s all he’s heard in the past ten months.

Teary eyed, you look down through blurred vision, taking in the sight of your son. Every feature. Every stripe. Every freckle. His dark turquoise skin, golden eyes, pointed pink ears. A tail like his father, but five fingered, like his mother. He is the perfect mix, the perfect balance.

“You’re perfect.” You whisper, admiring his little coos and floppy, soft ears that lay flat against him. His head turns towards your bosom, puckered lips brushing against your top in search of your nipple. “Hungry? Hm?” You hum shakily.

Ralak is quick to help you, helping you position him just right. Your son shakes his head as he tries to latch for the first time, and both you and Ralak watch quietly with wobbly smiles plastered on your faces.

With two fingers, Ralak presses down onto your breast, angling your nipple in a way that makes it easier for you and him. You can’t help the grimace on your face when he does latch and suckle, but it quickly turns into a smile as you watch him feed for the first time.

“Rak’äni.” Ralak proudly announces the name of his first born son.

You look up at him, witnessing a tear or two roll down his cheek. You’d never seen this giant cry like this before. The past two days have been too much.

“Rak’äni.” You repeat with a smile, Ralaks eyes finally meeting yours. He leans in and meets your lips with his, kissing you tenderly. He lingers there forehead to forehead as he pulls away, allowing himself to be vulnerable—to soak in his emotions.

“I love you. I see you, y/n. For life. And beyond.” Ralak sheds a few more tears as he speaks the words.

“Nìt’iluke [neverendingly; forever].” You say wearily, heavy lidded eyes struggling to stay open.

Snap.

Ralak hears the sound of a branch breaking underneath the weight of a person's foot. Ralak looks behind him, hand under the water clutching the dagger on his hip, ready to protect his family. He sees the silhouette of a woman standing at the opening of the cave, basket on her hip as the last rays of sun shine through her.

The first eclipse is starting.

Is that how long this has gone on for?

His heart skips a beat as his eyes narrow to see who it is…to see if it’s how he suspects it may be. Did she really follow us?

He then sees a taller figure emerge behind her, then another, and another…and another. And soon he counts seven heads in total and it dawns on him.

It’s your family—and his.

“We have visitors, little one.” Ralak coos quietly at his baby, his thumb just barely gliding over his cheek. “Are you alright, mama?” His voice sounds muffled and distant, as if he were at the other side of the lake. “The healer is here.”

“Tired...Hurts.” You mumble, letting your eyes fall shut.

You feel Ralak’s gentle touch as he tucks himself behind you, supporting you with his body. His arm is under yours, keeping the babe safely above water as he feeds. You can fully relax your body now, sinking into your mate’s pillowy chest.

“Rest.” Ralak whispers. “I have you.”

“You won’t believe, brother. The tshahik is also in labour. And I couldn’t find you…I heard y/n scream and—oh…” Zu’té lowers his voice to a whisper, catching sight of the freshly born babe in your arms. “Tak. He’s here.” His voice falters even more as he nears his blood.

His only family outside of Ralak. He’s awestruck, taking in all the different features of a new kind as he feeds. The babe's skin resembles the depth of his mother, but the tone of his father. Stripes like an omaticaya. Tail like a Metkayina. Five-fingered.

Truthfully, the length of his stare has Ralak feeling a little uneasy and a bit protective.

“Toto.” Ralak hasn’t called him that in years, “Meet your nephew—Rak’äni.”

“Rak’äni.” Zu’té repeats through a whisper, keeping his distance from the babe. “Fyole [beyond perfection].”

Ralak relaxes, smiling proudly. “He is.”

Zu’té fumbles with a small satchel on his hip, taking something out of it in a haste. He hands Ralak something small, something delicate. It's weaved to perfection, with colours of the sunset.

"For him." Zu’té says in a hushed voice, unfolding the garment to show his brother. It's a hat, an entirely new concept to the Metkayina. Ralak looks at him, a little confused, eyes bouncing between the strangely shaped item and his brother. "For the child's head."

Ralak smiles, his furrowed brows relaxing when he understands. Zu’té raises his brows and gently nudges it closer to the babe in your arms. Ralak nods, watching as Zu’té slips it on his head as gently as he can.

"Toto, that is very kind—"

"Don't flatter yourself." Zu’té cuts his brother short, pulling back to see the finished result of his hard work. It fits perfectly. "I had plenty of time."

Zu’té steps back, giving you two some space.

A sudden splash of the water makes Ralak jolt in his skin, but he calms down once he realises that it’s the healer situating herself next to you so she can tend to you. He isn’t all here right now, either.

“You did well, sa’nu.” You recognize her voice and strain to open your eyes, vaguely seeing her features.

She was at all your lessons with Ronal. The only one who didn’t look at you like some sort of alien. The only one who treated you with respect.

“All on your own. You need to be strong for a little while longer, alright? This may hurt.”

She begins gently massaging your abdomen under the water—a step that is empirical for healing. You clench your jaw and squeeze your eyes shut, shoving your head back into Ralak, who is visibly trying to withhold his look of displeasure.

“I get that look quite a bit. It’ll be over soon, sempu.”

You look down with foggy vision and see the hat on your baby's head. Immediately, you know who made it. You turn your head, looking directly at Zu’té and smile, mouthing 'thank you'. Zu’té returns the smile with a slight nod, remaining silent.

A high-pitched, excited voice has both you and Ralak turning your heads to see your little sister.

“Woah! Mama, look!” Tuk exclaims, tugging Neytiri by the hand to get a closer look.

“Shh, Tuk. He is asleep.” Neytiri hushes her youngest, nuzzling her into her side. The others stay quiet as they approach, crouching down at the bank of the lake to look at their new family member.

“I am so proud of you, my daughter. He looks like you.” Neytiri whispers, raking her fingers through your knotted hair.

You exhale a shaky breath and smile weakly, leaning into your mothers comforting touch.

Jake looks down at the suckling babe in your arm, eyes burning as they gloss over with tears. “You did it, babygirl.”

Hearing your fathers words after so many years of feeling like a failure, you can’t help the sob you sputter out.

“D-Daddy.” You cry shakily, breath hitching. “It was s-so h-hard.”

“I know, baby. I know. But you did it. ” He coos at his own baby, rubbing your shoulder as he looks over to Ralak. “You both did.” He smiles with his son-in-law, cupping the back of his head with his other hand.

Neteyam and Lo’ak wait patiently at the back, not wanting to crowd you. Neteyam is particularly worried for you, he’s been beating himself up for not checking on you when he knew deep in his gut that he should have.

Lo’ak is… nervous, despite his big talk about being the best uncle. Your parents pull back, allowing some space for you, Ralak and the healer.

“Guys.” You sniffle, craning your neck to look at them. “C-Come see your nephew.”

They approach cautiously and kneel down next to you and Ralak. Neteyam smiles, golden eyes quivering as he takes in his features.

“It’s uncle teytey.” Neteyam takes his nephew's tiny hand, his thumb grazing over his five fingers. Then Neteyam looks at you, his expression going from bright to glum. “I’m sorry I didn’t check on you.”

You shake your head and smile, barely keeping your eyes open. “Don’t be.”

“Y/n. I—” To your surprise, Lo’ak is speechless. “He is beautiful.”

“Thank you, uncle Lo’ Lo’.” You smile with another sniffle, using that god-damned nickname he wouldn’t let up on.

Lo'ak returns the smile, hearing it fall from your quivering lips makes his heart full. You finally lean back against Ralak's chest, allowing your eyes to close, heavy and swollen from all your shed tears of joy and pain.

You feel the healer’s hands leave your stomach and make their way to your chest where she ensures the babe has latched properly. “Perfect latch. You are a natural, y/n.”

You smile wobbly at her words, feeling extra proud of yourself.

“I will leave the medicines here, ensure she takes them on time.” She’s speaking to Ralak, who is also in a daze, gazing down at his son. “I will come and check on her tonight. Until then, she needs to rest. No heavy lifting.”

Ralak finally averts his attention to the healer, a smile on his lips as he nods. He’d never let you lift a finger, anyways.

“Ralak, your wound is open.” Neytiri speaks with concern in her voice.

The healer looks down to see his mangled laceration. “Eywa…Now, this will hurt.” Her eyes go wide and she immediately gets her things to sew him back up. Neteyam and Lo’ak look at the bleeding gash with wide eyes. Jake grimaces.

“D-Does that hurt?” Tuk asks shyly, peeking out from behind Neytiri to see.

Ralak shakes his head with a smile, too overjoyed with the safe delivery of his first born son to even notice anymore.

“No pain. Only happiness.” Ralak says softly, accent heavy on his tongue as he looks back down at his now stirring babe.

269 notes · View notes

hxnbi · 2 days

Text

⸻ ( •ᴥ• ) ❝ IS THAT... ME? ❞

their reaction to you drawing them ﹒﹒blue lock boys

ft. nagi seishiro, isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, itoshi rin, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma x gn. reader (separate)

NAGI SEISHIRO | 凪誠士郎 ─ ♬. ⁺ ♡

"I'm home!" you called out, expecting some response from the same groggy voice you came to love.

You had returned home after a long day, and from that, carried alongside a bag from NAGI’s favourite fast food joint as a peace offering for your boyfriend. "Sorry for coming home late. My professor had us stay back for extra lectures, but I brought your favorite—" You trailed off upon seeing him sprawled on the couch, fast asleep.

Nagi awfully had a way of making even the most uncomfortable sleeping positions seem restful. It was admirable, in a weird way. You always saw him sleep in unusual and sometimes contorted positions, and today was no exception. His tall, lanky frame was twisted in what could only be described as a shrimp-like posture, with one arm draped over his eyes and the other hanging off the couch, limbs hanging off the sides in what looked like the most uncomfortable posture imaginable. But for all you knew, he could’ve been having the most refreshing dream ever…

But instead of waking him up immediately, an idea sparked in your mind. You couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, deciding to capture this moment with a quick sketch.

You set down the food on the kitchen counter and grabbed your sketchbook. Settling down in a chair nearby, you then began to sketch with light chicken scratches, the lines flowing easily as you captured the endearing, albeit charmingly awkward, way Nagi slept, his mind clearly off to dreamland. His mouth was slightly open, and his hair was a tousled mess—details you knew would make him laugh later.

Once finished, you couldn't resist teasing him a bit. You gently poked your boyfriend's nose with your finger, rousing him from his slumber.

“Sei,” you whispered, “I’m home.”

He mumbled something incoherent, slowly blinking his eyes open to see you standing there, a playful smile on your face.

“I have a gift for you. Well, two,” you said, holding up the drawing and gesturing towards the kitchen table where the food awaited.

That got his attention. Several groans and moans later, Nagi struggled to sit up from his awkward position. As he stretched, you could see his tall, lanky frame finally standing upward, his height and broad shoulders a stark contrast to your own. He sure did look the part of an athlete, even if he did act like a toddler at times.

“I think you look nice like this, don’t you think?” you teased, holding up the drawing.

He groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Why are you saying it like that…”

You laughed and handed him the drawing. He stared at it for a moment, a sleepy smile spreading across his face.

“I look ridiculous,” he muttered, but you could tell he was amused.

“You should be grateful! Y’know, that’s the sleeping face I came home to tonight when I had bought him for,” you teased, grabbing his hand and dragging him to the kitchen. “I brought your favorite food! So, which gift did you like more?”

“The drawing, of course,” he muttered, his arms still encased around you as he fiddled with the hem of your sleeves and its bottoms.

“You’re just saying that because you want to make me happy,” you said, leaning into his embrace.

“Mhm…” Nagi took his chance—one that was as good as any—to pull you closer, finding a comfortable position that he could easily doze off right then and there. And in a way, he certainly did sound like he was ready to pass out at any second. “And I’m not fixing my posture,” he stated with utter conviction despite his sleepy tone, his tone almost comedic in its seriousness that made you deadpan.

“Sei…”

ISAGI YOICHI | 潔世一 ─ ♬. ⁺ ♡

From daylight to dusk, your boyfriend, ISAGI, would be playing soccer on the field. Sometimes he would be practising with others, but most of the time it would be between you and Isagi alone. He was easily someone obsessed over the sport, and during the times when you would join him on the field, you would merely sit and watch as he played on his own, all with a hand over your chin and cheering him on. You found it charming to see his love for the sport take shape, with each training session bringing noticeable improvement. But as sweet as it was, it did occasionally bore you at times.

So you had a plan. During one of the days, before heading together with Isagi on the field, you grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and shoved it in your pocket. That day, a few of his teammates from Blue Lock had joined in, and not wanting to interrupt their practice, you would find yourself and your hands sketching out Isagi while he was playing, capturing a moment of time.

Hours later, as you two walked together, your boyfriend would notice the piece of sketch paper in your hand and, stopping what he was doing, holding the ball in his hands, curiously, sheepishly asked what it was. You laughed, noticing the boy's hesitant expression—that he didn’t feel particularly comfortable asking, yet his curiosity was too strong to resist not to.

“Oh! It's just a quick sketch I drew of you while you were playing. Do you want to see? I was gonna show it to you later but I suppose there’s no harm in revealing the surprise now!”

A sketch? Of him? Since when did you draw him?

Did he want to see? A drawing of him made by you? Of course he did.

With his neck reaching over your shoulder to get a glance at the paper, his first reaction was a mix of panic and delight, his expression wide-eyed and beaming from ear to ear.

“This is… me?” He struggled to find words, if any at all.

“Yeah!” you laughed. “I tried to capture you in the moment, but it turned out pretty medi—”

Your words were cut off as Isagi came to embrace you, encircling your waist with a grip so strong that it almost knocked you to the ground. He tightened his hold, his arms around your torso, his face nuzzled into your neck.

“I love it,” he murmured. “I love it so much. I can’t believe my significant other is so talented.”

Your mouth went agape just at the level of physical affection Isagi was showing at a mere drawing. “T-Talented?! Me? Yoichi… you’re being modest.”

But that was just it. It wasn’t “just a drawing” to him. It was a masterpiece, a reflection of your love for him. And the playful teasing continued from there. Little did you know, Isagi would bring the drawing to his next game and flaunt it to his teammates, who, for the most part, couldn’t care less. Some were more interested than others.

“Tch, that asshole… not only is he disgustingly talented, but he also has a sweeter-than-sugar significant other.”

“I’d say that bastard is having too much fun.”

“Agreed.”

BACHIRA MEGURU | 蜂楽廻 ─ ♬. ⁺ ♡

With your binder and papers in hand, enjoying a peaceful moment right outside a school building, waiting for a certain someone to finish class, out of pure boredom and nothing else, you decided to pass the time by doing some doodling. If only he were actually here to be your model, you thought, but, oh well, you made do with what you had. Besides, it was just a little sketch anyway. It's not like he or you would care that much about the finished product.

“Whatcha doing~?” a voice sang loudly, a figure suddenly appearing right over your shoulder, making you flinch until you saw that familiar tuff of black and yellow hair, realizing it was only BACHIRA, your boyfriend.

Bachira excitedly looked at your drawing, his chin resting on your shoulder as a support. “Do you like it?” you asked, a bit shyly.

“I do! Hmmm, what's that supposed to be, an elephant?” he mused.

‘I’m sorry, wha—’

You would expect that he was joking, but this was Bachira you were talking about. For all you knew, he could be completely serious. And if you knew anything about Bachira, is that he is unpredictable.

“I- wha- NO! It's you!” you exclaimed, a laugh escaping your lips.

His face lit up even more. “Wahhh really?! I’m honoured!” Bachira grinned, pressing a quick kiss on your cheek. “You’re the best, you know that?”

You smiled back, feeling the warmth of his affection. “I try,” you said, your cheeks heating up with a mix of embarrassment and joy.

“You drew me so well! There’s no way I look this good in real life!”

‘Okk… now he’s pushing it.’

You swear you could see him smiling from ear to ear, and he quickly pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, but just enough to make your face flush red. “I can’t wait to show this to everyone!!”

“Ahah, alright…”

‘He’s not actually going to do that, right…?’

Oh how wrong you were.

The very next day, you'd be greeted by the sight of the drawing you made of him as Bachira’s new wallpaper, front and centre.

Your mouth fell. ‘He… he really was serious.’

ITOSHI RIN | 糸師凛 ─ ♬. ⁺ ♡

“...ughhhh.”

“What are you looking at?”

RIN tapped his own pen on your paper, his index finger rhythmically tapping against the desk. If you didn't know better, you would’ve thought that your own boyfriend was scolding you for doing something bad. Well, that’s because he was.

You and Rin were supposed to be studying together that day, but your mind was drifting elsewhere, going back to all the chores you have lying at home—as if you’re actually going to do them—and what to eat for dinner with your boyfriend; the same boyfriend, who, at that exact moment, was staring hypothetical bullets into the front of his poor paper. Meanwhile, while you were in la la land, Rin was diligently focused on his own work, his head fixated on his own work, while you were scribbling onto a piece of paper that was once your worksheet.

Rin looked up at you, an eyebrow raised. “You must’ve been rather inspired to get on your homework this efficiently..”

“What? O-Oh, yeah,” you stammered, trying to sound convincing.

How convincing indeed. In fact, Rin stood up for once in the entire study period, moving away from his own work to stare directly at you—talking to you in a language using nothing but his eyes. You immediately hid the paper with another piece of lined paper over it, which was, unfortunately, empty. This did not convince your boyfriend at all.

Rin came even closer until he was mere centimetres away from your face. “Do you want to show me what you’ve been doing?”

It wasn’t an order, but that didn’t exactly sound like a request either. You were screwed.

“Promise you won’t get mad?” you said sheepishly, making Rin sigh, knowing that was even a request. He could never truly get mad at you.

And with that, you sheepishly revealed your paper, removing your hands to unveil the lead sketch. A moment passed until you heard a sigh exhale from Rin’s exasperated lips.

“Were you seriously paying any attention to what I was teaching you earlier? My explanations may as well have gone through deaf ears.”

“But lookkk! You look so handsome.”

He gave you the most uninterested look imaginable, making you gloomily sink back into your seat in defeat. “Since when do I look like that?” He deadpanned, utterly republished with a scrunched-up expression before critiquing every, and he meant, every single detail, down to where his pupils were looking.

“If you didn’t like it, then you should’ve said so…” you pouted. “Got my hopes up for nothing,” you mumbled under your breath, thinking that Rin didn’t catch that. But if you knew anything about Rin, then you would know he always knows everything, whether you like it or not.

Though, he didn’t say a word, instead, he just shook his head, a small scowl—or was it a smile—tugging at the corners of his mouth as he returned to his chair.

“We can study another day.”

You lit up. “Really!?”

With the blandest intonation you’ve ever heard, Rin nodded his head, “Yes, so you have all the time in the world to fix that atrocious drawing of me to your heart's content.”

“Aha…”

MIKAGE REO | 御影玲王 ─ ♬. ⁺ ♡

Sitting in REO's home on one of the dozens of chairs and tables in the grand Mikage mansion, with a pen held in between your fingers, you couldn’t help but gap at the fortune that is Reo’s family before you, the walls being littered with picture frames and paintings upon paintings.

Earlier, you had asked the butler if he could give you a piece of paper and a pen to write with, to which he graciously obliged, disappearing and then reappearing almost instantly with the said items in his hand shortly before Reo arrived home and joined you, settling in to do some homework. He was always a hard worker. As for what you were doing? Unbeknownst to Reo himself, you decided to use your boyfriend as an unpaid, unknowing model for your sketching.

His focused expression made him an ideal subject, and as you were scribbling and sketching, you found yourself lost in the details of the handsome features of your boyfriend. Only when he turned to look up and see what was really being drawn on your piece of paper, did Reo’s eyes widen in surprise.

"You drew this?" he asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

You nodded, “Yep! Do you like it?”

He loved it. Absolutely loved it.

Reo, with his hand running through the middle part of his hair, let out an exasperated sigh, “Hah… is that even a question? Of course, I do.”

He went back to admiring the sheet of paper that you had spent—unbeknownst to him—an hour drawing. Though you would never consider that to be a waste of time, anything for your lover was time well spent, and in fact, more than that.

“Can I take it?”

You blinked, for a second being taken aback. It certainly did take you a while, but Reo wanted it? Oh well, you were never going to refuse. “Uh-huh! The drawing is of you, after all. What could I do with it other than admire it? I already can do so in person.”

You had initially assumed that Reo would probably just put it somewhere and then leave it to collect dust. Little did you know, that the very next day, you would see your drawing framed in a luscious and expensive frame, hanging in the centre of the main hall. Reo’s butler had hung it with great care, that was ensured, displayed in a way that highlighted its importance.

Your heart melted in a thousand different ways. This… this was too much.

You felt a hand clasp your own. The warmth of your boyfriend and his hand wrapping around your own. “So~? What do you think?”

Tears. Tears and tears dripped down your face as you looked at the framed drawing. It was more than you ever expected.

And as Reo held you in his arms while you continued to weep, from the corner, Reo’s butler watched from a distance, giving his pleased nod of approval. Anyone passing by couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity and marvel at the audacity of such a bold choice in “home decor,” but to you, it was a moment of pure, heartfelt joy, and one that you would never forget.

And you wouldn’t. Not when Reo would continue to keep that drawing on the walls for months and explicitly show off to those who were unfortunate enough to be invited to his mansion for “work purposes,” only to get a mouthful about his beloved significant other.

CHIGIRI HYOMA | 千切豹馬 ─ ♬. ⁺ ♡

Utterly unperturbed by your presence and fully engrossed in the tangles in his hair of all things, CHIGIRI was doing his hair care like always. An extensive hair care routine that would take probably an hour at the very least, from all the times you’ve timed him while getting ready. Sitting at the living room table, you fiddled with the pen in your hand. You nearly wanted to drop it right then and there when you saw Chigiri bring his entire bag of presumably hair care products and a mirror.

You yawned, glancing around the cozy living room. Now who does their hair care in the middle of the living room?

“Do not worry. I won’t bother you with your work.”

You gave him a nod. “That’s not a problem at all. Do what you have to do. The shampoo you use smells good anyway.”

With a short laugh at your forward comment, thus began his haircare routine which felt like hours, and as much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were missing the presence of your boyfriend at your side.

Every now and then, you would glance up at Chigiri, admiring the way his hair glistened in the light, even with droplets of water still clinging to each strand. Chigiri did, and even with his wet hair, he looked oddly handsome. Granted, he always did look handsome in your eyes, but there was just a sort of natural beauty to him that anyone who passed by would be hard-pressed to ignore. And so, out of boredom, you decided to draw him while Chigiri was all but focused on his hair. His true one true love, as many would say and mock him for.

“.....”

“Hm, I didn’t know you could draw.”

“GAH!”

Your shoulders jumped in fright, nearly knocking over your pencil and capsizing off your chair to the cold ground. “God… you nearly scared the life out of me.”

He chuckled softly. “I’m sorry. Is that me? It looks really nice. I had no idea you were such an artist.” Chigiri, still with his half-cleaned-up hair, leaned closer, examining the details with genuine curiosity.

You chuckled sheepishly. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“No no, I mean it,” Chigiri insisted, glancing over at your sketch while pushing the hair from his face to get a better look. “Can I see it again?”

You hesitated but handed over the drawing, allowing his eyes to roam all over it. A soft smile formed on his lips.

“It’s beautiful. You captured me perfectly.”

Your heart swelled with pride. “Really?! You think so? …Your hair does look a lil wonky, it’s usually a bit more—”

“It’s perfect,” Chigiri assured you with a pat of your hair. “Just like you. I might have to ask you to draw me more often.”

You laughed, feeling a warm blush creep up your cheeks. “Anytime.”

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jennifer-jeong · 7 hours

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[Smut] [AFAB!Reader] Somnophilia

SUMMARY He gets needy while you're sleeping but you don't mind

CONTENT NSFW, 18+, smut, fluff sprinkled in, consensual somno, nipple play, clit play, penetration, m and f orgasm, creampie, doggy, lots of kisses, ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+

WORD COUNT: 1848

GOJO SATORU, KAVEH, AVENTURINE, XAVIER, ASTARION Wanderer, Boothill, Dan Heng, Marius Von Hagen

It was one of those days where you immediately collapsed onto your bed when you got home, not even bothering to do your nightly routine before allowing sleep to wash over you. You quickly pulled off your top, bra, and pants to put on a random t-shirt you found on the ground, probably belonging to your boyfriend. You opted to just sleep in this and your panties. It was around 9 pm, the summer sun still finishing its setting, but you were so exhausted you figured you’d just sleep now and maybe get up early.

Around 11 pm, your boyfriend, after noticing you were asleep and getting ready for bed quietly, sneaked into your shared room to join you for a good night's rest.

He laid down to your right, looking at your cute sleeping figure. You were sleeping on your back, turned slightly to the right, peacefully slumbering.

He propped himself up on an elbow to give you some forehead kisses, using his free hand to caress your soft face.

Laying back down, he dug his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in your sweet scent. He felt a wave of warmth wash over him, groaning as he exhaled and snaked his arm over your waist.

“Fuck.” He thought.

You always smelled good but why was it doing something to him right now?

Maybe it was that you were wearing his shirt, clearly without a bra. Maybe he was just extra pent up today. Maybe it was how your curves felt as his hand slowly rubbed up and down on your hips. Maybe it was that his hand was reaching up to your chest, rubbing at your nipples through the thin fabric. Maybe it was how your body still reacted so sensitively to him even while you slept, your sensitive buds already hardening under his touch.

He stopped for a second, feeling bad that he was doing this to you while you slept. Even though he knows that you two have already talked about this, and that you were actually very insistent that he was allowed to do something like this, he still hesitated.

After some more internal debate, he decided he’d just be gentle with you. His goal was to slowly wake you up and if you didn’t want to continue he’d apologize profusely, even though he knew you well enough to know that you definitely wouldn’t mind if he woke you up like this.

His hand returned to your body, slipping under the shirt you were wearing, feeling your smooth skin as it traveled up to your chest again. He kneaded your bare breasts, thumb playing with your still hardened nipple.

Somehow, his little internal debate and his decision to continue was making him even more hot and bothered. It was the fact that he thought so deeply about the situation and made himself deeply aware that he was doing this to your body without your conscious knowledge.

In any other situation, he’d feel wrong about this, but with the trust you two had in each other and with how long you’ve been dating, it was actually turning him on more. Knowing that you loved him enough to trust him with your body like this. Knowing that he’d let you do the same in a heartbeat. Knowing that you’d probably be as turned on as him right now if you were awake.

Fuck, you were so perfect for him.

He needed to show you how much he loved you and just how badly he needed you.

He sat up, kissing at your neck and collarbone as he made his way between your legs.

When he removed the covers from you, he noticed you were just wearing panties under. A cute pair of white lacy panties, they were a design that was comfy enough for you to have worn throughout the day but somehow you still made them look as sexy as lingerie to him.

He hooked a hand under your leg to position himself properly while his other hand pushed your shirt up above your chest to reveal your pretty tits to him. His hands then both went to roll your nipples between his thumb and finger before sliding down, admiring your waist, your curves. Your skin was so smooth it drove him crazy. At this point he was painfully hard and breathing heavy just from worshiping your body.

Maybe if you weren’t so exhausted, you would’ve woken up and told him to continue by now, but you really were fully knocked out.

His hands continued south, grabbing the top of your panties to pull them down and helping you take them off, taking note of the wonderfully filthy fact that strings of arousal connected you and the fabric together. The sight made him clench his jaw and also served as evidence that he should keep going.

He held your legs apart slightly, not wanting to force you to stretch too much. He lined his tip up with your folds, rubbing his pre cum in with your arousal before sinking his tip in. His mouth hung open as he watched where you two were connected with lidded eyes.

He fucked you with his tip a bit despite the fact that your body was already ready for more. You shifted in your sleep a bit and he let go of your legs to let you position yourself however you wanted. You turned more onto your right side so he started to hug your left leg as he eased more of himself into your gummy walls.

He was so fucking sensitive, the drag of his length on your slicked walls felt so fucking good. After a few more thrusts, he easily bottomed out in you. He cursed under his breath, thinking about how perfectly you fit around him, as if you were made just for each other.

He started a slow pace, fucking you slow, hoping to wake you up soon.

You started to stir, slowly regaining consciousness as he slowly thrusted into you. At the same time, you started to react to it more too. Quiet moans starting to slip out of your mouth which only encouraged him further. The wet sound of his length massaging in and out of your core added even more to his need for you right now.

Soon, you shifted more, now onto your stomach. He separated from you to let you get comfy, assuming you might still be asleep but hoping you were waking up a bit at least. He sat between your legs as you laid on your chest, he kneaded your ass and spread your folds to see your pretty self covered in arousal.

“Hmm…? Baby?” You slurred, sleep in your voice evident. You lifted your head slightly, eyes still closed, waiting for a response.

“Hey sweetheart, sorry to wake you up and to do this while you’re asleep-” he apologized before you cut him off with a displeased groan.

“Why are you apologizing baby?” You continued sleepily as you spread your legs further, pulling a pillow under your stomach to prop yourself up onto your knees, “keep going, feels s’good.”

“A-are you sure?” He questioned one last time.

“Mmhmm I’m sure baby, you know I like it,” you replied, laying your head back down to rest it on your arm, closing your eyes.

Your boyfriend exhaled shakily, leaning over your back to pepper kisses over your exposed skin, shirt still pulled up all the way. “So good to me,” he whispered into your skin as he eased himself back into your needy cunt.

You were insanely turned on at this point. Knowing that he initiated this and that your body was responding to him despite being unconscious was fucking hot. The fact that he needed you so badly but still made sure to check if you were okay with it made your head spin. God you loved this man.

He started to thrust into you slow, drawing long strokes where you could hear the slick slide of him going in and out so clearly. His jaw was slack, hands gripping your ass as he could barely keep himself upright on his knees from how good it felt.

He threw his head back as he started to speed up, the light “plap” sound filling the air and adding to your arousals.

Your brow furrowed as you started to moan into the pillow, slowly actually consciously perceiving the pleasure he was giving you.

“Y’fill me up s’good baby,” you hummed, breathing heavy.

“Fffuck… You’re such a good fucking girl f’me.” He replied, panting just as heavily as you. “Gonna make you feel good yeah? You deserve it.”

He leaned over you and snaked a hand around to rub at your neglected clit, wanting to at least attempt to make you feel as good as you were making him feel. But you were squeezing him so tight, he wasn’t sure if anything could feel better than this.

His free hand started playing with your tits, rolling and pinching at your sensitive nipples. You were still partially awake but the raw pleasure he was giving to you made you feel like you were dreaming. Him stimulating your tits, clit, g spot, stretching you out at the same time, and the delicious drag of him on your walls was dizzying.

He started to get more rough with his thrusts as he felt your pussy twitch around him, indicating you were getting closer, also bringing him closer to his high. Pure desire was taking over the man as the slapping of your skin together started getting louder, rhythm getting faster.

You could feel him twitching in you at this point as his small whines and groans started to turn into louder moans, his eyes turning into hearts, watching where you two were connected.

Your bliss plus your lingering exhaustion prevented you from forming a more proper sentence so all you could manage to tell him you wanted to finish together was “ngh… i-inside baby… please mmm- hhngg.”

Both of you tumble over the edge together as you clamp down on him as his body shakes, trying his best to ride out both of your highs. Waves of pleasure continue to rack both of your bodies as you moan in unison. He continues to give you light thrusts and toy with your clit as you both come down.

After overstimulating both of you for a few strokes, he pulls out to admire the cum dripping out of your twitching hole.

Sleep starts to take over him though so he quickly cleans the two of you up, fills your water bottle and jumps into bed.

He was going to whisper some sweet nothings to you about how much he loves you but you had already fallen fast asleep. But, it didn’t stop him from giving you lots of forehead kisses while holding you close to his chest and it didn’t stop you from nuzzling into his neck subconsciously. Both of you expressing yourself without needing words. You both slept very well that night.

Thank you for reading!

|| MASTERLIST ♡ ||

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troublesomesnitch · 9 hours

Text

Rimming Aemond - Drabble

Aemond x Maid!Reader - Quick smutty drabble

The way he was bent so beautifully over that table - I couldn't help it, I had to write this little thing.

Contents: eating Aemond's ass, plain and simple. Be warned, this is graphic, and I was hardcore blushing when I wrote it.

Words: 1600

Tensions are high within the castle as the crown prepares for war. High among its serving staff; high among its guards. High among the royals who walk its gilded halls. And high within the one-eyed prince, for even if he would never admit it, the stresses weigh on him as much as on everyone else.

He has always been demanding, your prince, but now more so than ever he is difficult. Quick to anger, less forgiving if your work is not to his satisfaction. Rougher when he fucks you in secret, holding you down and snapping his hips hard against yours, using you as little more than a vessel for release and replenishment.

You do not like it very much, this roughness to his touch, at least not every time. But you dutifully turn up whenever he sends for you - always under a suitable pretense, of course. Sheets need changing, floor needs sweeping. He wants water. He wants wine. Tonight he asked for figs, and they lie beautifully arranged on a golden plate, untasted and untouched as he devours your mouth instead.

Even his kisses are rougher now, hungry for something your body cannot give him. Battle. Blood. He moans into your mouth when you bite his lip, as eager as always, running his hands over your bottom and down the back of your thighs. About to lift you up with ease, hoist you onto the table and take you right there and then -

“No,” you exclaim, squirming in his arms and pushing lightly against his chest. “Not tonight.”

Prince Aemond is an honourable man in some regards. Although clearly dismayed, he releases you with a quiet sigh, stepping back to let you catch your breath and hopefully explain this very sudden change of heart. If you want him in a different way - or not at all.

“Well?” he demands, tapping his fingers impatiently on the back of a chair.

“Bend over,” you breathe.

The prince is not used to taking orders. Not from anyone, and most certainly not from you. His brows draw together in a frown right away, displeasure written all over his face. A maid should never speak to a prince in such a way. Even if he is her lover.

But when he opens his mouth to scold you, you beat him to it.

“Go on then. Bend over.”

You can see that he is sorely tempted to dismiss you for your insolence, or at the very least punish you in some sort of way. But his curiosity wins over, and he does turn around to lay himself across the table, helped along by the push of your hand between his shoulder blades. On his stomach, resting on his elbows. A position most unfit for someone of his standing, especially a man, and you are quick to place yourself behind him, reaching around to slip a hand down his trousers and wrap it around his swollen cock. Make sure that he is nice and hard, too aroused to be prideful. It is a risky endeavour, this thing you have in mind, and you want him wanting and pliant, far enough gone that he will not resist. The way he gets when he is just about to come, and you are quite sure that he would pluck the sapphire straight from his socket and offer it to you, if only to be allowed to finish in your mouth.

“Does it feel good?” you whisper, low and sultry, hiding a smile against his back when he murmurs yes.

Really, you are only buying yourself time, gathering up your courage, but he doesn’t know that. He only feels the way you stroke his cock, and the way your other dainty hand slithers in between his legs to massage his balls too, the way he likes it. Cupping and fondling, squeezing almost a little too hard.

But when he starts to pant, you release him. Which makes him give a dissatisfied groan.

“Wait,” you breathe, fumbling with the closure of his breeches. Swiftly tugging them down, before finally kneeling to the floor so that your face is at level with your intended destination. His smooth, naked arse.

Slowly and gently, you run your hands up the back of his legs. Giving a squeeze to his thigh, and a soft exhale onto his skin - a warning before you press your whole face against his backside. The prince tenses at once, shifting his upper body to turn towards you, to object, tell you no - but he cuts himself off with a gasp when the tip of your tongue swipes between his buttocks.

The scent and taste of him is heavy and warm, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but enticing in its own strange way. You are careful at first, pressing your tongue against the place where his skin starts to pucker, flicking it slowly up and down, never quite touching his opening. Only feeling his tender skin. Soft, and hot, and dusted with little hairs that tickle your mouth, much like the hair on his balls, only even more downy. The prince grunts out a husky fuck, and he reaches back to grip onto your hair, tangling his fingers in it, not quite sure if he wants to push your head away, or press it closer.

It is all the encouragement you need. You lap at him eagerly, moving your tongue in circles around the rim of his opening, with little concern for modesty, or propriety, or when he last bathed. It is wonderfully lewd, wonderfully filthy; not only to expose this most intimate part of him, but to press your mouth to it and taste it, hear how he gasps, feel how he tightens with each of your licks. Both the muscles in his shapely thighs, and the one you can feel pulsing under your tongue.

You imagine you must be the very first woman to ever pleasure him this way. Likely the last as well, for when he marries, his wife will be a noble lady, and you do not believe a lady would ever demean herself with such an act.

With you it is different. You are naught but a common girl, a simple chambermaid. It is an honour and a privilege for you, being allowed to wait upon the prince. Change his bedsheets, scrub ink stains from his floors. Plunge your tongue into his royal arse.

He groans unabashedly from it now, legs trembling and fingers gripping the carved edges of the table, his knuckles turning white as you clamp your hands onto his buttocks to spread them apart. So you can delve in deeper, press your tongue flat against his hole and lick it, alternating between slow drags and quick, teasing flicks. Delighting in the way it makes him moan. Only very briefly do you draw back to catch your breath, and to have a quick, indecent look at his backside; at his firm, supple buttocks and the area in between, where the skin is sinfully darker, and now glistening with your spit. And at his little puckered hole, which unsurprisingly is as beautiful as every other part of him. Rosy pink in colour, and framed by wispy white hairs. It twitches with anticipation as you lean in again, pressing your tongue against it, this time breaching him with the very tip. Making a violent shudder run through his body.

"Fuck," he groans, releasing your head, his hand disappearing underneath the table to grasp his own cock and stroke it.

You have never before felt him tremble like this, never heard such wanton moans from him as just now. He shamelessly thrusts his arse backwards, wanting your tongue deeper, wanting it more, wanting it to touch that tender, throbbing place inside him - you know there is a spot within a man’s behind that gives him pleasure, as you have heard other girls giggle and blush when they spoke of it. From what you understand, it would be too far to reach with one’s tongue, but there are other ways to make use of it, and that is what you aim for instead.

Slipping your hand in between his legs, you push gently against that soft bit of flesh beneath his balls, holding your hand still, just letting him feel the warm pressure from your fingers. It makes him moan, and you can feel how he is throbbing everywhere; in your hand, in his arse, in the back of his knees. Soon you feel the first little spasms of his rapture too; his legs tensing, his balls pulling tight against his body, heavy and full, desperate for release.

When he spurts, he collapses flat onto the table, unable to support his own weight, shaking and moaning uncontrollably. His hole tightens rhythmically around your tongue, twitching and contracting with pleasure, and you find yourself wondering if this is how your insides feel around his cock when he fucks you - if so, you can certainly see why he is so eager for it.

Afterwards, he is quick to wipe his hand clean and pull his trousers back up. You expect him to dismiss you right away, but instead he reaches out to absentmindedly stroke your hair, for once at a loss for words. His face full of disgust at what has just transpired - but also sweaty and blushed from how much he enjoyed it.

“You should rinse your mouth,” he finally grumbles, sternly and coolly, his upper lip curling over his teeth.

You hold back a little smile when you curtsy.

“Would that be all, My Prince?”

“Yes,” he says, straightening his back, squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin to its usual haughty position. “That would be all.”

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

No tags, because the subject matter might not be to everyone's taste...

#aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen smut

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