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tsunodaradio · 2 days ago

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it’s a bad idea, right? ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

and that’s when it settles in your chest, slow and final: nothing is ever going to happen with you and yuki tsunoda.

ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x reader. ꔮ word count: 5.8k. ꔮ includes: smut, romance, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. playboy!yuki, fuck buddies -ish, set mostly in faenza, second chance romance. title from olivia rodrigo’s song of the same name. ꔮ commentary box: kicking off yuki week with this fic, which was inspired by two separate anon asks i got asking for a playboy yuki fic and doing it in the car with him,, it took me a minute, but i gotchu both 🤙 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The bass is thudding so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

Faenza is humid in the way northern Italian towns get in early summer. Thick, wine-sweet air that clings to your bare shoulders and curls the edges of your mascara. You’re out with friends, but only technically. You’re half-listening to something Chiara is saying about her boss, half-watching your phone light up for the third time in two minutes.

Tsunoda (DNI ❌❌❌) is calling.

You press your lips together. The screen flashes again.

Missed call.

Another one.

Chiara leans over your shoulder, eyes narrowing. “Seriously? You're not answering that, are you?”

You lock your phone like it’s burning you. “Of course not. I blocked him. Emotionally. That contact name is legally binding.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And yet…” she drawls, just as your phone buzzes with a text.

Tsunoda (DNI ❌❌❌) [1:43 AM]: new place. come over?

Then, a minute later, just an address. No emoji. No punctuation. Just coordinates to the next bad decision.

You stare at it too long. The message glows coldly in the dark bar, like it knows it’s going to win. Your friends order another round. You tell them you’re going to the bathroom, even though you’re not.

Even though you’re already halfway to the cab.

The city looks different at night, looks like it might actually do a halfway good job of keeping your secrets. Yuki’s new place is tucked behind a bakery. The kind of apartment you’d never find unless you were meant to.

There’s a single light on in the upstairs window. You climb the stairs slowly, deliberately, praying for the audacity to stop halfway.

You don’t.

Yuki opens the door before you knock.

He’s in a hoodie, barefoot, holding a can of beer like he hasn’t just set a trap and waited for you to fall into it. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

“You came,” he says. It's not a question.

You cross your arms, leaning in the doorway. “I shouldn’t have.”

He shrugs. “You always say that.”

You step inside anyway.

The apartment smells like laundry detergent and takeout. There’s an open window with a breeze threading through it, warm and restless. His team jacket’s slung over a chair. You recognize it. Same one from Barcelona, the last time you said never again.

Yuki leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. He’s watching you like he’s trying not to smile. “So... how've you been?” he drawls, taking a quick swig of his drink.

You scoff. “Cut the small talk. You texted. I’m here. Let’s not pretend this is anything new.”

He nods. Of course he agrees. Of course he knows pretending is the worst part.

The real worst part is the way he looks at you. Like you’re a habit he hasn’t kicked, like maybe he doesn’t want to. You kick off your heels, pad towards his bedroom. He follows without a word.

You sit on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. “I mean it this time,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last time.”

Yuki sits beside you, close enough to touch. Close enough that you know exactly how this ends. “Sure,” he says.

He doesn’t sound like he believes you.

And when he leans in, lips alcohol-slick and warm against your neck, you’re not convinced you believe yourself either.

It started in the off-season, when the air in Faenza tasted like frost. Yuki had been spotted more often than usual. Trailing out of coffee shops in beanies pulled low, parked in his trainer’s car outside the gym, laughing too loud in the back corner of the wine bar on Via Cavour. Always with someone new. Rarely someone local.

That was his thing, you’d come to learn.

A girl in every city, like postcards he never bothered to send. Always temporary, always transient. The kind of girls who didn’t follow F1, who wouldn’t tag him in blurry Instagram stories, who’d leave before breakfast with nothing but a half-smile and a cab receipt. He was selective, yes—but not shy. Everyone in Faenza knew he had a reputation. No one could prove it.

You met him at a wedding, accidentally seated beside him. He had said your name like it was a secret, like he’d already decided something about you. Blunt and charming, with the kind of posture that read as carelessness but hit like gravity. You told yourself not to take him seriously. That this was just dinner. That he probably wouldn’t even remember you.

But he did.

He texted the next day, finding your number from a friend of a friend.

Then the next.

Then he asked if you wanted to grab a drink, and you said no but showed up anyway. You kissed him first, in the parking lot behind the speakeasy, and he pulled away laughing like he couldn’t believe you’d done it.

You should have walked away when he said, “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

You should have known that meant he'd break you differently.

But Yuki had that look, that charm sharpened by a thousand untold stories, and something in you—young, foolish, tired of being careful—wanted to be one of them.

So you let him in.

And now, months later, he still has the key.

The ending of it all starts on a Saturday morning.

You’re scrolling through your phone, half-awake, wrapped in a blanket on your couch while the kettle hums somewhere in the background. The algorithm feeds you a clip from the paddock. Yuki, post-race, sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Red Bull polo unbuttoned just enough to flash the chrome necklace you’d once unclasped with your teeth.

He’s leaning on a barricade, cocky grin intact, the afternoon sun catching on his cheekbones like a lens flare. He’s answering questions as if they’re a game he’s already won. Something about tire degradation. Something about the car feeling good in Sector 3.

And then someone asks him about his love life.

He laughs. Raises his shoulders in a shrug.

“I’m focused on racing,” he says smoothly. “Relationships? Maybe when I retire.”

There’s laughter. Even the journalist chuckles, like they never expected anything real.

But you hear it. You hear it in the way he deflects. In the way he performs. Not shy, never awkward—just closed off in that expertly disarming way. You know that tone. You’ve heard it when he’s kissed you with one hand still on his keys.

You watch the clip twice.

Once to catch the details. The second to let it sting.

And that’s when it settles in your chest, slow and final: Nothing is ever going to happen with you and Yuki Tsunoda.

Not really. Not where anyone can see it.

You hadn’t been dumb enough to believe otherwise. Not fully. But it’s still damning to see the controlled blankness on his face, the way he lies through his teeth about things like commitment and focus when his bed is warm in every city he visits.

And so you let your final act of stupidity play out where it all began. His fire-red Honda Civic, unassuming in the otherwise abandoned parking lot of the Palazzo del Podestà.

The windows are fogged, you’re seated in Yuki’s lap, and you know how you want this night to end.

For now, you indulge it. You enjoy it. The hard planes of his body. The way he’ll mumble cusses in his mother tongue, his voice scratchy against the shell of your ear. The two fingers he curls inside of you as he expertly thumbs at your clit.

“Missed you,” he mumbles when he finds the spot inside you that has you seeing stars. He presses down hard, drawing an embarrassing whimper from you. “Missed you s’much, baby.”

No, you want to say. You only missed this, but not me.

You’re too fucked out to say it out loud, though. You’re only chasing the high that crashes down on you after Yuki has relentlessly readied you with his fingers, the way you’re so dazed that you don’t even register him gently maneuvering you until your back is flush against his chest.

Neither of you have even bothered much with clothes. It’s like this whenever it’s a quick fuck, a bit of fun before he has to go race circles in some other country. His shirt is halfway on; already rumpled at the skirt as Yuki pushes it just high enough to give himself room to move.

You hear the sound of packaging crinkling, of Yuki slipping on a rubber as you hover on top of him. He groans as he slowly eases you down onto his cock, his arms coiled around your waist in a way that’s more appropriate for lovers than—whatever the hell this is.

“Bellissima,” he breathes into the space between your shoulder blades, and you sorely wish it didn’t make your heart thump the way that it did.

Yuki takes control. With him, dominance seems to be half the game. You’re not a stranger to the way he bounces you up and down his length, the way he restrains himself to grunts and an occasional profanity as he bucks his hips up into yours.

You bite your lip. You breathe through your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold onto the car seat in front of you, begging your body to not enjoy the feeling too much. Not when you’re about to say what you’re going to say.

He notices your restraint, notices the way his ministrations are greeted with muffled moans instead of the usual shameless whines. Liquid pleasure shoots down your spine when Yuki nips at the shell of your ear, his voice nothing more than a rasp as he asks, “What’s wrong, baby?”

What’s wrong is this. All of this.

“Nothing,” you lie, the word punched out of you as he gives a sharp, punishing, thrust upward.

Yuki’s arm, snaked around your waist, pulls in tighter. The next thing you know, he has his fingers over your oversensitive clit, rubbing the sensitive nub there as he picks up his pace.

“You’re thinking of something else,” he accuses, sounding almost jealous, “or someone else, hm?”

A small part of you wishes there was somebody else to picture, absolutely anyone else to imagine. Alas, all you have in your head is Yuki. His dark, unruly hair. His toned arms. His cock twitching inside of you, signaling the nearness of his own climax.

You don’t mean to say it then. You’d planned to let the rendezvous end, to call it quits once he had pulled up in front of your apartment. But it comes out in the same breath he rips your second orgasm from you, the very moment he shudders and begins to release into the condom around his hardness.

“We’re done,” you gasp, your knuckles white against the seat in front. “Yuki, we’re—fuck—we’re done.”

Both of you ride out your respective highs with those words hanging in the air between you. The smell of sex still clings to your skin, humid and unignorable in the tight, dim space of his car.

Yuki gingerly pulls you off him, shuffling to the other end of the backseat. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him.

Your head rests against the cool window. Your heart is still racing; your breathing, still a little too hard. Maybe the truth could be outrun if you just kept quiet a little longer.

After two whole minutes that feel like an eternity, Yuki says, “You always say that.”

There’s no bite to it. No smirk. Just something tired in the way he exhales the words.

You stare out the window. The condensation drips slowly down the glass like it’s crying for you. “I mean it this time,” you say, the line perfectly rehearsed and said in a thousand different times, a thousand different ways so far.

In the corner of your eye, you see Yuki throwing you a skeptical glance. Something simmers beneath his gaze, something that seems to scream Don’t bullshit me.

“Okay,” he simply says, but he doesn’t believe you. He never has. You’ve always come back.

Except tonight, there’s a quiet certainty in your chest. Not sharp. Not angry. It’s… settled. The same way rocks give after waves crash against them enough times.

“I wish you were different,” you say softly, the words barely above a whisper. Not to hurt him, just because it’s true. “I wish you could give a damn in a way that mattered.”

He flinches a little. Maybe it does hurt after all.

You pull your dress down, pat down your hair. It doesn’t matter what you look like. He’s already seen everything and still never really seen you.

You open the car door, step out on shaky legs. The air smells like wet asphalt and regret, but the street lights gleam as if promising you something better beyond this arrangement.

Before you shut the door, you lean down and say one last thing: “I hope one day, when you’re ready to be real with someone... you remember I tried.”

You close the door. As you walk off, you don’t look back.

The days after unfurl gently.

The city wakes slowly in the summer, with streets that stretch under drowsy light and cafés that open just as the mist burns off the tiled rooftops. You fall into a rhythm that feels like something close to peace. Morning espresso at the bar on the corner. Fresh fruit from the old man who still calls you bella. Sun-warmed walks through alleys blooming with hanging flower pots.

You don’t hear from Yuki.

At least, not at first.

Then, the silence cracks.

It starts with a missed call. Then another. Then three more in one evening, all while you’re not doing anything terribly important.

Tsunoda (DNI ❌❌❌) lights up your phone like a fire alarm, persistent and impossible to ignore. Voicemails you don’t listen to. Texts you read and then immediately delete.

u up?

can we talk?

were you serious?

cmon, i know you want to. imy.

You never answer. It’s a siren call you sail past.

There’s a strange power in the silence you offer him. It startles you, how easy it is to withhold now. Not out of cruelty, but out of clarity. You meant what you said. You walked away. You didn’t leave the door cracked behind you, and it takes Yuki a couple of weeks to realize that.

Sometimes, the texts come late. Two in the morning. Half past four. Once at sunrise. Maybe he’s drunk. Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he’s realizing what it means to be on the outside.

You don’t care enough to wonder. You leave your phone face down and push it to the far corner of your desk.

Instead, you lean into life: the market on Saturdays, the chill of wine glasses clinking on terraces, the velvet hush of the cinema when the lights go down. Your friends start noticing the change—your posture a little taller, your eyes a little clearer. One even says, You look free.

You smile and mean it.

Of course, there are still whispers. Faenza is small and nosy and always humming with something. Apparently, Yuki’s been seen with a girl from Bologna. A model, someone whispers. Someone says she left the next morning in the same heels she arrived in.

You stir your drink and don’t say anything. It’s not your story anymore.

When his name flits through a conversation like cigarette smoke—sharp and lingering—you let it pass. Let it dissolve. You’ve built walls he can’t scale with just a text and a low laugh.

Sometimes, the race highlights play on the muted TV at the café. You see the familiar flash of the Red Bull logo, the familiar stance of Yuki pacing the paddock. Necklace shimmering in the light. Jumpsuit peeled to the waist. He always looks like he’s walking out of the smoke.

You glance up. And then down.

You don’t linger.

You don’t ache.

You smile at the barista, ask for another espresso. The days move on and so do you.

His season ends without you noticing.

The engines fall quiet, the checkered flags wave one final time, and the world spins on. You stop tracking the races. Stop glancing at headlines. The driver who used to crash into the walls of your life no longer takes up space in your mind. Not consciously, at least.

The whispers die down, too. People say Yuki’s probably back in Japan. Maybe he’s finally settled down. Maybe someone quiet and sweet tied him down the way no one else could. Maybe she doesn’t mind the pieces of him that others flinch from.

You swear it’s not something you think of, not something you pay too much attention to.

Until the day you see him again.

It’s a golden afternoon, the kind the city seems to bottle at the end of autumn. Soft sun pouring like syrup through the wide windows of your favorite café. You’re halfway through a book you don’t love and a cappuccino you do when the bell over the door jingles.

You glance up.

And freeze.

He’s there. Standing like the end of a sentence. Like something you almost convinced yourself you made up. There’s no swagger, no show. Just a muscle tee, jeans, and hair that’s grown longer than you remember. His eyes scan the café, land on you, and stay.

You don’t speak. You don’t move.

Yuki walks over slowly. There’s something unguarded about him in the sunlight. No paddock flash, no silver jewelry. It’s just him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says in greeting, his voice low. Not rushed. Not cool. Honest.

You raise your eyebrows. “How did you even know I’d be here?”

He offers a small, almost shy smile. “You told me once. Said this was the only place in Faenza with enough sunlight in the mornings.”

You blink. You don’t remember saying that. Not clearly. It must’ve been one of those offhand comments, said in passing and long forgotten. Except he didn’t forget, and now he’s standing in your safe space like he belongs in it. You fight the urge to call him cruel, to accuse him of selfishness.

He looks around, then back at you. “Can we talk?”

You don’t say yes.

But you don’t say no, either.

Instead, you close your book and set it on the table between you, spine-up. A marker of pause. You watch as he takes the seat across from you, the sunlight painting him golden.

He leans forward slightly, fingers tapping once on the ceramic of his cup. “I missed you.”

“You’ve said that, yes.”

“More than I thought I would.”

You don’t flinch. Your voice is steady when you ask, “What kind of conversation is this going to be, Yuki?”

He breathes out slowly, eyes flicking to the window, then back to you. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t have the words for it yet. I just... I kept thinking about you. Not just sometimes. All the time. Even when I tried not to.”

“That’s not enough. Not anymore,” you say outright. “If you’re here to stir things up and leave again, then I can’t—won’t—go through that. I’m not a pitstop for you to take at your convenience.”

For a moment, he looks like he might back down. Like whatever fire brought him here is flickering. But then he meets your eyes again, and something raw passes in his expression.

“Can I at least try?” he asks. “To prove that I can change? That I’m not just the guy who walks away?”

He’s not asking for forgiveness. He’s not even asking for a second chance. He’s asking for the space to earn it.

Despite everything, despite how many times he’s broken the shape of your heart, you sit there in the daylight and realize you haven’t said no.

Yuki doesn’t try to bulldoze his way back into your life. No grand gestures. No midnight declarations outside your window. He just starts showing up.

The first time, he brings you coffee. Not from your usual café but from the little shop near the laundromat, the one that’s been run by the same old man since the dawn of time. You’d mentioned once, half-asleep and tangled in his sheets, that they made the best espresso in town. That the crema was just right. That the bitterness lingered like a promise.

He remembered.

You don’t thank him. Not with words. You only take the cup and drink it down slowly, eyes never leaving his face. You catch him pumping his fist in the air as he walks away.

The second time, he texts you. Can I drop something off?

You think about ignoring it. You almost do. But curiosity is a stubborn thing, and Yuki’s always known how to use it against you.

You say yes.

He comes by with a box of strawberries from the weekend market, sun-warmed and still smelling like earth. You take them wordlessly and shut the door. That night, you eat them all. Not a single one is rotten.

The third time, he waits.

You’re late getting home. The sky is turning the color of old bruises, and there he is—sitting on your front steps, hood drawn up, earbuds in. You expect him to flash that grin, the one that always meant trouble, but he doesn’t. He just stands.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he says. “I just wanted to see you home safe.”

You tell yourself not to soften. Not to fall for the way his voice wraps around your name like a secret.

He keeps showing up. Not every day. Just enough to be noticed. Just enough to worm his way back in.

You find sticky notes pressed to your mailbox. One has your favorite line from that book you never finished. Another has a doodle of a bull—round and clumsy, like the ones he used to scribble on the had to go, you know your way out notes after sex. This time, he’s a little more articulate. Sentiments like thought of you and look, it’s us and I tried my best, I hope this makes you laugh.

You don’t throw them away.

Sometimes you text back. Just one-word answers. Sometimes nothing at all. But you don’t block him. And he doesn’t push.

One night, it rains. Hard.

There’s a knock on your door, and when you open it, he’s standing there soaked, holding a small umbrella and a takeaway bag that smells like gyoza.

“I didn’t know if you’ve eaten,” he says.

You let him in, drizzle and all.

He sets the food on your kitchen counter. You watch the water bead on his skin, watch the way his hands shake slightly as he opens the bag. A couple of months ago, this might have ended with a quickie in the shower, with him between your legs or you on your knees.

There’s none of that tonight. Instead, you eat together. You make small talk. He doesn’t try to touch you, not once. When he leaves, he looks at you like he used to, when you first started whatever it was you were doing. Like you hung the stars above Faenza yourself.

You close the door behind him, back pressed to the wood, and realize you’ve stopped saying this is the last time.

Somewhere, in all the quiet, you’ve started letting him back in.

You’re drunk. Not sloppy, not wild, but warm and loose around the edges. The kind of drunk that makes your limbs light and your memories soft. It’s a Friday night, the bar is buzzing, and all your friends are laughing too loudly under string lights. Wine and tequila spill across the hours. People make bad decisions left and right.

You shouldn’t call him. You know that. You haven’t called him in ages, but tonight you’re just devil-may-care enough to throw caution to the wind.

You’re slurring on the phone, trying to flirt, and he’s caught between amusement and exasperation. You ask him to pick you up, take you home, make you feel wanted again.

He does the first half.

You’re leaning against a lamppost when Yuki’s car pulls up, headlights catching the shimmer of your dress. You slide into the passenger seat without a word. He’s quiet, hands steady on the wheel, face unreadable.

“You have a flight tomorrow,” you say.

“I do,” he huffs.

Silence wraps around the car like fog. At a red light, you turn to him. His profile glows gold under the streetlamp, calm and close, too familiar. Something in you stirs.

“Yuki,” you hum, reaching out.

He doesn’t flinch when your fingers brush his cheek. He doesn’t pull away when you lean in. You lean over the center console, emboldened. Your lips almost graze his jaw when he stops you—hand gentle but firm against your shoulder.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

You freeze.

“Not like this,” he adds, eyes still on the road ahead.

You laugh, small and bitter. “Since when do you say no?”

“Since it started meaning more.”

You stare at him, suddenly more sober than before.

He glances at you then, voice low. “I’m not doing that anymore. Taking what I want and leaving you to figure it out alone. I want more than... that.”

You sit back, stunned. The Yuki you knew—the one who once kissed you like it was a dare and left like it was nothing—never said things like that. He pulls up to your building and shifts the car into park. Doesn’t look at you right away.

When he does turn to you, having acted like nothing more than your chauffeur, a good friend, somebody in love with you and trying his best to prove it, his expression is so open that it steals the breath from your lungs. He’s never looked at you like this before.

Or, at least, you’ve never noticed

“Get inside safe, okay?” he mumbles, and you nod, suddenly unsure of everything.

You wake up the next morning with the taste of regret and tequila on your tongue.

Your head throbs. Your stomach churns. And yet, somehow, you’re pulling on yesterday’s jeans and finding your keys. You don’t stop to fix your hair or clean the smudged eyeliner under your eyes. You just go.

Yuki’s apartment is tucked behind a quiet row of sycamores that still remember the sound of his laughter from summer evenings past. You take the stairs two at a time, adrenaline pushing you through the nausea, until you’re standing in front of his door.

You knock. Harder than necessary. When he opens it, he’s halfway into his travel hoodie, suitcase by the door, passport in hand.

He blinks at you. Surprised, maybe. Or maybe not. “Hey,” you greet, voice rough from sleep and leftover alcohol.

“Hey,” he echoes, a little cautious. “You alright?”

You nod. You’re clearly not. “Can I come in?”

He steps aside without another word.

You stop just past the doorway, not quite sure what to do with yourself. “I’m sorry about last night,” you blurt, crossing your arms tightly. “I wasn’t trying to—I mean, I didn’t mean to make things complicated.”

He exhales a sigh, setting his passport down on the table. “It’s not complicated. You were drunk. I’m glad you called me.”

“Yeah, well.” You glance at the floor. “It still felt shitty waking up and not knowing what I’d said or done.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says gently. “But I didn’t want to... take advantage. Not this time.”

The words are out of you before you can reel them back in. “That’s new,” you say, unintentionally calloused and cruel.

He cracks a faint smile, as if he figures he deserved it. “I’m trying,” he responds. (You don’t doubt it.)

You study him—the dull glint of his grin, the tired crease near his eyes. He looks like someone who wants to stay and go at the same time. “Where are you heading?” you ask, because the other option would be to ask him to stick around when that’s not in the cards.

“Bahrain,” he answers patiently, even though he already texted you about it two days ago. “Pre-season testing.”

“Big year.”

“Could be. If I keep my head on straight.”

You step forward. “Let me make this harder for you.”

He raises a brow. Before he can respond, you’re already leaning in to kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not neat. Messy, brash, too much teeth at first. But he kisses you back—without hesitation. Like he’s been holding the moment in his chest for weeks, waiting for permission. You’ve kissed Yuki maybe dozens of times before, but this one is different. This one means something.

You break away first. His forehead rests lightly against yours. Your breaths mingle.

He blurts out the next words as if he’s been holding on to them for too long. Maybe he has. Maybe they’ve beat beneath his ribs since the night he met you, since the first time you kissed, since the day you tried to leave him in that parking lot with nothing but the ghost of your warmth.

“You’re not a pitstop.”

“What?” you ask laughingly, forgetting already what you’d warned him in the sun-drenched café that led to this this second shot. I’m not a pitstop for you to take at your convenience.

“You’re not a pitstop,” Yuki repeats, arms wrapping around you. Fuck the flight. He can always book another one.

“You’re the whole goddamn race,” he says, and then he’s kissing you again like he can somehow seal the words against your lips.

It’s funny. You had spent all this time wondering what Yuki was racing for, what he might racing away from.

You never thought he could be racing towards you. ⛐

#yuki tsunoda x reader #yuki tsunoda x you #yuki tsunoda smut #yuki tsunoda imagine #yuki tsunoda fluff #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 smut #formula one smut #f1 x you #formula one x you #⛐ kae prix #⛐ yt22 #the open red bull polo.. I Know What You Are tsunoda ...

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whitedarkmoonflower · 1 day ago

Text

Where the Silence Ends

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female) Canon

Authors note: based on the request by lovely anon - jealous Sihtric doing something foolish that costs him readers heart. Thank you so much for requesting! 💖💖💖The trope and the setting is probably as old as the fanfiction world itself but I loved writing it. A huge thank you to my dear @leftoverp1zza for being my beta and for all the comments and suggestions. You are incredibly good at it 😘😘😘 Without you I would still be stuck in the middle of nowhere😅

Warnings: a bit from everything, fluff, smut, angst, heartbreak, of course jealousy

Word Count: 9,8 K (again 🙈)

Summary: driven by jealousy and fear of not being enough Sihtric decides to break up with reader for her own good without realising what consequences this brings upon her

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, watching Sihtric’s gaze drift, unfocused, toward the sky. Propped up on one elbow, you traced slow, invisible patterns across his bare, muscular chest, your leg draped lazily over his thigh.

The afternoon had grown late, the sun, still high, cast a warm glow over your naked skin, soothing the occasional tickle of the breeze coming off the lake. Beneath you, Sihtric’s fur cloak was as soft as a feather bed, lulling you into a gentle drowsiness. You loved it, that soft, satisfied tiredness that almost always overtook you after making love to Sihtric. It was like getting swept away by a tempest and, at the same time, slipping into a dream you didn’t want to wake from.

He worshipped your body the way only a man who had known loneliness could – with hunger and with awe, and with a need to show you he would never take you for granted.

There was fire in him, raw, consuming, impossible to resist; when his hands gripped your hips or tangled in your hair, it felt like the wind itself had claimed you. He kissed you like a man starved, like he needed you more than air, and when his muscular body pressed to yours, the world tilted and spun, a storm that carried you far from everything.

But there was softness, too, beneath that storm, in the way his lips lingered against your throat, in the gentle and reverent drag of his fingers along your spine, in the way he looked at you, as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

He drove into you with a desperate rhythm, wild, aching, relentless, claiming you with every thrust, and you met him with equal fervor, your body arching to take him deeper, to answer every unsatisfied ache you hadn’t even known was there until him.

You – a lady from one of the most noble houses in Winchester – had fallen in love with him: a Dane, a bastard, a warrior with no land, no title, no claim but his blade, and you had fallen so deeply, so irrevocably, that nothing, even the weight of your name, your duty, your blood, could pull you back.

You had tried, God knew you had, you had tried to forget the way his eyes softened only for you, tried to pretend your skin didn’t burn for him, that your body didn’t recognise him before your mind even dared to admit it and yet, here you were again – in the meadow by the lake, the sun kissing your bare, spent skin, lost in the aftermath of a most crushing orgasm only he could pull from you.

There was no going back, Sihtric was in you now, in your thoughts, in your breath, in the ache between your thighs when night stretched long and cold. He was not a passing fancy, not a reckless whim, he was your choice, the only one that ever truly felt like yours.

“I’m thinking that I want to marry you,” he said suddenly, turning toward you, as he caught your hand and brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to each one. You laughed, light and carefree, as his mouth lingered on your fingertips.

“Sihtric,” you murmured with a fond chuckle, “we’ve talked about this so many times.”

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said, with more urgency in his voice now. “I’m tired of sneaking around, stealing moments with you like we’re doing something wrong. I want the whole world to know you’re mine,” his voice dipped at the end, softening into something uncertain, as if he was asking, not declaring.

You smiled gently, easing your hand from his and threading your fingers into his dark curls.

“Sihtric,” you whispered, drawing him in, “you know I’m already yours.”

You kissed him, and he moaned against your lips as his tongue slipped greedily past them, hungry for you and the promise in your words. You kissed him back slowly, savouring the way his breath hitched when your fingers tightened in his hair. His body, warm and solid against yours, shifted as he pulled you closer, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you pressed to him.

“It’s not the right time,” you whispered, and he groaned in frustration and rolled onto his back, scrubbing a hand down his face, jaw clenched tight as he stared up at the sky like it had personally betrayed him.

“When will it be?” he asked. “How many more nights do we have to keep pretending this isn’t real?”

You sat up slightly, brushing your fingers over his chest, trying to soothe the tension coiled beneath his skin. He didn’t flinch from your touch, but he didn’t relax, either.

“Is it because of him?” he suddenly asked, and your eyes widened in surprise.

“Because of whom?”

“That lordling. Aethel-something, whatever his name is. I saw you with him yesterday, walking in the market.” Sihtric’s voice was sharp, taut with something close to pain.

You blinked, thrown by the sharpness in his tone. “Aethelred?” you echoed, incredulous. “Sihtric, that was nothing. He asked to accompany me so I could show him where I buy my herbs. His sister wants to learn healing, and he can’t deny her that. That’s all.”

His jaw tightened. “He touched your arm.”

“To stop me from stepping into a puddle,” you replied, voice softening, though the surprise still lingered. “Sihtric, are you jealous?”

He looked away, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “I can never touch you in the open.” Your heart twisted at that, you shifted closer, curling against him, but his arms remained stiff at his sides.

“Sihtric, you touch me like no man ever has and no one else ever will. Do you really think I would choose him over you?” you asked, quieter now. “After everything?”

He didn’t speak right away, his gaze lost in the clouds above you, then, finally, he looked at you again. “I think you deserve more than stolen moments on a fur cloak,” his voice was somewhat hoarse, aching. “And if he can give you that… maybe I should…”

“Stop,” you pressed your palm to his chest, firm and certain. “Don’t you dare to say that. Don’t you dare to break my heart after I have given you everything. He might offer safety, titles, whatever else but he doesn’t see me, not the way you do.” You leaned in. “And I don’t want him.”

Sihtric’s breath caught, his hand moving instinctively without a thought to cover yours on his chest. “Then why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

“Because you keep bracing for it,” you murmured. “Like it's only a matter of time before I walk away, but I’m still here, Sihtric. I haven’t gone anywhere.” You let your forehead rest against his. “You’re the only one I want.”

His hands came up to cradle your face, and the relief in his touch was almost desperate, and when he kissed you it wasn’t gentle, it was hungry, like he needed to feel it, your choice, your certainty, pressed into his lips.

He shifted over you, and you gasped as you felt his arousal pressing hard against your thigh, your hands slid down his back, nails grazing lightly over muscle, pulling him closer. Sihtric’s mouth moved down your neck, slow, savouring, like he wanted to map every inch of your skin with his lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, as his hands slid down your sides. “Or I won’t.”

“Don’t,” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair. “Don’t stop, take me. Fuck me like I’m yours.”

That was all he needed, he shoved your legs apart with rough urgency, grinding his hips against you so hard it made you whimper, his length thick and hot as it slid against your slickness. You felt him tremble, not with restraint, but with the sheer force of holding back just long enough to feel you fall apart beneath him again.

He groaned low in his throat, like the sound had been buried inside him for too long and his mouth found yours again, the kiss turned feverish, your legs wrapped around his waist, instinctive, desperate to keep him close.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he rasped, teeth grazing your jaw as he gripped your thigh and pushed it higher around his waist.

He lined himself up and thrust into you in one hard, claiming stroke that knocked the breath out of you, and you cried out, fingers clutching at him, your body stretching to take every delicious inch. He didn’t give you time to adjust, he was already moving, pounding into you with a brutal rhythm, his body slamming against yours like he needed to carve himself into your skin.

“I want you to be mine, always and forever,” he groaned, voice rough in your ear.

You couldn’t answer, not with words, only gasps and broken moans spilled from your lips as he drove into you again and again, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his teeth catching on your throat as if to mark you.

“Sihtric…” you whimpered, already spiraling, your body burning, unraveling.

“I know, love. I feel it too,” he growled. “Come on me. I want to feel it when you break apart on my cock.” You did, with a cry that tore from your chest as pleasure exploded through you, pulsing around him, clenching him tight.

Sihtric cursed, bit down on your shoulder, and spilled into you with a growl that sounded like triumph and worship all at once. Afterwards, he stayed inside you, panting, his hand still gripping your thigh as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

“Mine,” he murmured, placing tender kisses all over your face.

The music filled King Alfred’s hall, golden and lively, mingling with the laughter that echoed off the walls, as guests twirled across the floor in layers of silk and linen. It was rare for the king to host a feast of such scale, the long tables nearly buckled under the weight of honeyed mead, roasted meat, and fruit, but for the betrothal of his daughter to the Lord of Mercia, nothing less would do.

Sihtric stood near the edge of the hall, close enough to see everything, far enough to feel like he didn’t belong. And it wasn’t just a feeling, he knew he didn’t belong here, not in this world of polished manners and noble bloodlines, fake smiles and polished bows.

He had already regretted, for the umpteenth time, asking Uhtred if he could come. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of you, if only from across the hall, to see you, radiant in candlelight, at ease in the world you were born into, to see you in your element but the longer he watched, the harder it became to breathe and the sharper grew the sudden ache in his chest.

And then he finally saw you, laughing, your head tilted slightly back, eyes glittering in the firelight as you spun in time with the music. Your gown shimmered in motion, fitted tight at your waist before falling loose around your legs and your hand… your hand was resting in his.

Aethelred.

The lordling’s other hand rested in the small of your back (was at your back), a little too low for his liking, guiding you through the steps of the dance with a practiced ease, and you didn’t pull away - No, in fact you smiled back at him.

That smile, gods, that smile sent something sharp and violent twisting in Sihtric��s gut and his hands curled into fists at his sides. He told himself it was nothing, a dance, a courtesy, something expected of you in a feast like this, in a life like yours.

But the way the bastard looked at you, like you were already his, made Sihtric’s blood burn. He wasn’t imagining the possessive curl of the man’s fingers, the way his touch lingered at the edge of impropriety, no, it was clear for all to see and you… you didn’t seem to notice or worse, you noticed and let it happen.

Didn’t anyone else see it? How close he held you? How his fingers grazed the curve of your back like he had a right?

It was as if you had felt Sihtric’s gaze burning holes in your skin. Your eyes suddenly lifted to scan the hall and found him lingering in the shadows. You caught his eye for just a second but long enough for your expression to falter, barely, but he caught it, he always caught everything when it came to you.

Your breath caught in your chest the moment your eyes met his across the hall, his expression hollowed out by something deeper than anger – betrayal. The hurt in his eyes struck you like a blade and for a single heartbeat, the world tilted but you didn’t stop, you couldn’t, you forced the smile back onto your face and kept your hand in Aethelred’s, your steps perfectly measured and graceful because this was the price of keeping up the facade, of protecting him, of protecting you both, and even as your heart cracked with every turn, you danced.

Sihtric’s grip on the mug in his hand tightened threatening to crush the delicate thing, as he hastily looked away before the rage boiling inside him could break loose.

It was foolish, he knew. Aethelred had the right to ask for your hand in a dance, he had the bloodline, the lands, the title, everything Sihtric didn’t but the sight of another man touching you in the open, holding you with the ease Sihtric had only ever known in secrecy behind closed doors or during those stolen moments in the meadow, made something primal rise in his chest.

Finan approached him quietly, holding out a fresh mug of ale.

“Easy now,” he said under his breath, knowing his friend’s expression too well. “It’s just a dance.”

“It’s not,” Sihtric muttered, eyes fixed again on the floor where Aethelred’s hand lingered too long at your waist. “Not to me.”

Suddenly, Aethelred leaned in, whispering something against your ear, and Sihtric found himself moving, crossing the hall with hurried steps.

You saw Sihtric coming before anyone else did, shoulders squared, eyes dark, rage clinging to him like smoke, you knew that look, you’d seen it before on the battlefield, in the training yard… but never directed at you or maybe not at you, but because of you.

Sihtric moved like a storm about to break, cutting through the crowd and this time you didn’t hesitate, you broke from Aethelred’s hold, excused yourself with a light curtsy and crossed the floor to intercept Sihtric, catching his wrist before he could do something that would have both your names whispered behind hands for weeks.

“Come with me,” you said firmly, dragging him away from the center of the hall, he didn’t resist, but his jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might shatter his own teeth.

You pulled him into an empty side corridor, away from the light, from the hall, from Aethelred and his smug, soft words but the moment you turned to face him, Sihtric wrenched his arm free.

“What was that?” he hissed. “You let him touch you like…like you were his.”

“It was a dance,” you snapped, breathless, your pulse still racing. “That’s all, it meant nothing.”

“It didn’t look like nothing.” He suddenly laughed bitterly, eyes flashing. “And you didn’t seem to mind it at all, smiling at him like that, letting him…”

“Letting him what, Sihtric? Keep up appearances? Play the game I was born into?” You stepped closer, furious now.

“The game you apparently love to play, while I have to hide in the shadows.” Sihtric’s face twisted like you’d struck him. “Maybe that’s all I’m good for,” he suddenly added more quietly.

“The shadows.” The fury drained from you in a rush. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He turned away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’ll never be one of them, I have no lands, no title, no gold to offer you. I can’t even ask for your hand in a dance.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “I don’t even know how to dance.”

You reached for him, but he stepped back, just out of your reach.

“You deserve better than me. You always have.”

“Stop it. Just stop.” Your voice trembled with both frustration and fear. “We’ve come too far for this. We just have to be patient a little longer. You know my brother promised that once our father is gone I’ll be free to choose my own path. He won’t stand in the way of my happiness.”

“No,” he interrupted sharply, eyes meeting yours with something hollow and burning behind them. “I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. I’m done, do you hear me? I don’t want this, I don’t want you anymore.”

You froze, like the air had been knocked from your lungs. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered. The words barely left your lips before the ache settled in, it was sharp and disorienting, as if the floor had shifted beneath your feet as you struggled to understand how the man who held you like a lifeline just this morning could now look at you like a complete stranger.

“I do,” Sihtric snapped, angry and sharp, but his voice cracked on the last syllable. Or did you just imagine it?

“Go back to him. Go back to your hall, your games, your proper life. Go and leave me alone.”

He turned from you, back rigid, fists clenched at his sides, and you just stood there, stunned, your heart splintering in thousands of shards as the echo of his words sank into you, tasting of ash.

You could still feel him on your lips, still feel the bruises of his love on your skin. Just today, you had let him claim you completely - body and soul, given yourself to him without fear, without hesitation and now he was walking away like none of it had ever mattered.

He didn’t look back, he couldn’t.

If he did, if he saw the way you stood there, shattered and still, your eyes wide with disbelief, he would’ve run to you, fallen to his knees and begged for forgiveness he didn’t deserve.

So Sihtric kept walking, even if each step felt like dragging a blade through his own chest.

The hall was loud again, full of feasting and revelry, all blurring into loud and unbearable noise around him. He didn’t stop until he was outside, out into the cool night where he could finally breathe, though each breath still felt like it caught on a rib.

He slumped his back against the stone archway just outside the gates, knuckles white, heart pounding against the inside of his skull, angry and aching, and drew his palm down his face.

“You’re the only one I want.”

It was there, before his eyes, the image of your hand reaching for him, even when he’d been cruel, when he was stepping away, when he was hurting you deliberately, backing off although the only thing he wanted was to pull you in to his embrace, because that was the only way he knew how to protect you now.

He had lost his self control today in the meadow. It had been too tempting. “Fuck me like I’m yours.”

And the awakening tonight had been rough. He had seen it in the eyes of all the lords, eldorman and other noblings – the way they stared when you entered the hall with your head high and your smile poised. You were beautiful and gracious, a firelight in silk, you were wealthy and your family had impact and power. And he was a bastard, a Dane, a killer dressed in blood and leather, not linen or silk, he would never be one of them.

You belonged to the world of feasts and unburdened existence, not to the shadows where men like him existed, men with scars on their skin and worse on their souls.

“You deserve better than me.”

He spat the words into the night like poison, hating himself for them.

The truth was, he didn’t even really care about Aethelred, he didn’t believe for a second that you wanted that coward even though it had been painful to watch him court you so openly when he couldn’t.

What he did believe was that there will be other Aethelreds and one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually you’d see what they could offer you and he couldn’t, that you’d grow tired of hiding or even worse if you really accepted his marriage proposal - you’d grow tired of him, of the simple life he could offer, and you would regret your foolish choice.

Yes, he was jealous, jealous beyond reason of the world that was yours and never could be his, so he’d rather burn now than watch your love slowly extinguish.

Sihtric’s head dropped against the cold stone, eyes squeezed shut, he could still feel your ghost-light touch on his skin, the softness of your fingers, the way you had kissed him like he was something beautiful, something worthy, the way you had given him everything, even when he offered so little in return.

“You’re the only one I want.”

Gods, he wanted to believe it, but deep down he knew he would never be the man the world would let you have, not truly, not without consequences and so he did the only thing he thought he could – he had to protect you, from the scandal, from the fall, from the unhappiness, from himself, even if it meant breaking your heart, even if it meant breaking his own.

Sihtric hadn’t meant to leave without saying goodbye, but as two days later Uhtred announced they were riding north – trouble brewing, Danes raising an army, talk of raids and people fleeing – Sihtric seized the chance like a man leaping from a burning building.

There had been no time to seek you out, and even if there had been, what would he have said? Leaving without a word felt easier, cleaner. It was better that way, for both of you.

Sihtric didn’t look back when they rode out of Winchester. Had you come to watch him leave? Gods, he hoped so, but he hadn’t dared to turn around, too afraid he’d see you in the crowd and fall apart.

He told himself he’d done what was best for you and yet, you haunted him. At night, in the silence of his furs beneath the stars, you came to him, in dreams, in memories, in the unbearable quiet between battles. He saw your face again and again, eyes wide with pain, mouth parted in disbelief. Sometimes you were angry, sometimes you were crying, and sometimes… you said nothing at all. Those dreams were the worst.

But time, relentless as ever, marched on, battle followed battle, orders were given, roads were ridden, choices and decisions that weren’t his to make led them crisscrossing the land, and Sihtric followed, silent and grateful, every time, when the road led further from Winchester, further from you.

It was raining when they finally returned to Winchester, the sky was gray and heavy, the kind of weather that made everything feel half-dead. It had been almost a year but everything seemed strangely the same. Uhtred had gone straight to report to the king, but Sihtric didn’t follow, he didn’t want to be near, didn't want to risk seeing you.

He barely made it to the stables before she found him.

“You’re back,” Hild’s voice was hard as stone, her cloak clung to her soaked form, rain still pouring down from the sky with no mercy, and Sihtric silently wondered what had driven her to hurry across the town in this storm when they had just arrived.

He looked up, brushing rain from his face. “Hild,” he nodded politely. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is it?” Her gaze didn’t soften. “I doubt you will still think so after you hear what I have to say.” She drew a breath, deep and steadying, but her anger was already spilling through the cracks. “Sihtric Kjartansson - you are a reckless, heartless bastard.”

Sihtric’s brow furrowed in confusion and instinctive defense.

“You broke her heart and left her with nothing. You ran away without a single word, not even a real goodbye.”

She didn’t need to say your name, he knew. Gods, he knew, and he had never seen Hild – the composed, calm, kind Hild – so utterly furious.

“It was for the best,” he muttered angrily, unsure whether he was speaking to her or trying to convince himself again.

“For the best? For whom, Sihtric?” Hild stepped forward, fierce and unrelenting.

“I wasn’t good enough for her,“ Sihtric snapped. “She deserves something better. You don’t understand, I had to step away. I didn’t want to ruin her life.” Even as he said it, the words sounded hollow. He’d told himself that so often, it had begun to sound like the truth, but hearing it aloud, it sounded like the coward’s excuse that it was.

“You didn’t want to ruin her life?” the mocking scorn in Hild’s voice caught Sihtric off guard. “That’s exactly what you did.”

“You left her broken and alone. She bore the shame, the scandal, the disdain, all of it, and you weren’t there. She didn’t even have the hope of your return to help her endure it all.”

Sihtric stared at her, stunned and speechless, having the feeling that the world had suddenly tilted, his legs felt rooted to the earth, and a tremor spread through his hands as a terrible suspicion was clawing its way up his spine.

That last time… in the meadow… when he’d lost control – just that once.

“Where is she?” he finally managed to get over his lips.

“After her father disinherited her on his deathbed, I took her into my convent, where she gave birth to your son,” Hild said flatly. “And then she left for the monastery at Lindisfarne. She wanted peace, solitude and to be as far from Winchester as possible, somewhere no one knew her, somewhere no one would look at her with pity or judgement.”

The world blurred around Sihtric as he stood rooted in place, letting the rain soak into his fur cloak. He opened his mouth gasping for air like a man drowning on dry land, but no sound came, only the echo of Hild’s words ringing in his skull.

A son. Disinherited. Alone.

That was exactly what he’d tried to protect you from, or so he told himself. He had made himself believe he was doing the right thing, that letting you go would spare you pain, that he was the weight dragging you down.

And gods… he was.

What a fool he’d been, blinded by jealousy, convincing himself it was for your sake, when really, it had been for his, to spare himself the pain he thought was inevitable, to avoid watching you one day wake beside him and realize you’d settled for less.

He hadn’t protected you, he’d abandoned you.

The alehouse was half-empty, the hour too early for the usual evening revelry, rain tapped steadily against the warped shutters, matching the rhythm of Sihtric’s heartbeat and the slow drip of spilled ale down Sihtric’s wrist as he stared blankly into his cup.

He’d been there for hours, days, a week, maybe – he’d lost count, every day after the usual training his feet brought him here.

The serving girl didn’t flirt with him anymore, she didn’t even bother to smile, just brought the next mug, took the coin, and walked away. He wasn’t good company, hadn’t been since their return, hadn’t been anything but a quiet storm pressed into a corner bench, trying to drown himself one swallow at a time.

He had tried to forget, gods knew he had, but no amount of ale could rinse away the sound of Hild’s voice, or your name, or the words "your son" that still rang in his skull like a tolling bell.

He barely looked up when the door creaked open, he didn’t need to, he recognized Finan’s boots before he saw the man. Behind him, Uhtred and Osferth stepped in, the three of them already soaked from the rain and looking like they’d been arguing the whole way over.

“You’ve had your week,” Finan said, slumping down on the bench next to Sihtric. “It’s enough.”

Sihtric didn’t answer, just lifted his mug and downed what was left of it.

“I’m serious,” Finan snapped, while Uhtred and Osferth took their places around the table. “You’ve drunk this place dry, cursed at half the customers, and made the rest too uncomfortable to come near. It’s time to stop sulking and do something.”

“What’s there to do?” Sihtric muttered. “I’ve ruined everything.”

“Then un-ruin it,” Uhtred said, waiving to the serving girl to bring more ale. His voice was calm, but the edge was there. “Find her. Speak to her. You owe her that much.”

“What if she won’t even look at me?” Sihtric asked bitterly. “What if it’s too late?”

“Then at least you’ll know,” Osferth said gently, hands folded in front of him on the table.

Had they rehearsed this while coming here? slipped through Sihtric’s mind.

“It’s better to fall at her feet asking forgiveness than to waste away wondering what could’ve been. If it hurts, then it’s what you deserve. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

Sihtric’s jaw clenched, he looked down at the table, where a dried ring of spilled ale had soaked into the wood beneath his cup, his fists curled slowly.

“And what if she sends me away?”

“Then you walk away knowing you tried,” Uhtred said. “Not like this, not hiding behind drink and pity and pride.”

Silence settled for a moment then Finan added, “She loved you, lad. We all saw it. You were the only one who ever doubted that. The least you can do is ride north and ask her if there's anything left.”

They were right, Sihtric knew it, he’d been circling the same thoughts for days, drowning in them, pushing them down his throat like bitter potion. It wasn’t pride that had kept him in this place, it wasn’t fear of groveling, he wasn’t afraid to fall to his knees and beg for your forgiveness if it came to that.

What terrified him truly was the finality of your decision because as long as he hadn’t tried, as long as he stayed away, he could pretend. He could pretend there was still hope, pretend the door hadn’t closed all the way. He could try to squash the ache with silence, with regret, with ale. It didn’t work, not really, but it dulled the edges.

The moment you’d push him away and turn your back on him, like he had done to you, that would be the end of it, and he didn’t know how to live with that.

Coward, a voice whispered inside him, the same voice he had tried to drown in ale, to drink away, night after night.

Sihtric stood slowly, the legs of his chair scraping against the wood floor, as he pulled a few coins from his belt and dropped them onto the table, before meeting Uhtred’s eyes.

“Lindisfarne,” he said simply, walking past his friends out into the rain.

The wind howled off the sea as Lindisfarne came into view, rising from the northern mist like something carved from stone and sorrow. The monastery stood stark against the pale sky, its walls weathered by salt and time, cloaked in silence save for the distant cawing of gulls and the crash of waves against the rocks and the air smelled of rain and peat smoke and the sea, harsh and clean.

Sihtric reined in his horse just beyond the gate, staring at the worn stone archway that marked the entrance, he dismounted slowly, boots crunching against the gravel as he walked toward the gate.

It was peaceful here. He hadn’t expected that. What had he expected? He hadn’t slept in a day and hadn’t eaten properly in three, and yet the sight of the place had stirred something, gnawing at his ribs with much greater force than hunger and tiredness could. Fear or maybe hope? If he dared name it.

He knocked, three firm raps, the sound of his fist against the old, weathered wood hollow and strangely loud, somehow too loud for this place.

Palm still resting against the gate, Sihtric shifted his weight, straining to catch any sound from within, but there was nothing, only the muted grind of small stones shifting beneath his boots.

The wind, the waves, the distant cries of seagulls, all of it slowly faded beneath the rising thud of his heart, fast and uneven, as if before a battle, but in battle at least he’d know his enemies, know where to strike, how to survive.

Here… he was unarmed… naked.

The silence behind the door stretched until it felt unbearable, pressing against his chest like stone. Sihtric took a shaky breath, his fingers twitching with the urge to knock again, to do something, say something… and then, at last, he heard it – the faint creak of footsteps on stone, slow and unhurried and a moment later, the gate gave a groan and cracked open, just slightly.

The small walled garden behind the monastery where the abbess led Sihtric greeted him with a tender stillness, the sea wind was gentler here, softened by the walls, and the air smelled faintly of thyme and ripening fruit as bees hummed lazily through the air.

You stood beneath an apple tree, simple wool skirts swaying around your ankles, your arms reaching up toward a low-hanging branch. A basket rested at your feet, half-filled with small, red apples. You hadn’t seen him yet.

You were thinner than he remembered, more delicate, even fragile, your movements quiet but gracious. There was something different in your face now, not sadness, not exactly, but more like a calm. Your hair was tucked beneath a linen veil, though a few unruly strands danced in the breeze and the sunlight, filtering through the leaves above you, casted merry, golden flecks across your skin.

He had imagined this moment a thousand times, rehearsed in his mind, and still he was completely unprepared as the sight of you hit him like a storm, too sudden, too beautiful, too real.

“Wait here,” the abbess said, before stepping across the garden toward you, leaving Sihtric frozen where he stood, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

You turned at the sound of the abbess’s voice, your fingers still loosely curled around the apple branch, your other hand was reaching for the next fruit, slow and absent-minded until your gaze slipped past the elderly woman and landed on him.

Sihtric.

Your entire body stilled, breath caught mid-motion and for a heartbeat, you didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Your lips parted slightly, as if the air had become too thick to breathe and your eyes locked on his, while within them visibly flashed chaos of your emotions – disbelief first, then recognition… then something far more complicated… pain, anger or maybe something more fragile, something closer to grief.

Your hand slowly lowered from the branch, fingers curling into your skirts as your chest rose with shallow breaths.

Sihtric made one single step forward, slow and hesitant as if afraid to dispel the vision before him. Your chin lifted a fraction and then, with slow precision, you shook your head as your gaze dropped to the ground. The motion wasn’t angry, it seemed sad, it was worse than anger – it was the quiet refusal of someone who had waited too long, hurt too deeply and lost too much to let in hope again.

And then you turned, not hurriedly, not with drama or flair but with the steady grace of someone who had learned how to walk away with a heart still breaking. Your hand reached down and lifted the basket from the grass, the apples inside shifted gently as you carried them with you, vanishing beneath the ivy-covered archway without another glance.

The abbess returned back to Sihtric, shaking her head as if repeating your message to him.

He didn’t move, he couldn’t. It was it, there was nothing more left for him. It had told him everything – that look on your face as you turned away. You had done exactly what he had hoped you would as he walked away from you. You had made peace with losing him and buried what he’d come to reclaim. It had been foolish to hope for something else.

The candlelight flickered low, casting long shadows on the stone floor, the room was quiet, as you sat near the window, stitching the hem of a worn habit, your needle moving with practiced precision but your mind hovering elsewhere.

The abbess approached without ceremony, she didn’t sit right away, she simply stood beside you, hands folded neatly in front of her, gaze fixed on the rhythm of your stitching.

“This can’t go on,” she said softly.

You didn’t look up.

“It’s been a week.”

Still, you said nothing, your fingers moved steadily, but the needle snagged just slightly.

“He’s still out there, you know. Camped in the rain just beyond the gates. Refuses food. Refuses shelter. Just sits by the wall like some half-drowned penitent, waiting for a sign.”

Your jaw clenched, but you kept sewing, one more stitch, then another.

“He’s not eating, child.”

Your needle paused for a beat, just one, but the abbess saw it.

“He is not a saint,” she went on, gentler now, “but he is a man with sorrow heavy in his bones. And whether you forgive him or not, this silence is almost cruel. It is punishment, for him, and for you.”

You finally looked up, your eyes tired but unwavering. “Yes, it is. He left me, when I needed him most.”

“He did.” The abbess nodded. “And it wounded you. Deeply. I know.”

“I don’t want to need him again.” Your voice was barely more than breath.

The abbess sat beside you now, laying a hand gently over yours.

“Needing someone does not make you weak,” she said. “But holding on to pain for too long can.”

Silence settled again, save for the low hum of prayer from the chapel beyond the corridor, you looked back down at your needlework, but your fingers had gone still.

“Just speak to him,” the abbess urged. “That’s all. You don’t have to forgive. Not yet. But give him the dignity of a voice, if only to close the door with truth, not silence. It might help you, maybe even more than him.”

You swallowed hard. The stitch in your lap remained unfinished.

You sat still, hands folded in your lap, eyes fixed on the wavering candlelight as it cast flickering shadows across the floor, listening to the wind howling faintly from the cliffs.

Another night falling.

Seven days.

Seven days he had waited just beyond the walls.

You had watched from your window once, just once. He had been sitting beneath the old yew tree, soaked to the bone, shoulders hunched as though the weight of everything he’d lost was dragging him into the earth itself. You’d turned away before he could lift his head.

Why had he come? Why now? To claim some imagined right to your son? Only over your dead body.

You owed him nothing. You had nothing to say to him. How dare he invade your life again and demand attention as if he had any right to it. This was what you had told yourself all these days, that had been the story you clung to, the armor you wore.

But now… to your own surprise the edges of your anger were slowly beginning to fray. Not all at once but just enough to make you feel unsteady. And you hated it, hated the weakness of it, the part of you that flinched at the sight of him soaked in rain, eyes hollowed by sleeplessness, the part of you that felt something like… sorrow? Pity? Compassion?

Why?

Where had his compassion been when you were left picking up the shards of your broken heart alone?

You stood slowly, carefully, every movement measured and deliberate, not because you felt calm, but because it was the only way to stop your hands from trembling.

The corridor was cold as you stepped into it, your footsteps silent against the stone as you passed the chapel, the garden, the place where you had last seen him, stunned and unmoving as you walked away.

You didn’t tell anyone, you simply walked out through the side gate, the night air rushing in like a held breath, crisp and sharp with salt. The moon hung low above the sea, its light silvering the path ahead and there, just beyond the outer wall, where the cliff began to slope down to the rocky shore, you saw him.

He was sitting on a fallen log by a dying campfire, hunched forward, cloak pulled tightly around him. His hair was damp, curling against his forehead, and his face looked hollowed out by exhaustion, by waiting, or was it guilt that seemed to clung to him like a second skin?

You stopped several paces away, heart hammering in your chest.

For a moment, he didn’t hear you, then his shoulders tensed, he must have felt you before he saw you.

Slowly, as if afraid to believe it, he turned. You didn’t speak yet and neither did he. Sihtric rose slowly, as if unsure whether the moment would vanish if he moved too quickly.

“You came,” he said at last, voice low and rough from disuse, he didn’t step closer. He didn’t dare. You nodded once, but said nothing. The wind stirred your veil and Sihtric watched it, as if it might tell him what you were feeling.

“In truth I didn’t expect you to,” he added. “Not after… everything.” Still, you said nothing, your eyes never left him, but your expression remained calm and distant. Sihtric swallowed hard, gaze dropping for a moment to the earth beneath your feet.

“I don’t have the right to ask for anything,” he said. “But I need you to hear it. From me, not Hild, not anyone else.”

You folded your arms, but not in defiance, it felt more like a shield, a quiet bracing of yourself. “Then say it,” you replied, as your fingers dug into the fabric of your sleeves. He looked up again.

“I was a coward,” he said simply. “I told myself I was protecting you, sparing you from a life tied to someone the world would never accept, but the truth is – I was protecting myself, from the pain and from the fear that you’d one day wake up beside me and regret everything.”

You didn’t flinch, not visibly, but your throat moved with a swallow.

“And now?” you asked. He breathed out, slow and ragged.

“Now I regret everything instead.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your silence heavier than any scolding, and when you finally spoke, your voice cracked like a fault line. “You left me to bleed alone.”

Sihtric closed his eyes. “I know,” he whispered. “And I will carry that for the rest of my life. I just need you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a moment.”

You stood there for a long moment, the fire crackling between you, your gaze lowered, thoughtful, the breeze of the sea tugged at your veil and cloak, but you didn’t seem to notice.

Sihtric stood in silence, waiting, not pushing, not pleading, just… waiting.

Then, slowly, you moved, you walked around the fire carefully, like the earth itself might crack under your weight and lowered yourself on the log beside the fire he had been previously sitting on.

You didn’t look at him, not right away, you sat with your hands folded in your lap, your knees drawn close, the hem of your cloak pooling softly around your ankles.

Sihtric didn’t speak, he barely breathed as he settled near you. You were so close, closer than he’d dared to imagine and yet you felt worlds away.

Still, you were there.

You sat beside him in silence, close enough to share the warmth of the fire, but not touching.

Sihtric didn’t look at you first, he stared into the embers, jaw tight, hands clasped between his knees.

“There’s a place,” he said at last, his voice rough with hesitation. “In Coccham, a house. Uhtred gave it to me.”

You glanced at him, but said nothing.

“It’s quiet there, near the river. The kind of place where no one asks questions, where a child could grow without whispers.” He paused. “Where you could live freely.”

The wind caught the edges of your cloak, lifting it gently as you watched him.

“It’s yours,” he said, turning to you now, eyes steady, vulnerable in their honesty. “If you want it. Everything I have and everything I will ever have is yours. I know it’s not much but I’d do anything it takes to provide for both of you.”

He faltered a moment, then added, more quietly, “If you’ll allow me.”

You stared at him, heart tightening, throat constricting with the weight of words you weren’t ready to say but he didn’t press.

“I know I can’t ask anything of you,” he said, gaze dropping again. “Not forgiveness. Not love. I lost the right to even hope for those.”

He drew a breath, slow and steady, like a man walking willingly into pain. “But if you’d let me just be nearby… or just to see you both now and then, to know you’re safe... ”

The fire cracked between you and a spark drifted upward, lost in the dark.

“That’s all I ask,” he said, softer now. “Only to be allowed to care, from whatever distance you’ll permit.”

You looked at him fully then, really looked. He was thinner, quieter, worn in a way that went deeper than flesh and yet, in his brokenness, he was more honest than you had ever seen him.

You didn’t speak yet but something inside you shifted and for the first time in months, the ache didn’t feel quite so sharp.

It was still there, deep, raw and far from healed, but something in the way he looked at you, in the way he spoke, offering you everything without expecting anything in return, made the pain easier to bear. It didn’t press on your chest the same way anymore, it didn’t feel like drowning.

You turned your gaze back to the fire, letting the silence settle again, not because you had nothing to say, but because you didn’t trust your voice to hold steady.

A few minutes passed, or maybe longer, you weren’t counting, and after a long pause, Sihtric spoke again.

“Is he well?” he asked softly and his voice trembled at the edges. “Our son?”

You looked over at him, your expression sharpening, guarded. You hadn’t expected him to say it, to speak the word “our” like it was something sacred, and yet it wasn’t enough to stop the sudden rise of anger tightening in your chest.

“My son is healthy and strong,” you replied, the edge in your voice unmistakable as you stood abruptly, gathering your cloak around your shoulders.

Sihtric’s breath caught, barely audible, but unmistakable, he stared into the fire, his hands still in his lap. His head bowed, eyes closing for a moment as if bracing himself against a wave and when he looked at you again, the firelight glinted in the tears welling in his eyes.

“Wait, please,” he said quickly, rising halfway to his feet as it suddenly dawned on him. “You think… you think I came to take him away from you?”

You didn’t reply but the shift in your expression was answer enough.

Sihtric took a step forward, careful not to close the space too quickly.

“I would never,” he said. “That was never my intention.”

You stopped, half-turned away, your hands clenching at the edges of your cloak, you didn’t look at him, but he saw the disbelief lingering in the set of your shoulders, the way your breath trembled just slightly in the cool air.

He felt it like a blow.

“I didn’t come here to take anything from you,” he continued. “I came only to offer what little I have left to give.”

And still, you didn’t believe him, not fully.

He saw it in your eyes when you finally turned back to face him, the fear, the weariness, the quiet ache of someone who had been stripped of too much already.

In that moment, something in him broke open and without another word, he dropped to his knees. The motion wasn’t dramatic, it was quiet and honest.

He bowed his head and wrapped both hands tightly around the Thor’s hammer that hung at his chest.

“By Thor, by the gods, by every breath in me, I swear I would never try to take him from you,” he said, voice almost breaking. “Not now. Not ever. No matter what you decide, whether you accept what I’ve offered or send me away and tell me to never come again - he will always be yours.”

His grip tightened on the pendant as he lifted his head slightly, meeting your gaze.

“You don’t owe me kindness. You don’t owe me a place. But please, don’t believe I came to steal because I never could. I love you, I love you both more than my life, more than anything in this world. This is the truth.”

The fire’s light flickered against his face, casting him half in shadow, half in glow, kneeling not as a warrior, not as the man who once left you behind, but as someone stripped down to nothing but guilt and regret.

You stared at him, motionless, and in that shifting light, he looked both utterly broken and fiercely alive.

And you hated that your heart still responded to him, you hated how the sight of him, humbled and trembling, undid you in places you’d tried so hard to fortify.

You cursed yourself for it, for how much your heart still answered his name, for the way your chest tightened just seeing him like this.

You wanted to say something, something sharp, accusing, final.

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came, nothing except the tightening of your throat and the sting rising behind your eyes. No. You bit down hard, pressing your lips together. You were so tired of crying for him.

But still, the tears came, hot and soundless, slipping down your cheeks no matter how hard you willed them not to. You raised a hand to swipe them away, to salvage what dignity you had left, but your body betrayed you, trembling under the weight of too much grief, too many memories, too much emptiness.

Something inside you simply gave up, you felt the ground shifting and your knees buckled as a choked sound broke from your throat, not a sob, not a scream, just hurt and loss made flesh.

In an instant, Sihtric was there, his arms were around you before you could resist, before you managed to hit the ground, pulling you into him, holding you as if he could shield you from everything, even the pain he’d caused.

You didn’t push him away, you buried your face in his chest, his leather armour cold and damp against your skin, and you hated that it still felt like home.

He held you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped around your waist. He just held you, and you let him. Because you were tired, because you were broken and because, somewhere beneath the wreckage of your love, there was still a pulse.

“I was so alone,” the words broke from you in a sob, ragged and unstoppable, before you could even decide to speak them.

Sihtric’s eyes locked onto yours, pain tightening his features.

“And I was afraid,” you choked out. “You weren’t there when I couldn’t sleep for fear, when I thought I might die bringing him into this world. You weren’t there when I held him in my arms and didn’t know how to be enough for him.”

“And still, part of me waited,” you whispered. “Even when I hated you, even when I cursed your name.”

You drew in a breath that shook all the way down to your bones.

“I don’t know what this is anymore,” you muttered through the tears. “I don’t know what I still feel and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust you again.”

Sihtric wrapped his arms tighter around you, cradling you like a small child.

“You don’t have to,” he whispered. “Not now. Maybe not ever. I didn’t come here hoping to be loved again. I came here because I couldn’t stay away, not when I knew you were carrying all of it alone.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth of him seeping through your skin, settling somewhere deep inside you.

“And I’ll stay,” he whispered. “Always and forever, even if you never let me be closer, even if all I’m allowed is to watch from the edges of your life, I will be there. For him and for you, I swear it, if you’ll let me.”

Slowly, tentatively you leaned into him, letting your hands rest on his, not pulling him closer but not pushing him away.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking on the words. “It’s already more than I deserve.”

The room smelled faintly of woodsmoke, herbs, and broth. You stood quietly in the doorway of the small bedroom, wrapped in your shawl as you watched.

Sihtric sat at the edge of the bed, his broad frame hunched slightly forward, one calloused hand resting protectively beside the small, sleeping frame in the center of the mattress. Your son – your son, his son – had already begun to drift off, his tiny breaths slow and even, his small and thick fingers wrapped around Sihtric’s thumb.

Sihtric gently freed his hand to adjust the edge of the woolen blanket around the boy’s shoulders and his fingers paused at the child’s hairline, brushing back a fine wisp of dark hair. He smiled softly, his lips barely parting, his eyes shining in the low light with something so tender it made your chest ache.

And then he leaned down, so close his nose nearly touched the boy’s temple.

“Sleep well, little warrior,” he whispered, barely audible.

He placed the faintest kiss to the top of the boy’s head, then lingered for a moment, simply watching him as though memorizing the curve of his cheek, the rhythm of his breathing. You saw him reach down, his fingertips grazing the carved wooden horse the boy had taken everywhere for days now - his own making. Sihtric gently moved it closer to the child's hand, easing it into his fingers so he wouldn’t wake up and find it missing.

He rose with care, casting one last look at the child before turning toward the door and then he saw you.

You hadn’t spoken, hadn’t made a sound, but you stood there, watching him, something fragile flickering behind your gaze.

He didn’t smile, not quite, but something in his face warmed, softened, as he stepped closer.

His breath hitched the moment your eyes met.

Sihtric slowed as he approached, when he reached you, he didn’t pass, he paused, standing just beside you, close enough that you could feel the lingering heat of him, smell the faint scent of leather and smoke that clung to his armour.

He didn’t look at you right away, his gaze remained fixed ahead, toward the fire-lit room behind you.

“I’ll come by again in two days,” he said quietly. “I’m riding patrol tomorrow. Up near the old border tracks.”

You didn’t answer at first. You were watching him now – the tired set of his shoulders, the faint weariness that lived in his eyes even through the warmth.

He glanced at you, just briefly.

“Just to check in,” he added quickly, like he needed to explain himself. “To see you’re both well,” but you could hear what he wasn’t saying, that he hated leaving, even for a night, and yet he always did, like he had promised.

Sihtric made to step back, to say his farewell and slip into the night, and that was when your hand reached out, fingers brushing against his.

He froze, the touch was soft, tentative, his eyes dropped to where your fingers rested lightly against the back of his hand, as though not quite believing it. You looked up at him, and your voice came, barely louder than a breath.

“Stay,” you said softly.

He stared at you, stunned, hope flickered then faltered as he furrowed a brow in disbelief as if questioning if he had heard you right.

You held his gaze, you didn’t flinch. “Stay.”

He didn’t speak, just looked at you for a long moment, like a man who had lived a thousand lifetimes in exile and had just now been told he could come home. His hand remained in yours, and you felt the slightest movement, his thumb brushing across the back of your knuckles, slow, tentative.

He stared at your joined hands for a moment, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind your touch before slowly lifting his eyes back to yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and rough. “You don’t have to… not out of pity. Not because I’ve worn you down.”

You shook your head gently, your fingers tightening around his.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

Sihtric drew in a shaky breath and stepped closer, close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours, but he still didn’t pull you in, still waiting for something more.

His free hand lifted toward your face, pausing in midair, a silent question trembling at his fingertips but you didn’t flinch, you didn’t turn away. His fingers cupped your cheek, warm and trembling slightly his thumb brushed over your skin.

His lips parted, but you reached up, gently pressing a finger to them.

“Schhh,” you silenced him. “Don’t say anything. Not yet…”

He closed his eyes and leaned in, resting his forehead softly against yours, his breath shaky and uneven.

Sihtric’s thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone again, then down, just barely grazing the corner of your mouth, a touch so light it might have been imagined. His hand was rough, calloused, yet his touch was anything but.

His breath caught and so did yours.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you and his eyes searched yours as if asking one last time – are you sure?

You didn’t nod, you didn’t speak, you simply tilted your face up, just slightly, your lips parting with the softest of exhales in an answer he felt rather than heard.

Sihtric leaned in, agonizingly slow, giving you every second to change your mind and then, finally, his lips touched yours, not with hunger, not with fire, with wonder.

His lips were warm, uncertain at first, resting against yours without pressure, testing, waiting.

You kissed him back, gently, slowly.

His mouth moved against yours, deepening the kiss by degrees, careful, tender, every shift of his lips telling you what words never could. His hand slid from your cheek to the curve of your neck, thumb resting at your jaw.

Your fingers curled in the edges of his leather armour, pulling him just a little closer and he responded with a soft moan.

The kiss grew fuller, more certain, more passionate, full of aching sweetness, the kind that says: I remember you. I missed you. I never stopped loving you.

And yet for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t feel like looking back, it felt like a beginning.

#sihtric x reader #sihtric #sihtric x you #sihtric kjartansson #the last kingdom #the last kingdom fanfic #the last kingdom fic #the last kingdom x reader #sihtric fic #sihtric fanfic #sihtric smut

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kurishiri · 1 day ago

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Hii thank you so much for all the translations you’ve done!

I wanted to ask how would you describe Darius personally? I’m so interested in him as a character but the lack of information makes it hard to figure out anything about him ;; I don’t think we have any hints about his past so far? Unless I’m mistaken

helloow anon! ty for reading my tls too 🤍 i'll try to describe darius in the way i can- but theres overall not much known at all ab him yet either in the game so also take my words with grain of salt hehr

about darius and his possible past (its an attempt guys) ↓

hmm on the surface or at first glance, he kind of has a childish air to him to me. and i think hes naturally tht way .. as in i dont think he acts ths way in an attempt to actively hide smth else ab him, but also i think it serves to sort of underplay(?) just how scheming or wily he can actually be. he could also say the most “wtf” things with a smile on his face or with a calm voice ,, if you read the 2nd anniversary collection story (darius’ line to ring; iykyk) and darius’ story bonus with his “joke” to kate, you could probably feel ths.

i think theres also smth ,, sort of emotionally removed abt darius. he sort of views himself as an angel and whtnot and sees those who r cursed as superior to those who r not. i think there is ths sort of clash between his “inhumane” side where he shows an amicable smile but it doesnt reach his eyes and he struggles to empathize with others, and his also deeply human side.

after all, for all his hate toward “humans” like kate, he seems to show a rather strong attachment to her as well. all tht to say: he feels emotions like anyone else, and he feels them strongly (probably influenced in part by kate) — bc whether he likes it or not, he, too, is a human who happens to be cursed — and he does feel emotions such as jealousy, hurt, frustration .. but he doesnt know wht those emotions would be called. he cant put a label to his own emotions bc hes somehow convinced himself? tht such emotions r like beyond him and all tht jazz.

really, darius to me is sort of a case of a lot of “hes ths, but also tht” and all. a walking contradiction, in part due to his own philosophies and maybe trauma?

vros got negative emotional intelligence lmao

implications of his past

there r some subtle hints ab his past, actually! none of thm r super out there so its hard to catch and does require some like inference and theorizing, but i think we have like a couple parts we can sort of go off of here :>

for example, food. the favorite subject of his stories lmao its implied he may have dealt with attempts at poisoning him with food before or some other food-related trauma in the past. he is a noble, so it probably makes some sense if ths is a case, though it would leave the question of why him?

for one, he has mentioned he hates potatoes bc he ate so much of thm in the past tht he is like tired of thm and cant stand even the sight of thm. i forget which story he mentions the first part (it mightve been the wicked romance story event one), but he mentions the latter part in his 2nd anniversary story — the one you get by sending 400 times to him haha.

there r also moments (will vs darius story event and his dining bond story for example, among others) where he will find a way to like .. not have to be the one eating first. for example whn will gets him food, darius sort of indirectly makes sure tht will eats first before he eats himself. or it could be the same with kate. hes pretty subtle abt ths though — like he will never phrase it in a way tht makes it seem like food could be a potential weakness for him, but i think its sort of like a thing in his stories sometimes.

in the bond story where he shares a “secret” with you, its likely he was talking ab a moment in his past — specifically the part where he may have met nica and ring — though he phrased ths like a story to kate. but i think the fact they did ths in ths specific bond story, titled secret talk, gives it more possibility tht ths “story” is a real anecdote, yk?

and in tht same story, he tells another short anecdote abt nica and ring, saying how they really r a family. theres also the fact he is trying to create a family himself too ,, it kinda makes me think he may have had some familial issues? plus, there is his level 23 bond story where he basically says tht he liked how kate didnt try to leave him whn he is lonely or alone, smth like tht. perhaps he had some form of abandonment issue in the past?

well ,, these r all theories in the end! but maybe its smth to go off of hehr

#ask #anon #ikemen villains #ikevil #イケメンヴィラン #ikevil darius #ikevil darius vogel #darius vogel #ikemen villains darius

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eowynstwin · 2 months ago

Text

Okay, final thoughts!

The title of this fic, Peristalsis, was derived from Daniel Kraus' book Whalefall. During the course of the novel, protagonist Jay is accidentally swallowed by a sperm whale while diving in search of his abusive father's remains. Peristalsis is the mechanical process by which the first of a sperm whale's four stomachs digests its food; I used it for this fic to define the violence that shapes one's rebirth. Whalefall provided a ton of thematic inspiration as well and I highly recommend it.

Another book I recommend that contributed very much to this fic is Where the Seals Sing by Susan Richardson. A Welsh playwright's memoir about setting out to learn everything she can about grey seals, while also learning to care for an aging father as he develops vascular dementia. Richardson describes the difficult relationship humans have with grey seals, and advocates for a better understanding of how we can protect these creatures we're so fascinated with.

These are the documentaries that I used for the bulk of my research:

Wild Isle: Britain's Grey Seals

Grey Seals: A Journey of Survival

Secrets from a Grey Seal Colony

Trawlermen's Lives With Ben Fogle

Peristalsis is the first fic series I've ever finished. It's nowhere near perfect, but I'm really proud of it. I’m so grateful for every tag and comment and message I’ve gotten for this fic.

Thank you again for reading!

#peristalsis #anon asked about the title so here you go :)#book recs

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mars-ipan · 6 months ago

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Hi, it's me again. I decided to follow your advice and try to seek out your 'actually serious' analysis, which led me to your komahina bible, the most easy to find compilation of this supposed analysis. Here are my thoughts-

1) Overview

- Most of this 'analysis' isn't analysis but a summary/overview of the game. It's not so much a 'bible' as a children's book summary of the bible, which at that point it would be better to play the actual game itself. It's clear it was made for a presentation on the 'uninitiated' if you will, but if that's the case, you shouldn't be advertising it as the literal bible on the subject.

- When you are not regurgitating points from the game beat by beat, the screen is halfway filled with either manga panels or fanart. My gripes with manga panels are, that even though they do depict the events of the game, the way they can be depicted by the artist can be pretty subjective due to the freedom of the medium in comparison to sprites, and that the role of one character can differ depending on whose pov manga it is (chiaki vs nagito). Fan art therefore should be scrutinized even more since it fully depicts abstracted and even the fandomified version of events, leading to situations where it's either unclear what is actually happening or betrays your more shallow view of the characters (i talk abt this later.)

- When you do use pictures directly from the game it's either a possible screenshot from a memorable moment or dialog from the wiki, limited almost exclusively to the freetime events. This leads me to believe that you haven't actually played the game(there are other factors hinting towards this) or watched a Let's Play of it, but going off of merely information that's already widely known and circulating within the fandom, and easy to search on the wiki.

2) Incorrect/Questionable information

Here I'll compile a lot of information that's either plainly wrong or baffling to having come to that conclusion , leading more credence to the theory that you either haven't actually played the game or your memory of it isnt as good as you think.

-"if Nagito's plan went off of without a hitch, he would have killed anyone that was closes to him at the time" plainly wrong. Komaeda's goal from the start was to make himself the victim, so by dying this way his death could have meaning and help the others. For somebody that keeps talking about Komaeda's "Martyr complex" this is truly a weird take to have.

-"Nagito...got the nurse for sure sick" is there any proof that specifically points to Komaeda for this? I believe the takeaway should've been that Mikan got sick because she was around all of them AND she overworked herself trying to take care of them. Is this just an awkwardly phrased attempt to make more of a connection between Tsumiki and Komaeda? I don't think you needed more than the ones that already existed.

- "he helps Junko brainwash a bunch of students" Kamukura at neither point in the anime or Danganronpa 0 was ever specifically implicated in the brainwashing. He never 'helps' Junko, especially in that way. If you meant, participates in the student council killing game, you should've said that, but even then his agency and influence is limited.

-"they found the Remnants and captured them!"...no, they didn't. The Remnants presented themselves as survivors and the Foundation took them in. They handed themselves over willingly. It was a pretty big piece of the final part of the game...

3) Komaeda and Komahina

- "Nagito's habit of putting people on pedestals" Where. Sure, he certainly parrots the belief that the "Ultimates" as a unit are at the top of the food chain and should be prioritised, but its clear that doesn't exactly carry over to his classmates like teruteru, Kuzuryu and even Souda sometimes. Just because of a few positive comments refering to them as Ultimates and the trial which he literally breaks down in, this is a hard position to support.

-"Nagito manipulates Hajime into playing the game" How. He literally just told him to play it. How is that manipulation. Also, isn't it a bit unfair to put the blame on Koizumi's death to him as well? I think they were multiple factors playing into this, but sure, how else are you gonna convince people that Komaeda is a twisted fucking cyclepath that loves leading people to their deaths.

-The way that you say the Kuzuryu/Pekoyama relationship mirrors Komahina as 'I will give up my agency for you/ I just want you' is also confusing. Unless of course you mirror Peko's struggle with her agency and harmful beliefs the clan enforced on her with Komaeda's own belief system, in which case, idk man, i feel like you are giving a bit too much credit to the supposed severity of Komaeda's views and trying too hard to make Hinata the 'rational' and 'grounding' one in the relationship.

- Again, the amount of times you refer to Komaeda as a freak for doing something 'weird' or even being drawn weirdly doing it , mostly in the manga, makes me belief this isn't just an affectionate tongue in cheek joke as you claim, but an actual way in which your interpretation of Komaeda is colored.

-"it doesn't excuse his nonchalance towards tragedy and murder but explains it" what needs to be excused here exactly? Komaeda doesn't need to immediately bawl his eyes out when someone gets killed or else he's suspicious and...bad? I am confused with what you mean by this. If you mean that Komeada shouldn't be so nonchalant about murder because he's constantly trying to kill someone else, that is plainly incorrect and i explained above why.

-Posturing about Komaeda's 'black and white thinking' while in the next exact slide you show fanart of him smugly explaining he has Borderline. First, i want you to explain to me the black and white thinking in a way that isn't "oh, the friends and classmates i previously liked turned out to be fucking terrorists". I think that's a pretty justifiable situation for your thinking to go from white to black. Also, if that is enough credence to assign Komaeda BPD, you really don't know how BPD works, especially since you assigned it to the one character you constantly talk about being a freak (and also lust...pseudo lust? after).

- The insistence with Hinata not really understanding Komaeda and running away, even if he wants to understands him is pretty suspect, especially when compared to the game. Hinata is confused and overwhelmed yes, but it's not just that he wants to understand Komaeda but that he still feels fondness for him, he still follows his advice and puts his faith in him and the way he mourns him in Chapter 5 is also pretty indicative of this. It's just another part in the pattern in you making Hinata the confused, rational, 'morally pure' man that's 'tempted' by 'corrupted' manic pixie mentally ill demon Komaeda. Something tells me your priest AU isn't so much playing with dolls as much as...what you actually believe these characters dynamic is.

- The whole page where Servant is basically made into a joke about how hot and sexy and freaky he is doesn't help your point either.

-The most damning evidence of course is a drawing in the second to last slide, wherein Komaeda is supposed to be analogous to 'guy who has something wrong with him' (distorted, freak, mentally ill) and Hinata is analogous to the guy that 'is the only one that understands them' (the rational one, the relationship of understanding doesn't go both ways).

- Your slide with sources is pretty vague and unclear. Also the way that you credit "Your superior mind" before the game itself when all you've been doing is repeating and misinterpreting the plot of the game is ...ironic

So yeah, that's all I got. Feel free to 'debunk' my observations as much as you please, I just want to know if there's actual basis behind everything you just said or I should go digging for 'the actual serious analysis' yet again.

i think you forgot that fandom is meant to be fun

#ask #anon #tw anon hate #i’m not gonna go through each individual point here bc frankly that’d be a waste of my time #so i’m just going to say this:#i am someone who makes jokes. funny haha jokes. i Laugh. i Shitpost. Common Fandom Behavior #‘freak’ is a word i use to refer to myself more often than anyone else #i view it with a positive connotation. and also kmda is objectively weird!! that is part of what makes his character good #i use 2 definitions of ‘freak’: the first is Related To Sex and the second is Strange Or Bizarre #komaeda is a strange and bizarre person who is regularly used for fanservice #you could for sure say maybe i have some sort of bias with calling people ‘freaks’ but for you to assume ill intent is nasty #that presentation was made to give my irl friends an understanding of what i mean when i talk abt kmhn #‘kmhn bible’ is a JOKE title. it’s a BIT. i don’t know if you’ve noticed but i try to have fun around here #anywho. i’m not going to argue semantics with someone who is clearly convinced that i couldn’t possibly know what i’m talking about #that’s not worth my time or energy.#i’m going to continue to have fun on the internet with my friends. i am going to continue making my funny jokes #i am going to continue to make weird bad not-quite-horny art. and i’m going to be happy #you can either block me like an adult and move on with your life. or you can send me another anon #if you do send me that ask know that i will block you. this is a conversation i am done having #because i will not have these conversations with people who refuse fo respect me #it’s clear that you have it in your head that you’re smarter than me. which sure whatever believe what you want idgaf #but regardless of how you view me i am not obligated to prove myself to you. ever #thanks for downloading my funny little powerpoint though ^_^

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marenights · 4 hours ago

Note

Wow, you sure look pretty mad, Lord Mare.

Hm...what about you try to calm yourself down a bit?

You could...

...what could you do?

I mean, you can't just start doing another thing, since you came back here just some minutes ago.

Hmmmm...

Oh! I have a idea! You could listen to some music! Music always solve these kinda of problems. I can even help you to hear it!

Let me just see if this will work, and...

*put a jazz song on my phone*

Well...are you hearing it?

-🌀

#utmv #utmv au #nightmare sans #corrupted nightmare sans #passive nightmare sans #ask blog #rp blog #mare and night #spiral anon #mn asks #sn chara #(ooc: mare typically speaks in title case to sound important. but he is very sleepy so he’s going back regular case)#(also only a few kinds of people are aware of what cases are being spoken. for example:skeletons and those who can break the 4th wall a bit #(like chara here who knows because they were able to see beyond the screen. just a bit to the Player’s side)#(just enough to glare at them and to try and erase the world(that’s right almost all geno route charas are aware of cases))#(small thing that’s not important but hey. I like it)#(different cases also sound different. And you don’t need to be aware of cases changing to change your case. speech changes your text. Yeah #(I think too hard about the small things)

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camgoloud · 17 days ago

Note

(fic title ask) "I couldn't get the boy to kill me"

(ask game here)

ough okay. no one in the world follows me for if we were villains content not least because i never even post about it these days but that shit IS what i was reading when i was a sweet impressionable 17 years old and i also discovered richard siken at right around the same time so a lot of those poems are always going to be about Them to me on some level. anyway my summary for this title would probably look something like this:

JAMES: I don’t know what you think this is, Oliver, but I don’t want— OLIVER: Who says this is about what you want? [A beat.] James, it’s going to be okay, I promise. No more be grieved at that which thou hast done— JAMES: No. Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t even start quoting the sonnets at me now, Oliver, I won’t be able to stand it. OLIVER: And you could stand it when we did the tragedies? JAMES: [Another beat.] We shouldn’t have done that either. We shouldn’t have done any of it.

(Five conversations in the visiting room at the Illinois River Correctional Facility, 1997-2003.)

#anon you've probably never read iwwv so basically what's going on here is that (SPOILERS) oliver has gotten himself thrown in jail #because he confessed to a crime that james actually committed. why? because he's been in homoerotic love with james the whole time they've #been acting school roommates and he thinks james is too pretty/sensitive to survive ten years in prison. basically.#james isn't happy about it and keeps visiting oliver trying to get him to change his mind about the whole situation/let james take the blam #for his own actions but oliver refuses to back down (i.e. to 'kill him'. this is how the title is relevant by the way. trust me it works.#james has green eyes. james is the most 'i wanted to be wanted' character ever/the extent to which his relationships with oliver AND his #female love interest are based in ANY affection for either of them vs. the fact that he likes how they like HIM is a matter of #ongoing fascinating debate inside my mind... it's a stretch but TO ME little beast can be about them. anyway.)#god. something about how they've finally reached the point where they might be able to hold a conversation with some emotional candor but #due to the Circumstances (prison surveillance) every conversation they ever have is by necessity even more stilted and calculated than it #was before #so much being left unspoken... so many double meanings... this would work really well in the script format i think because with a script #there is also so much being left unsaid especially if the 'stage directions' are minimal...#sonnet oliver starts quoting here is sonnet 35 by the way which is SO fucking them you wouldn't even believe.#fuck... the danger of this ask game is i've maybe now talked myself into actually writing this but WHATEVER #ask game #my writing

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vrystalius · 3 months ago

Text

Weird petnames for the Squid Game men.

How will they react? What kind of petnames do they give you?

Pairing: Recruiter, Thanos, Nam-gyu, Dae-ho, Gi-hun, In-ho x fem!reader

Summary: You giving them (three) stupid petnames, them giving you three

Genre: Pure fluff!

Note: This was a request by anon but I totally forgot to include it in this post! I hope you see this, anon!!

(Here are some HCs for them as dads and some pregnancy HCs if you’re interested!)

Gong Yoo // The Recruiter // The Salesman

You — him -> Monopoly man.

This nickname came to be after having multiple arguments over how that smug man kept buying up all the streets on the Monopoly board game with money he seemingly pulled out of his ass. You firmly believe that he cheated, you can’t prove it though.

That’s why you started calling him Monopoly man from time to time, since he is such a god at the board game.

You — him -> Sugar daddy.

It’s on the nose and an easy way to fluster your husband, even if it’s briefly. He likes sponsoring your shopping trips and buy you whatever else you ask him to. He enjoys making you happy and prove to you that he can provide for you for the rest of your shared life and so you deem the petname Sugar daddy appropriate.

It makes him chuckle under his breath to conceal his flustered expression. His cheeks briefly turn red as he stumbles over his words, handing you another hefty sum of money to silence your teasing words. You could call it a bribery.

“Just take this and go darling.”

You — him -> Origami prince.

You keep catching him making Dakji in his free time for some reason, but if you’re lucky, you can find him fold up a family of swans or a small bouquet of differently coloured flowers. You don’t really get his obsession with that childhood game but you like to cuddle onto him and rest your legs over his lap while he makes you a bouquet of paper roses.

His fingers work quickly and smoothly without any mistakes. It’s kind of sexy to be honest.

Is it weird to get turned on by how he he folds paper? Everything that man does somehow becomes sexy.

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳༚

Him — you -> Jackpot.

He sees you as a jackpot, a one in a million chance. Your husband considers himself extremely lucky to having found someone special and perfect like you. He sometimes jokes about how all his luck was used on you and that winning the lottery is going to be impossible (which he always knew is basically impossible to win but anyways).

Him — you -> Little devil.

You mess with his heartstrings and cloud his judgement, for better or worse. Almost like a little devil.

You also cause him a lot of trouble when it comes to worrying about you and your safety, his heart racing when you don’t text him back immediately. Again, messing with his poor heart.

Him — you -> Cherry blossom.

He saw how beautifully the cherry trees blossom during spring in Japan while watching a documentary with you one evening. The petals are fragile, soft, a beautiful pink. You kind of remind him of those small petals.

Su-bong // Thanos // Player 230

You — him -> Thanosaurus-rex

Thanos totally loves that petname. It sounds badass, intimidating even, but to you it’s more of an endearing and cutesy petname. He is strong and is intelligent if he tries, but most of the time, he’s a mushy and soft mess in your arms as you work your magic fingers through his hair.

He thinks you find him super awesome after you called him that nickname, but you use that petname ironically.

“WOMAN, C‘MERE!! Your Thanosaurus wants a well-deserved kiss!!“

You — him -> Galactic snuggle monster

It’s an accurate description. His title, Thanos, was stolen from a galactic titan and your boyfriend happens to be very snuggly and cuddly. His favourite activity is to either bedrot in your arms or drag you out to a random gig he aquired.

He prefers to act as your blanket though and completely crush you under his body. In a pleasant way of course.

You — him -> Bing bong

Bing bong is the best way to use his goverment name without making him think he’s about to get scolded by his mother. Su-bong sounds so serious, almost foreign, but Bing bong sounds stupid and makes him grin a little.

You saved him in your contacts as Bing-bong and used to use it as a codeword to talk to your friends about your boyfriend without revealing who he is during the first few weeks of your relationship.

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳༚

Him — you -> Sprite.

Thanos was probably high the first time he called you that. He really, really craved a sprite while being on a call with you and you thought your boyfriend was calling you a soda. Your boyfriend liked the tone of it so he calls you his soda, Sprite, Spritey or Spriiiiiiiiiitttaaaaaaaaa.

Him — you -> Chili pepper.

He likes annoying and fucking with you just for the fun of it but acts all innocent after you show some slight annoyance. In response, Thanos calls you his spicy chili pepper which annoys you even more in return because he cannot take anything seriously, ever.

Him — you -> Thanos’s star.

When he uses that petname it’s probably to introduce you to someone else, referring to himself in third person and introducing you as his star, which you are. You are his star, sun, the center of his galaxy. His mind and feelings always circle around you.

Nam-gyu // Player 124

You — him -> Rat

You like calling him a rat (sometimes even a wet one) because, well, he is. Nam-gyu hoards his snacks and hides them from you, his facial structure is very rat-like, his apartment was a rat’s nest when you first moved in and after he showers, his wet hair matches that of a wet rat. Your boyfriend doesn’t like that petname at all.

Whenever you cook some dinner and Nam-gyu comes up from behind, he sometimes gives you tips to how to not burn his apartment down. Like a certain rat chef you know.

You — him -> Nom-Nom / Nam-Nam

You like chewing on his fingers sometimes, they’re quite nice to nibble and chew on. Nam-gyu didn’t like it at first, eying you from the side in confusing and slight disgust but eventually warmed up to it and even gave you his hand willingly to let you chew on his finger while he orders some take-out on his phone.

He even began getting his rings off his hands before offering you your favourite chewing toy.

You — him -> Lizard

Similar to the rat pet name, you sometimes call him a Lizard or the Lizard-man. Your boyfriend likes being called a lizard even less than being called a rat. Why do you keep giving him stupid petnames? You’re embarrassing him in front of his friends!

“Stop calling me that in public, c’mon. Sounds stupid.”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳༚

Him — you -> Turtle.

Not sure where he got that from but Nam-gyu just started calling you that one day and that nickname stuck to him ever since. It has no great backstory other than you remind him of a turtle when you steal all the blankets in the house and build yourself a makeshift nest on your bed.

The mountain of blankets remind him of the shell of a turtle. Besides, your hear sticking out doesn’t help the image.

Him — you -> Kitty.

Your boyfriend likes to “pspspsps”-you to get your attention. You perk up just like a cat when he foes that. Besides, if you call him a rat, he will call you a kitty. He‘ll sometimes even purr at you when you look especially good that day.

Him — you -> Wifey.

Even though you two aren‘t married, Nam-gyu really likes the idea of you being his wife. „Wife“ sounds very serious though— it sounds like tax benefits and a house with two kids and all that. He‘s not ready for that commitment just yet, so your boyfriend will call you his Wifey instead.

He always refers to you as his Wifey in front of his friends and others so that they know that his heart is yours, as much as yours is his.

Dae-ho // Player 388

You — him -> The nibbler.

The “The” is for dramatic effect. Dae-ho is obsessed with biting and nibbling any area of your body that seems convenient enough in the moment to chomp on. His favorite area is your nose, jaw, shoulder, fingers and hands. It‘s pretty random but does it most of the time when nervous about something or sleepy and in your arms.

The nibbler likes his nickname a lot, by the way. He sometimes jokes about you being his favorite chewing toy or candy while you eye the bite mark he left on your arm.

You — him -> (chicken) nugget.

To you, your boyfriend is just a cutie patootie, a mature man that has the heart of a golden retriever. You like calling him your chicken nugget because of how his facial structure kinda reminds you one. Dae-ho gets flustered whenever you call him that though.

Nugget is the shorter version of a petname you like to use, mostly in public or during texts. Chicken nugget you like to use when you two are together at home or to tease him.

You — him -> Bunny.

You first wanted to use Tiger as a petname since part of his name means Tiger, but you actually found out how much of a Bunny he actually is. He doesn’t like being left alone and on his own for too long, when he pouts he looks like one, the color of his blush looks like the nose of one and he certainly has the sex drive of one.

Being called Bunny makes him both embarrassed and flustered. He both hates and loves that petname you gave him.

“Isn‘t Bunny too cute of a name for me? Like.. it doesn't really fit, does it?“

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳༚

Him — you -> Cupid.

You shot an arrow through his heart the moment he saw and met you for the first time. Even if the name isn‘t 100% accurate since with that logic you would‘ve also shot yourself with an arrow to fall for him too, but Dae-ho likes calling you his cupid.

Him — you -> Tiger.

It‘s a play on his name and how maybe when you two marry in the future you can share part of it with him. Once he scraps the damn money together to buy you a proper ring and maybe save a little money for a nice wedding and honeymoon.

Maybe Dae-ho should give the card he got from that weird salesman a call and participate in these games for money. What could go wrong?

Him — you -> Tofu.

Since he is your personal nibbler, you are his tofu. That way he can justify his need to bite and nibble on you.

Gi-hun // Player 456

You — him -> Heartbreaker.

You playfully call him that. Gi-hun is a little insecure about his age, his divorce, his whole life too, and how much younger and naive you are, thinking a lot about how he is not the most suitable lover for a young woman like you.

You like calling him a heartbreaker in a ironic way almost. You find it cute how he huffs when you call him that.

You — him -> Raccoon.

In the most respectful way possible, you sometimes think that Gi-hun looks like a raccoon. His hair is so fluffy like fur, his eyes get so big when you scold him for something and you sometimes catch him digging through an old pile of dirty clothes to find to wear, like a raccoon digging through trash.

You sigh everytime you go into the kitchen and catch your boyfriend dig through the fridge, trying to find something that isn‘t expired and doesn‘t need to be cooked into a meal.

You love your raccoon of a man, though. Although you have to admit that sometimes he resembles more of a hamster the way his cheeks fill up with food so adorably.

You — him -> Noodle.

His build is is flimsy and he resembles a spaghetti noodle. You like calling him your noodle, it‘s cute, short and endearing. Gi-hun thinks calling him a noodle is a little childish but he would never reject your petnames.

„Seriously? Noodle? Y‘know, other women call their boyfriends honey and stuff. Noodle sounds like an insult!“

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳༚

Him — you -> Angel.

You are his angel, his savior, his saint and light. It‘s only fitting to call you his angel. Even if he mostly addresses you that way when he is about to ask you for a little bit of money to afford the groceries his mother send him out to get.

He gambled the money his mom gave him away and bet on horses, but you don‘t have to know that.

Him — you -> Koala.

Gi-hun grins like a Highschool boy whenever you cling onto him like a cute koala for cuddles. That‘s where he got the name from in the first place.

Him — you -> Peanut.

Random but cute nonetheless. He likes to pull on your cheek and coo at you and how adorable you look when you pout or are annoyed. To annoy you even further, he calls you a cute little peanut.

In-ho // The Frontman // Player 001

You — him -> In-ho-tato.

Back when you first met him, In-ho liked to style his hair slicked back and containing multiple ounces of hairgel. The way his hair was styled and his grumpy facial expression made him look a potato of sorts.

Calling him a potato outright might confuse him or even make him a little upset, so you call him In-ho-tato. That‘s how you saved him in your contacts too. He doesn‘t know the origin of the petname but it has a nice ring to it, so your husband doesn‘t mind.

“You‘re quite creative with your words. Care to explain their origins?“

You — him -> Gramps.

You call him Gramps whenever he struggles with something. Can‘t open a jar of pickles? Old man. Complains about back pain after waking up? Gramps. Gets annoyed with one of his pink guards? Grandpa.

In-ho hates it. He glares at you from the side every time you call him those things. Your husband never stops you though, as long as you‘re having fun.

You — him -> Huffster.

You began to notice how many times and how much he groans, huffs and sighs when he‘s at work. It‘s mostly under the mask but you notice it anyway. When his mask is off, massaging his temple and bridge of his nose goes hand in hand with letting out an exhausted sigh at the incompetence of the players of this year‘s games.

Naturally, want to make him feel better whenever In-ho feels stressed or exhausted and for some reason calling him a huffster makes him give you a small, fond smile. Your husband never being here simply makes everything better.

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳༚

Him — you -> Snuggle tyrant.

You are a very demanding tyrant when it comes to cuddles. You drag him out of his study or control center just to have him all for yourself in bed. A little selfish, isn‘t it? True tyranny to give him orders like that.

Him — you -> Boss lady.

Sure In-ho is the Frontman and all but you are still his boss in a way. You remind him to drink, sleep, eat, give him orders to rest for the night and to shave every once in a while. You are his boss lady, so the petname is very fitting.

Also, the workers and soldiers also see as some kind of boss of their boss. Thanks to you, multiple of their lives were saved by you scolding the Frontman in the middle of the control center, reminding him to be a little more lenient and merciful for breaking rules.

Him — you -> Sugar baby.

It‘s rather self explanatory. In-ho likes to refer to you as his sugar baby by the way he throws his money at you whenever you even look at an item. He is more than happy to sponsor you with a new helicopter to reach the mainland, a new credit card to spend on online shopping and whatever else you want.

Even if you aren‘t his full time sugar baby, he likes to treat you like one.

💠

Author‘s note. Thank you for reading!

First of all, thank you for giving my last Squid Game men post so much love!! It got like 1000 notes in two days, so thank you <33 Also, I really want to show my private art again. I haven‘t done that since I had 200 followers, so like last September was my last art dump. I‘m really into creating clay figures and painting masks, so I‘m not sure if you all would be into that. On one side, some people may just be here for the fics and get annoyed if I don‘t post that but on the other are people who may be genuinely interested :,)

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33 Stay safe!

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sheeezu · 14 days ago

Text

What to do if you have not shifted for +++years

(Most of my anons were along the lines of this same issue, I want to make a common post for them. I won't be telling you "you're already there" or "persist" I'm going to have a heart to heart conversation with your mental health in mind, this will be a long post)

First and foremost I have to say, this post is very heavily opinion-based. Alright, I'll divide it into topics, and two categories: before shifting and during shifting.

Before Shifting.

Determining the laws of your reality.

This is where you've got to do most of the work. (Don't worry, it won't be 7 hour subliminal listening sessions) now let's present a very important note: I don't know who you are. But most importantly I don't know what you believe in. Shifting isn't a known set of rules, Shifting doesn't have a single method, it does not have a wikihow page. Everything that exist is because of you. Therefore there are differences in my reality and yours. What you believe in is acting out in reality. LITERALLY.

So first you need to ask yourself some questions, with full honesty, oh and don't apply the thoughts you have by certain reprogramming affirmations, don't force yourself just because you have to persist.

"What am I?" What do you believe you are? Currently, are you a soul, a human? Or you something greater, seek within yourself to answer what you believe.

"What is reality?" How is everything working around you? Why are you here.

"Who is in control?" Who makes you shift. Who or what makes everything happen.

"How to shift?" Self explanatory. If you write with utmost truth on what you think shifting is like and when and how it happens; you'll basically have the code of how reality works for you.

Relax.

After you've gathered your research sheets. Take a breath, since you've got all the answers you need. Now, close your eyes, whenever you like. Imagine a serene atmosphere, for example, sharp sunlight falling on your skin, warming you up, or the rain droplets drowning your senses, as you run across a forest. Tell yourself, "this is what shifting is" , and "I've shifted." That's all it is. You feel some you get some.

Some important realizations,

• Time is not linear.

• Failure is a perception.

• You're not beneath anyone.

• You don't need to prove yourself to anyone.

• you'll survive, you'll be alright.

Don't. Kidnap. Yourself.

The title sounds weird, but it is regarding heavily applying the principle of assuming until you have it, to EVERYTHING. Idc if people come after me. I don't want anyone to suffer by stamping their foreheads with "persist!" Even if it works. I love loa, until it crosses over into toxic positively. Don't just put yourself in a coffin; don't become a prisoner to your thoughts! Don't make it feel like there's an angry witch in your mind, who will scream at you if something goes wrong, the problem is! Something might go wrong and you'd end up highlighting the idea that you are being forced to assume against something. Don't feel forced. Simple. (You can still use loa, if you like)

Declutter your mind.

I said it before. and @ilovecatfr explained this here, there's so much in your mind. I can tell. Each and everyone has their own unique spin on shifting. That's great and they put out advice to help people, similarly you... also have it within you. Afterall, these bloggers, big well written and decorated posts are the projection of your assumptions. I'd like to say, majority of the bloggers are kindhearted with the aim to help others. Although for some, you being desperate in their asks is an ego boost, nothing is wrong with feeling good about yourself for your knowledge, but you the person at the other end of this screen, are not a pawn, not just another anon, alright? you know how to shift, look back at what your answers were to the questions.

Control your emotions towards this reality.

I've always wanted to discuss this. Emotions are the puppeteers of this show. They're a grounding mechanism of any reality. If you feel something deeply, you're angry at circumstances you form an attachment to this reality, it keeps you here. Think about what happens to a person when they get disassociation. Similarly belief + emotional investment = reality. Its a code. I can confidently say anyone who has not shifted (... not targeting anyone, genuinely trying my best to help; ty ty back to the text) is because they're giving too much emotional importance to this reality. This can be in the form of stressing that you have not shifted, being worried that you're not in your dr, putting much focus on the "What ifs" of if you wake back in this reality.

But we can't just go BLANK. we're still humans who feel deeply (for now huehue) so what's the solution to this non-issue? Direct these feelings towards your destination, your intended reality! This would mean feeling like your dr self, if you're experiencing negative emotions you can last second convert them to any scenario related to your dr, emotional investment there pays well, here? It just wastes time.

Don't let feelings get the best of you and keep you here; you're their creator after all.

(Optional) Create a homey dr.

This comes from personal experiences. If I don't mention this I won't be completely open with each one of you. I shifted through intense love and reverence for my home. I knew that each and every second spent in this reality led up to me shifting to my home.

So for ease later on when you can't decide between drs, it'll be comforting to have a reality you can call home and choose over and over again.

Rewire.

This is where you come back to what you answered to the questions. Do you like your response? A human is living in a reality, and your answers are the universal law there. Will they have an easy time with shifting? If you think so, then choose to not do any "rewiring" and act upon the answers you wrote, shifting in accordance to them as they have become the pillars of your reality. If you think the person's reality's laws regarding shifting are complicated, then you can choose to rewire them. This can be a simple manifestation. As it has no basis in the 3D yet, you will manifest it within seconds. You can either write it down, listen to a subliminal, or simply think of the new beliefs in your head (eg "I shift in seconds") and let go. Stop.

(Severely optional) strive for spiritual awakenings

*shrugs* I thought I should mention based on personal experience.

During shifting.

Confuse your logical brain

You don't have to give it validation. Instead, just make it unable to predict the next move of it creator. Its built to look at everything with skepticism.. but it has nothing when you don't give it the chance. For example, the anti method by @hrrtshape is the best example. I like that you can do this, pre-method like a little warm up. (You can also manifest to not think logically)

Know your game

To act like you're in a battle field is not the way to shift. You don't have to give the actual practice of shifting much or any importance. You know how to shift, then why is there a need to have plan B's and checking your own environment? You are the commander in front, you're the one switching the reality, your reality is not the one switching.

Senses shift last

Explained by @stilljuststardust here.

Be blind and deaf to each and everything other than your intended reality

...and be so obsessed with your intended reality. Live out entire days, you're there, no, time is not passing by, the previous reality has disappeared by your hyperfixation on your intended reality. Ever done that exercise where you stare at a dot for so long, everything around it disappears? Well then, EXACTLY. Make it dissapear. Make it dissappear by not giving it any more of your energy. ....how I shifted. This is based upon being your dr self, that's snatches away the spotlight from this current reality.

Keep yourself comfortable

All of you are experienced enough to know, you don't need to lay in the starfish position. But remove the unnecessary thought that if you dare move your finger you might mess up the whole attempt (This is a subconsciousness belief) here's how to not worry about your 3D: again, senses shift last, Your current reality = intended reality.

It is about breaking free from human functions

Your software is set to being an earthly human. This is why acting like your current reality (the noises from the environment, physical annoyances) are from your intended reality, helps. This allows you to trick your human brain and move forward. The more you try to make sense of shifting, the more less it'll make sense. You don't have to know everything about shifting. The point is to be awfully natural about it. Just like how you wake up in this current reality without any requirement. You don't overthink it, then why overthink shifting.

Hope I cleared everything, I spent 5 hours on this post. If anything is not clear, please send in an ask, I am 100% avaliable to answer anything amiss.

Now let's see how much time I take to actually make this post aesthetically pleasing, so people don't have to bleach their eyes or ruin their blogs with this.

Dedicated to @lilyblairkinda who gave me this idea, once.

#reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting #shifting community #sheezu's posts

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ao3scrapesearch · 7 days ago

Text

Alright! Sorry for being so absent today! I was building a tool so you can all check your own names on demand.

I am asking that you not talk about it on Hugging Face. I'm sure word will get there eventually, but I'd like to avoid them accessing this as much as possible. Feel absolutely free to spread around Tumblr.

AO3 search tool is here! Use page 1 to search scraped fics by username. Use page 2 to search by work ID (which you'll need to do if you're looking for an anonymous work).

In case this post breaches containment: this is a tool that only has access to the work IDs, titles, author names, and chapter counts of the scraped fics for this most recent scrape discovered in April 2025. There is no other work data in this tool. It originally also showed the number of hits at the time of the scrape, but I had to remove that since it was really slowing down the tool's loading. This never had the content of your works loaded to it, only info to help you check if your works were scraped.

Thanks to everyone who helped with the cost to host the tool! I appreciate you so so so much. As of this edit, I've received more donations than what I paid to make this tool so you do NOT need to keep sending money. (But I super appreciate everyone who did help fund this! I just wanna make sure we all know it's all paid for now.)

Please come yell if the tool stops working, and I'll fix as fast as I can. It's slow as hell, but it does load eventually. Give it up to 10 minutes, and if it seems down after that, please alert me via ask! Anons are on if you're shy.

The mobile view only works if you have the Power BI mobile app, which is kind of a silly thing for you to download if this is the only report you will ever load. The best alternative I can find is enabling screen rotation and turning your phone sideways. It's a litttttle easier to use like that.

At this time, I believe most of the fics that were missed were caused by deficiencies in the scraper's code. I will continue to research on that, and you guys will be the first to know if I find anything that seems to be an effective anti-scraping measure.

Some FAQs below the cut:

"What do I need to do now?": At this time, the main place where this dataset was shared is disabled. As far as I'm aware, you don't need to do anything, but I'll update if I hear otherwise.

"I don't want to know!": This tool is 100% optional. If you don't want to know, simply don't click the link. You are totally welcome to block me if it makes you feel more comfortable.

"Can I see the exact content they scraped?": Nope, not through me. I don't have the time to vet every single person to make sure they are who they say they are, and I don't want to risk giving a scraped copy of your fic to anyone else. If you really want to see this, you can find the info out there still and look it up yourself, but I can't be the one to do it for you.

"Are locked fics safe?": Not safe, but so far, it appears that locked fics were scraped less often than public fics. The only fics I haven't seen scraped as of right now are fics in unrevealed collections, which even logged-in users can't view without permission from the owner.

"My work wasn't a fic. It was an image/video/podfic.": You're safe! All the scrape got was stuff like the tags you used and your title and author name. The work content itself is a blank gap.

"It's slow.": Unfortunately, a 13 million row data dashboard is always going to be on the slow side. I think I've done everything I can to speed it up, but it may still take up to 10 minutes to load. It's faster if you can use desktop, but it should work on your phone too.

(Made some quick edits to the post on 04-May-2025 to update information a bit!)

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wheneclipsefalls · 4 months ago

Note

heyy i love ur works sm, could u possibly write a fic like the one you wrote about Lo’ak in Unmoveable, but with Neteyam as the alpha and the reader as the bratty/dominant omega. (Preferably fem reader) Tysm!!

Pairing: Adult Alpha Neteyam x Olangi Princess Omega Reader

Summary: Princess or not, a spoiled brat like you needs to be put in her place. And since you have been given over to him now, Neteyam is more than ready to put that attitude in check.

Warnings: dubcon/noncon, explicit MDNI, aged up Neteyam, omegaverse, dom/sub dynamics. power imbalance, very talkative Neteyam, breast play, nipple clamps, anal, punishment, kidnapping/arranged marriage, swearing, etc.

A/N: Hi anon...you probably thought I was never going to fufill this request😆😅 Hopefully you are still online to see this

Adult Neteyam pic by Cinetrix

Unmovable for reference

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting.” You reply simply, folding your legs upon where you are perched on a nearby boulder.

“Is that so?” One of Neteyam’s hairless brows curves upwards into an unusual expression as he places his hands on his hips. You shrug it off as morphed social skills he has picked up, a consequence of living with Sky People. You don’t let it ruffle your feathers.

“Yes. Soon you will have left and I will finally have some peace before my clan comes to get me.” You supply the information with a tilted chin and confidence oozing from every pore even as the towering alpha closes in on your space.

“Your clan has given you to me, princess.”

You refuse to meet the gaze that somehow manages to penetrate your defenses with a heated fire, contrary to his poised posture that emanates a relaxed grace.

“An oversight on their part.” Your fingers interlock together and place on your lap. If he wants to put on a tough bravado why shouldn’t you? “Once they come to realize their mistake they will come to retrieve me. Until then, I wait.”

However, waiting here may take more patience than you care to admit. The Olangi clan are known for their expertise as pa’li [direhorse] riders but even they may require a day or so to catch up to the point where Toruk Makto’s son has dragged you to. It's the furthest you have ever been from home. Consequently the first time you have seen the beautiful rolling grounds of the plains slowly transform into congested forest.

You can only see a portion of the sky with these interlocking trees in the way. It pushes in on you like the bars of your enclosure, yet another representation of how trapped you have become in Neteyam’s grip.

“I’m waiting too, paskalin [honey].” You shuffle slightly when he comes to sit beside you. The rich essence of his scent wraps around you in a vice-like grip. It has your inner omega running restless but you maintain a serene exterior. It wouldn’t be the first time an alpha has tried to rope you into submission with drifting pheromones. “In fact, we all are waiting.’ He gestures to the handful of Omatikaya warriors that have made the journey with him. They pretend to busy themselves with loading up pa’li that are already prepared. “Waiting for you to stop this tantrum of yours.”

“Tantrum?” The word feels foreign on your tongue.

“It means a child throwing a fit when they do not get their way.”

“I am not a child!” You seethe, lips peeling back to reveal your pointed fangs. “I am a princess and-”

“And I am a prince.” Neteyam shrugs, cutting you off. “Yet neither of those titles mean anything out here.”

You scoff, allowing your hair to act as a protective curtain from his searing attention. A prince. What a laughable thought. A true prince does not drag a female away from her home with bound wrists and promises of mating. He has no right to call himself such a thing.

Then again, your father calls himself Olo’eyktan yet he was the one that handed you over to the alpha. All for the promise of protection against the RDA. The Omatikaya could have asked for anything to seal the alliance between your two clans in battle but all that Neteyam had come to collect was you.

Your father’s decision, however, could be forgiven in your eyes. He was doing what he thought was best for the people. His greatest error was believing Neteyam would be a suitable mate for you, for thinking that any alpha would be a good match for you after all that you’ve expressed against such a union. You are a free spirit. Despite your presentation as an omega you were never meant to live in an alpha’s shadows.

“Look at me.” His voice is soft but firm. Another scoff of refusal is traveling up your throat but this time Neteyam doesn’t wait for you to follow his command. He captures your chin and forces you to turn and feel the weight of presence. It feels as if his alpha pheromones not only bleed into the space between you but also cinch around your throat like a claws. “I am your alpha now, your mate. That is the only title you should be focused on.”

Neteyam is a strange alpha, that you have come to quickly realize. Where other alphas often raise their voices in demand for respect and submission he delivers his commands in the form of smooth purrs traveling down your spine. He uses force when necessary but never done rashly or out of anger, simply a tool to get you back to where he deems you should be. Among the other males there is no passive aggressive commentary or puffing of chests to remind them of rank.

Instead he converses with them as old friends do. He leads the group in every sense of the word but it’s done with almost a playful hand as they laugh and make jokes with one another. And yet, after all of this backwards messaging, there is an air of dominance that laces his every move. He walks and talks with a relaxed expression as if he knows there is no need to prove himself. His supremacy is something that would not dare to be questioned.

And somehow that comes off as higher snobbery than any other foolish alpha you’ve seen wrestle for your hand.

“I don’t have an alpha. Nor will I ever.” With a tug your face is whipped from his hold. You manage to conceal the rush of heat to your cheeks by smoothly shifting your hair and facing away from him once more. “I suggest you accept that fact and stop wasting both of our time.”

Not a single bat of your eyes in his direction as you stare confidently ahead at the strange tree in front of you and wait to hear the party’s retreat. Instead your ears only catch the sound of a small sigh and shuffle before Neteyam is standing before you.

“Come now, princess. It’s been fun but we still have ground to cover.” He reaches his hand out to help you up but you only gamble casting a glance at it from your peripheral vision. As far as you are concerned, Neteyam does not exist in your world. And so you treat him as such.

“Neteyam!” A voice bellows across the distance. “We are losing daylight, brother. Are we set to travel?”

Neteyam doesn’t hesitate to send the other male a small smile before saying, “She is coming along now.”

“No I am not.” Your instant response is tainted with a gasp of offense. How dare he speak for you! “I am not moving from this rock until my clan comes to get me.” You insist, slapping his hand away.

Neteyam remains unperturbed, simply giving a shrug before murmuring, “Have it your way then.”

You aren’t afforded a second for a sense of victory to settle in before the prince is tossing you over his shoulder. Strongs arms wrap around the back of your thighs to keep you pinned there and decrease the range of motion for kicking. It doesn’t stop the gasp of outrage and pure spite that emanates from you. Limbs swinging in every which direction to deliver damage, you quickly resent the way his strength greatly overpowers your own.

“I am not some fresh kill for you to carry home. Set me down right this instant!”

“I gave you the chance to walk over with dignity, princess. What else am I supposed to do?” He tries to retort but you can detect the grin in his voice. Even more humiliating, from your upside down position you are still able to spot the other males squirming to not laugh at your compromising position.

“You are a mongrel of a man!”

The scratchy venom of your tone is morphed into a surprised squeak when you are let back onto your feet. Regardless, you remain trapped in Neteyam’s arms as you are wedged between him and a pa’li.

“Don’t waste your energy, tiyawn [love]. It will be at least a few more days before we reach Omatikaya soil.”

They are surrounding you from every side. The five other males may wear amused expressions and appear to be enraptured in conversations with one another but you are no fool. These men are under Neteyam’s jurisdiction. At the first sign of trouble they will be snapping into action. Running now will only get you dragged back and fighting against Neteyam’s hold may get you flung into a humiliating position again.

“At least let me have my own pa’li. I know how to ride.”

Neteyam's chest heaves with the responding laugh that awakens within him. White pearly teeth on display, his amusement rises higher. Several of the others try and fail to not join in. It heightens your blood pressure until your face is hot to the touch.

“That’s a very good try, princess.” He beams, patting your hip.

Neteyam unfortunately is not the fool you hope for him to be. Nor the arrogant alpha that would make the mistake of believing himself capable of catching you once you’ve set off on a pa’li. You’ve been riding since you were barely able to walk. The Omatikaya may understand the concept, but they hold not near the same precision and skill that your years of training have granted you.

It’s a fact he seems acutely aware of because he doesn’t let you saddle up first. All it would take is a few seconds for you to make the bond and leave them in the dust. Instead, he hands you off to another male as he settles himself upon the creature and only after he has made the bond himself does he have you lifted to sit in front of him.

By the time you settle around a fire for dinner and begin setting up camp, you can feel your eye on the verge of twitching. This journey has been nothing but painful and slow. So exceedingly slow. Although every step is one step further from your home that doesn’t erase the annoyance you feel at their painstaking pace. The only thing that stops you from snapping at them to hurry up is the hope that this extra time will help you come up with some sort of escape plan.

It’s clear that your father’s remorse is far too sluggish for you to solely rely on at this rate, so it seems it is once again up to you to meet them halfway.

However hatching up plans is exceedingly difficult when you have an alpha sculpted against your back, his essence clouding your mind and his eyes constantly peeking down at you as if he knows every thought swirling in your head. Try as you might, there is no reasonable way to veer away from his touch while riding the pa’li, at least not one that keeps you from developing excruciating back pain.

Trying to set your inner turmoil aside, you focus on using this time away from the Omatikaya prince to properly set your head right. However, it seems Neteyam has different plans as he settles to lounge by the fire. He thanks one of the other males for a drink he is handed before his attention lands on you.

“Come sit, princess.” He pats the spot beside him. There may be a warm smile to accompany his words but you know that it is nothing short of a command. The steely undertone of an alpha’s call reverberates in his tone.

It locks your spine into a ramrod straight position and your tail already tries to tuck itself the longer you wait to obey. It’s irrelevant, however. You’ve become quite adept at pushing down your omega instincts in favor of following your own logic instead.

With a smooth stroll and a feigned innocence to your smile, you maintain eye contact while making a show of sitting next to a different male across the fire. He’s a beta and your proximity immediately has him twitching.

Neteyam’s golden eyes take on a darker hue, but he remains where he is. You’ve challenged his authority, in front of his men no less, but somehow you escape the night unscathed from his rath. Or so you think.

It’s hard to say whether these sleeping arrangements are usual for the Omatikaya or rather just a setup meant for traveling. Either way, it is the most bizarre thing to sleep in a roll of fabric high up in the trees. Netyam claims it’s safer to stay off the ground during eclipse in the forest. A silly point truly when it’s just as dangerous, if not more likely, to turn over in your sleep and fall to your death.

Climbing up to the hammock is all the more painful and terrifying than riding with Neteyam. He patiently trails behind, waiting and giving unwanted direction for your climb until you have finally cocooned yourself in the fabric. Still trembling but refusing to voice any complaints that could be mocked, you take a moment to catch your breath.

That moment is exceedingly short.

The hammock suddenly swings and you look up to find the prince lowering himself down carefully from a branch above.

“No no, absolutely not. This is my bed. Get out.” He chuckles as you try to push and swat at his muscular thighs but it’s no use when he is settled in the fabric a few seconds later.

“Technically it is our bed.”

“Then I will take my chances on the ground.” Your stomach somersaults at the thought of enduring the climb down.

Comment ignored, Neteyam coaxes you to lay down before slipping himself behind you. You’re tempted to kick when he wraps an arm around your waist but the hammock is still swinging to a point of nausea. Best not to make it any worse.

“You’re trembling, omega.” It’s murmured against the shell of your ear. There is no need to look down in order to confirm his assertion. How do the Omatikaya sleep peacefully up in the trees like this? You’ve never considered yourself to have a fear of heights but today has you questioning that assurance all together.

“You look like you need someone to calm you down.” The palm of his right hand runs up and down the length of your arm, as if the transferring heat there would diminish your shivering.

“What I need is a break from your pestering.”

“I already gave you one.” His tale tickles at the back of your knee just as his accented voice deepens. “A break that I have still not received a thank you for.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting, my prince.” You sneer. It wasn’t his decision to have you sit away from him during dinner. It was entirely your own and he is not about to receive acknowledgment as if he had any control over what you do.

“I hope you know what you’re playing at, princess.”

Those are the last words he speaks of the night and consequently the same ones that leave you restless and twitching. Sleeping like this is impossible. When you’re not worried about falling to your death you become acutely aware of every point of contact between you and Neteyam. His toned chest is like a bustling fire against your back. His tail at some point wraps around knee as if it belongs there. Even his silky ebony braids tickle at your neck, almost as bad as where his face tucks itself behind your ear.

There is no forgetting who lays behind you. Sleep seems to never come because you are constantly trying to calm your raging heart and control the pheromones that threaten to slip into the air. That would wake him up far too easily.

His breath is heavy, heartbeat consistent and strong from where it pounds against your back. You’ve been sure for a while now that he is fast asleep. Now is the time to make your move, but frozen you remain. Eventually you look down to find that your fingers have begun tracing the veins of his forearm as an anxious tick.

Thank Eywa he seems to not wake up from the touch. Or perhaps it is the smooth caress that has coaxed him further into sleep. Either way, you hold very little hope of not only climbing down the trees without splitting your pretty head open but also doing so unnoticed.

Sleep comes and goes along with the hours until waiting has wound you taunt. It is only a matter of time before the sun rises again and you’ve lost the window of opportunity. So with sweaty hands and a heart threatening to come up your throat, you cautiously slide yourself out from his hold.

By some miracle it turns out that Neteyam is the deepest sleeper you have ever met, because even as the hammock sways from your climbing out, he simply lets out a sigh and turns his head further into the fabric.

Scaling down the tree is a test in vigilance and patience. Every smooth breath you force yourself to take is a practice in these arts. Stubbornly you refuse to look down, knowing it will only bring forth nerve ridden mistakes. So with the pace of a snail you inch further and further down the trunk.

You just need to make it to a pa’li.

That’s it.

So close. So very close, you tell yourself, even as you know it’s a lie.

“What are you doing?”

Your breath catches in your throat, thighs tensing as you remember to still keep hold. Your muscles relax slightly, however, when you notice that the voice holds an Omatikaya accent but it is not Neteyam’s. The beta from dinner sits up in his hammock, eyes squinting at you through the darkness. Say the wrong thing and he is bound to sound the alarm.

“You should not be out of bed.” He sighs.

“I must relieve myself.” Biting your bottom lip you steer your features into confident defiance. “Or am I not allowed to do that too?”

The beta lets out a sigh and a curse you do not recognize. It must be part of the Sky People’s weird language.

“Alright, I will assist you just wait for a moment.”

“I don’t require an audience.”

“But you do require supervision.”

It’s difficult to argue when you remain clinging to a tree for dear life. So when the beta helps you make it down the tree foothold by foothold, there is nothing left in you to protest. Instead, you simply shift gears.

“Be quick.” The male says, gesturing to a secluded spot behind thick bushes.

“It takes as long as it takes.” Head held high, you walk past him and into the bushes. Luckily the sounds of nocturnal creatures are loud enough to excuse why you are so silent in the bushes. Furthermore, it’s clear that male has at least some respect for your privacy as a woman when he doesn’t question again what takes you so long.

Those advantages aside, running now would still do you no good. He has steered the two of you further away from the pa’li and running on foot will only get you lost in this entanglement of greenery. And with a beta, one native to the area nonetheless, there is no chance of getting far.

Lucky for you, there is always one sure fire way to disable a man without violence.

“What did you say your name is again?”

The beta straightens when you walk past him.

“Um, I didn’t.” He picks up into a jog to catch up with your sudden retreat. Not a foot of space is granted between you two. He has grown suspicious.

Shifting your long glossy hair over one shoulder, you look over at him with a subtle pout. “Well I don’t see how that’s fair. You know my name but I don’t know yours.”

The beta doesn’t immediately melt at your softened composure like most males at home do. Rather he seems to clear his throat in discomfort before muttering out, “Ke’ve”

“Hm, Ke’ve.” You repeat back, as if savoring the taste of his name on your tongue. He’s nervous. No doubt, devoted to keeping his distance from the prince’s intended. There are ways to relax him, however. “Well Ke’ve, not every male is noble enough to lend his help in the middle of the night. You must know your presence has brought me great comfort out here.”

His eyes scrunch but he doesn’t respond, perhaps unsure of what response would be safe.

“You see,” With a sigh, you come to a halt. “I’m not very accustomed to feeling vulnerable. We are so far from home in a place I have never been but I still do not enjoy being seen as weak. So I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else but I feel as if I can trust you when I say,” You pause for dramatic effect and will tears to your eyes. “I’m scared.”

Were it an alpha, the essence of your fear would be enough to swoop you into their arms and make an oath of protection. Ke’ve on the other hand is a beta, so his response is more subtle. Yet just as promising when his expression falters and he looks on the verge of sighing again.

“You are safe with us.” And as sure as the sun rises in the morning, so does that inevitable flash of concern spring forth.

“I do feel safer with you.” Just a gentle brush of your fingers against his elbow. So subtle in wake of your shining vulnerability that he doesn’t shrug it off. “I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

A few stray pieces of hair fall over your cheek to frame your depiction of soft spoken innocence. You are perfectly poised like a flower ready to be picked, a delicate beauty that deserves to be protected at all costs. The same disposition that has had beta men falling at your feet time and time again.

They are always enchanted by your demeanor. So much so that when the Olo’ekytan’s daughter suddenly spins the table so she is straddling their waist and taking control, they can’t help but hand the reins over.

“Yes well you…you don’t need to worry.” Ke’ve’s eyes don’t hold the same snare that Neteyam’s do but you can already imagine how pretty they will look rolling to the back of his head when you have his cock in your mouth. Pleasure has a way of rendering a man defenseless, therefore giving you the perfect opportunity to carry out your plans.

With the stealth and precision of a predator stalking its prey you snake your hand up his bicep and over one broad shoulder. Consequently it has your own face inching closer to his wrist where you sensually let his pulse point rub over your throat. It will leave the trace of his scent there, igniting a primal side of him that can be molded perfectly into your designs. “How can I repay you?” You ask, batting your lashes up at him as you begin the slow descent to your knees.

But they never hit the ground.

Sharp pain erupts along your scalp as a hand abruptly grabs a chunk of your hair at the roots. That hold is used to veer you back onto your feet and fall back against a warm chest. “I can think of a few ways.”

Your carefully crafted composure shatters into a hiss as you try to recover from both the shock of being caught and the unforgiving grip Neteyam has in your hair. Even more so, the tingling sensation that brutal hold sends down your spine.

“Ow! Let go!”

“Tell the others I will be having a little talk with my omega.” Neteyam commands, ignoring your useless struggling. “You are dismissed, Ke’ve.” The beta doesn’t need to be told twice, already scurrying to get away.

“Now let’s get you sorted out.” Still keeping his hand tangled where you try to dislodge it, Neteyam drags you further into the mysterious forest. You note that the distance, however, is not quite far enough to completely conceal your whining from the others.

Feet stumbling once that hold is released, you find yourself unceremoniously deposited onto a large boulder. You can spot the cliff’s edge where it drops down into a waterfall and beyond is the rolling landscape of Pandora’s forest. The glimmer of eclipse is slowly shifting into the first ray of sunshine to cast over the horizon.

“You just had to prove me right, tiyawn.” Neteyam tutts, squatting onto his haunches so that he is at your level.

It takes considerable effort to get your brain back online and position yourself into a pose more flattering and fit for a princess. No male has ever handled you so roughly. They wouldn’t dare. But the sting of Neteyam’s tug on your scalp leaves a strange ache behind that has your mind reeling. Trying to put your confident mask back on, you fuss with your hair to get every strand back into place.

“And you just had to act like a barbarian.”

“Did you really believe it was that easy to sneak away from me?”

Your throat runs dry when you meet his eyes. This wasn’t a near successful escape, it was planned. One look at his face and it’s clear that he knew exactly when you left and exactly who was assigned to deter you.

“Can’t a woman pee in peace?” You fumble out, making your last attempt at defending your story.

“I suppose not when it ends in you practically nuzzling at another man's tewng [loincloth] like a little slut.”

Your jaw drops before you can stop it. Eyes ablaze and tail pointed on alert, you are tempted to throw caution to the wind and slap the alpha’s pretty face. No male, in fact no Na’vi, has ever used such a vulgar term to depict you. You’ve had your share of fun among the betas in your clan, but that makes you no less glittering of a gem. And certainly not a slut.

“No man of honor would even think of using such a term, let alone directing it at me.” When you rise up to your full height, Neteyam stands in suit. “Is this why you asked for my hand? Any normal prince, especially the son of Toruk Makto, should have half the women in the clan begging to mate with him. But maybe even they could not see past your arrogant disrespectful bravado, so you had to travel to another clan entirely to find an unknowing prospect.”

“Is that your theory?” Tone deceptively calm, the deep drag of his voice washes over you like silk.

“You may think that you’ve conquered and can now return home with a pep in your step but no matter what you do, there will always be one truth that will haunt you.”

You gulp down the lump in your throat when one of his long strides closes the distance between you. Regardless, you refuse to retreat.

“And what truth is that, princess?”

Your wild eyes shoot to pierce through him.

“That you chose wrong.” You let that statement hang in the air for a beat, hoping it will press down on him in the silence. However it is disappointment that lays a hold on you when his unreadable expression remains in place.

“Is that so?”

He’s close enough to nearly feel the beat of his heart.

“It may be your experience that omegas in your presence bow in submission and shudder beneath that charming grin, but I am not one of them. I am not subject to swooning for or baring my neck to any alpha. I am too independent for your tastes.”

His chest vibrates with a deep chuckle, one that ironically holds no jovial warmth to it. Instead, paired with the sinful curve of his lips, it wraps thick tendrils around you that act as the calm before the storm.

“You’re not independent, princess. You’re a spoiled brat.”

He’s undeterred by your scoff or bat of your hands when he forcefully grasps your chin between two fingers.

“When my father finds out what kind of man you-”

“Your father has done you a great disservice.” Two steps forward and Neteyam has successfully backed you up against the cool stone. “He has given you everything you’ve asked for, let you go entirely unchecked. We can place part of the blame on him for turning you into a spoiled little thing that thinks it only takes a bat of her lashes to get what she wants.”

When your lips part to sneer a nasty comment at him, Neteyam swiftly presses his thumb over them.

“It’s because of this spoiled attitude that you have not properly learned the pleasure of submitting to your nature.” He’s not trying to hide the shadow of his scent over you now, it circles you into a clouded dome. Leaning his head down, his lips just barely whisper against your own that are still trapped beneath his thumb. “You don’t understand the ecstasy of being tamed.”

A warmth pools at the pit of your stomach. You recognize that feeling and what it means. Putting your desire to win this argument aside, it’s clear that now is the time to bow out before this escalates too far.

“Get off.” At first it’s just a whisper. Then when Neteyam’s body remains curled over yours, rock hard and unmoving, your voice rises. “I said get off! You egotistical pervert!” Your cries don’t stop and neither does the useless rain of your fists against his chest.

But then he is snatching your wrists and hooking a hand beneath your thigh to slide you up onto the rock. The stone is cold against your exposed back and ass, your tail becoming trapped beneath your own weight. Neteyam crushes all hope of sitting back up when he cages your smaller form with his own bulking frame.

“Always have to make it difficult, don’t you, tiyawn?”

You fight the urge to squeeze the muscles beneath your captured hands when they land on his chest to push him away.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult if you just got off of my ass for once.”

“Oh but princess that is exactly where I want to be.” That devilish grin is accented by a ray of sunlight painting his features.

Without an inch of personal space it becomes aggravatingly obvious how gorgeous the man above you is. Neteyam is the perfect contrast of broad shoulders and a slim waist shown off by his beautiful woven battle band. His immaculate braids swing down across his cheeks and collarbones to frame his intense eyes, sharp jawline, and lips that were simply made to do sinful things.

Your reflection is cut short when a band begins to wrap around your wrists. Squirm as you might, Neteyam holds no sympathy for your protests as he expertly ties the appendages together. Empty threats. Cries for help. None of them make an ounce of difference.

“Scream as much as you want if you’re that eager to give the others a show.”

That shuts you up in an instant. It confirms your earlier observation of proximity and immediately has you playing back the conversation to guess how much of it that other males have already heard.

“You’re a monster.”

“Hm, and all yours, princess.” A wicked grin across his lips, Neteyam secures your bound wrists to a low branch over the rock. You’re left stretched out and trapped laying across the boulder beneath him.

That cocky expression blanches its color once he draws his nose along your neck. The exact spot you had tricked Ke’ve to scent you. Your heart hammers on its own accord when Neteyam’s wicked smile drops. Mere seconds ago nothing had seemed more appealing than ripping apart the alpha with the lash of your tongue, but now something in you warns to stay still. To stay quiet.

“I was going to wait until we reached Vitraya Ramunong [tree of souls], in light of tradition.” His breath is hot against your neck, a heat that travels like lava down to your very core. “But it seems my little brat can’t wait that long.”

His teeth sink in without warning. It takes a moment for the shock to fizzle out and allow you to feel the pain. Neteyam’s teeth bite and capture the soft flesh there without mercy before his lips suck a dark spot directly over where Ke’ve’s scent used to be.

Your spine arches, hips already bucking without your consent. The only response to your screams and squirming is Neteyam’s own hips pressing you back against the stone. He is ravenous. Biting, sucking, and licking at that one spot until the area has become desensitized to his ministrations.

Your body has spiked from zero to one hundred in a matter of seconds. Your head reels with the whiplash of having the male reprimand you one moment and the next sinking his teeth into a mark terrifyingly close to your mating gland.

“Better.” Neteyam finally murmurs against your neck. He seals the mark with a deceptively tender kiss as you are left short circuiting. Your instincts flare, that primal part of your nature climbing out from under the rock you’ve kept it trapped beneath.

“Are…are you insane? Biting that close-”

“I won’t mark you there tonight, tiyawn. Want to be able to feel you through the bond when that happens.” A curved knuckle runs down your kuru, making your toes curl. “Once we are under the spirit tree together. There are still some traditions I’d like to keep.” He says with a grin that you could almost associate with a charming gentleman, not the same male that just savagely ravaged your throat like a predator of the night.

“But we will need to find a way to get you to behave until then.” You can’t mirror the ease he feels as he speaks. It becomes clear now how dire your circumstances are. You had thought Neteyam wouldn’t dare to put a hand on you without permission but now he has proven to be more than willing to not only touch but leave marks behind. There is no telling where he draws the line.

And you’re scared, just as you should be, but there is something else far more terrifying that plumps into your bloodstream. A dangerous intrigue that borders excitement.

“How do you suggest we do that, princess?”

No matter how hard you try, no humble response willingly bubbles to your lips. Neteyam is still an asshole, gorgeous or not. Alluring or not. No matter how tempting he may be, that doesn’t mean it’s worth exploring the mysterious punishment he has up his sleeve. And you…well you’re still pissed.

“My behavior is nothing in comparison to yours. You-”

A hand comes down on the side of your ass hard enough to have you choking on those words.

“You hit me!” Neteyam simply tilts his head at your accusation.

“Good observation, tiyawn.” Not a hint of apology present. This man is not remorseful, he is proud. “If you keep running your mouth like that I will be forced to do it again. Knowing you, it won’t take long for me to tan that ass red.”

Your father never spanked you as a child. It would break his heart to see his little girl cry the tears it would inevitably provoke. And with your dating experience exclusively being betas, no man has ever tried to right that wrong. Thinking of riding on a pa’li with a red ass now has fear jumbling threats past your lips haphazardly.

“I swear on my-”

His right hand clamps over your mouth. The pressure is hard enough to have you whining beneath his skin.

“That’s enough from you for now.”

There is nothing left for you to do but watch. Body rendered immobile and now your last weapon at your disposal silenced, you are at the utter mercy of the prince. A mercy that does not appear to be afforded any time soon as his other hand trails down to start undoing the knots of your top.

It shouldn’t be as scary as it is, watching string be string get unlooped as your crystal top begins to fall slack. However, this particular intimacy is one you are not accustomed to.

It had started out as just a silly game you had played when you first started dating. Men were often foaming at the mouth to get a proper glimpse of your subtle breasts. It had been an immediate source of amusement as you’d seen how far they were willing to go for only a chance. And even more rewarding when you noticed how easy it was to never follow through with satisfying this desire.

So it continued. It became somewhat common knowledge among your lovers, and any future interested prospects that you keep that part of yourself private. However, you hadn’t meant for it to go on as long as it did. Eventually you would cave to a worthy beta and watch him go feral, but that was before you discovered simply how sensitive your nipples are. It only took a few times of playing with yourself, brought on by your interest in nipple piercings, for you to see how vulnerable that area of you is.

And now it is ironically Neteyam that uncovers that part of you.

He can sense the shift of your scent the moment it happens. With every tug on the feeble strings your essence takes on a darker hue. Pleasure and pain. Arousal and fear. These combinations are ones you have not been properly exposed to. Perhaps were it not for him, you would never have been humble enough to try them.

The last undone tie allows the strung crystals to slide over the curve of your chest before dropping to the floor. What pretty little things you adorn yourself with, yet they do very little to protect you. Because it’s clear to him that in your eyes, protection is never needed. You can not fathom how much you have truly gotten away with.

Prancing around in your little outfits. Torturing men with what they want but can’t truly possess. Expecting the world to shift whatever way you desire with the wave of your hand. It’s laughable how you never imagined to face the consequences of such actions.

You’re a haughty little thing just waiting to be put in your place.

“My brat.” Neteyam smirks, leaning down to place a kiss at the slope between your breasts. Goosebumps ripple over your beautiful azure skin. It’s a visceral reaction to the smallest of his touches and it drives him near insanity. How perfect this pretty body of yours will be as a canvas for his marks. A vessel for his heir.

Fuck, you are beautiful.

Perhaps he can’t entirely blame you for being so arrogant. Your beauty is enough to hold a man captive with just a simple glance. And you’ve taken advantage of that far too many times.

He allows himself to fall captive to it now. Unlike the others, he won’t need to starve after you once you’ve decided you’re done playing with him like a toy. No, you will be bound to him. You will belong to him completely.

“So pretty.” He coos, his lips just barely painting over your right breast. When his bottom lip hover over your nipple he watches in awe as it hardens. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

You’ve gone silent, but he can feel the stutter of your breath beneath his hand. It would be unfair to neglect the other side, so Neteyam takes his time showing your left breast the same gentle attention that has your other nipple following in suit. He’s heard of your reluctance to reveal such pretty breasts to your lovers, but he never imagined it would be due to such sensitivity.

It’s like watching a flower bloom for him. The way you squirm and whine at even the drag of his eyes over your delectable form. Neteyam lets his hand slip from your mouth, no longer willing to explore only with his lips.

His fingertips start a trail down by your navel and ascend up over your stomach and towards your chest at a slow pace. When he finally reaches to gently palm at your right breasts he feels your heartbeat pounding like a drum under his fingers. So many nights he has dreamed of touching you like this, rendering you utterly speechless before he has even started. Now as your lips part and breath becomes labored from his simple touches, there is no sight more delightful.

You are perfect. You have an attitude that is in major need of fixing but even that is simply a beautiful challenge Eywa has created for him. The way you fit in his hands, gently massaging that supple flesh, it’s clear She crafted your body specifically for him too.

The sun has finally breached the line of the horizon and now it sparkles along your chest in a dazzling show. The white crystals woven in your hair remind him of the halos worn by the angels his father has described.

He applies more pressure with his right hand until the plump flesh is spilling between his fingers, giving him the perfect presentation for his salivating mouth. What starts out as an open mouthed kiss a few inches above your nipple quickly turns into sucking that flesh into his mouth until you are writhing. He groans at the sounds you make and when he pulls back to see the purple mark rising along your skin, the sight is enough to have him on the brink of purring in elation.

Neteyam bends forward and starts crafting his brand on the other side so they are a matching set. This time he takes care in placing it further below your left nipple, at the crease where your stomach meets your chest. It will be difficult for you to find a top able to cover up this claim wrought by his teeth, a purposeful decision on his part.

“Tey…mmm… teyam wait!”

He grins at the cute nickname you’ve already coined for him, but that only buys you a few seconds before he is finally puckering his lips around one of your stiff points. The reaction is instantaneous, spine curving and a screech barreling up your throat. He doesn’t start off sucking too hard, instead just enjoys the way you feel in his mouth. Eventually, though, the whines you make are too decadent for him to resist making them ring louder. So he sucks harder at the little point and groans around the sensitive area so that it has vibrations shooting through you.

“Finally being so good to me, tiyawn, aren’t you?” He says, taking a moment to release your nipple with an audible pop. “Laying yourself out for me to enjoy. I knew you could be a good girl.”

You haven’t come to earn this praise yet, but it’s important to leave an alluring snippet that exhibits what could come if you only behave. As much as you may want to fight it, your nature won’t let you escape how good such praise feels. You are a stubborn woman but your body wants to submit to him. There is a part of you, no matter how deep you’ve buried it, that yearns to please your alpha.

He snaps you back into the moment by softly closing his teeth around your left nipple. It takes a hand against your stomach to stop you from rolling onto your side and away from his soft torment.

“It’s too sensitive! Stop!” Your pouted lips beg but your strengthening perfume gives your arousal away. Just as he figured, you’ve yet to experience how beautifully pleasure and pain intertwine. He rolls that bud sensually between his teeth before carefully giving it a tug.

He alternates between tormenting your nipples and savoring the plush curve of your breasts with his hands and mouth. The skin is soft beneath his calloused palms. It has him wondering how it would feel to have that velvety skin squished around his cock and as he fucks your breasts. Neteyam swallows back the pooling saliva on his tongue, a string of it still connecting his lips to where he laid his last mark on your tits. It’s almost tempting enough to forgo his plans altogether and sate his lust driven curiosity, but Neteyam shakes it away.

The two of you will have plenty of time to experiment later.

“Teyam, please no more. It’s too much!” Your pleas have died down in volume. Now they are coated with your labored breath as you try to control the pounding of your heart.

“Too much, princess?” He questions and guides his hand down south to rest over your loincloth. “Or not enough?” When he cups your pussy through the fabric you roll up against him and chase whatever friction he is willing to give.

It’s not nearly enough, he can tell from your disappointed expression when he pulls away entirely. Pupils blown wide and chest heaving to catch your breath, you remain silent as he reaches for the pouch attached to his tewng.

Neteyam pulls out a line of woven crystals, much like the ones you wear in your hair but these were foraged from the caves near his home. There are fastens on either end of the chain that took far too much time for him to craft.

“Is that for me?” Naturally you ask, that pretty face already showing how quick you are to forget what he was doing to you mere seconds ago once a shiny gift is presented. Neteyam fights the curve of his lips and keeps his every from rolling. Always so predictable.

“Just for you, princess.”

He had crafted it after his last visit to your village. Far before the Olangi clan thought the threat of Sky People was great enough to require protection but him and his father had been there to spread the news regardless. He knew before you even spoke that you thought the world was at your feet. Even the way you walked, spoke of a spoiled elegance. And when he had tried to sate his curiosity towards you with a conversation you were nothing but rude and spiteful towards him.

He knew then that you were going to be his, one or another.

And so he started foraging for the crystals that first night back.

“So pretty,” you murmur, voice airy. Those golden eyes narrow as you squint to look at it. Despite your current position and already wrecked voice, a sneaky little smirk forms over your lips. “But you miscounted. My hair is much longer than that.”

He lets you have your moment, watches as you grin up at him as if you have finally landed a critical blow. All for that to sizzle out when he bends down to whisper in your ear.

“Who said anything about your hair?”

The confused scrunch of your features doesn’t last long when he begins running the cool metal of the clamps up and down your right nipple. Nipple clamps are not a traditional erotic tool for the Na’vi so he’s certain you don’t believe your first instinct as to where that is going until he starts to pinch the right one to prepare it.

“Neteyam, no! Get that away-” He clasps his other hand over your mouth again. Always the demands with you. Sooner than later you will learn that begging gets you a lot further with him. It’s a little trickier to prepare with only one hand available but Neteyam manages.

The alpha plants a knee across your pelvis to keep you place while his right hand tugs at your nipples to confirm they are pointed enough to clamp onto. When the first clamp goes on your right nipple, your screeching goes up an octave. You know what to expect better when the left one is attached but that doesn’t diminish your reaction.

Lovely little drama queen you are, the fit that follows is inevitable. He’s tested the clamps and consulted with several Sky People before deciding to use them on you so he knows there isn’t any real damage being done. Still, you are going to squirm and screech and, were it not for his hand, probably shout every insult you can think of at him, because you have never been punished like this. And your tantrums are what has worked for you in the past.

He lets you fight it out as he holds you down. Neteyam doesn’t mind as it gives him time to admire his handy work. The chain of crystal connecting the clamps hang exquisitely between your curves. Those stiff points have turned a new shade of purple as they peek out between the clamp’s teeth.

“Enough.” Neteyam finally quips back, tugging at the chain. A mix between a moan and groan rumbles from your throat. Once his hand has retreated he can hear the sound properly. Keeping his pointer finger curled around the crystal chain, the prince raises a warning brow at you. “Are you done throwing your fit?”

He watches your pupils dilate and lips curl into a pout.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like my gift?”

“It hurts.” You whimper with a quivering bottom lip. It’s difficult to say how genuine the reaction is considering what a good little actress you are.

He nods his head, mocking your pout with a feigned one upon his own lips. That only whips your stare into pointed daggers.

“It’s supposed to, tiyawn. That’s why it is called punishment.” He kisses right above your left clamped nipple. “A term you may become very familiar with if you don’t fix your attitude.”

Pulling back from where you glare, Neteyam settles himself beside you on his side. His left arm props against the rock to casually support his head while the right drags down your torso. The alpha’s ears perks at the little hiss you release when he just barely brushes the chain but he continues down south.

Another time when the moon is still out he will kiss every little tanhi that dots your precious body until you cry for more. For now, he is only focused on one location.

Neteyam can sense the heat of your core the second his fingertips slip beneath your loincloth’s waistband. You are soft and wet, just like he had imagined so many times. Flared nostrils greedily inhale your scent as he pauses to cup your entire pussy. Much like before, you can’t help but react to his touch. With a little more pressure in his firm hold, a trickle of wetness drops onto his palm.

Fuck, you are inescapable!

You may believe he is to blame for this arrangement but the truth is you are the one that has trapped him since the moment he caught a whiff of your essence. It is him that has been utterly destroyed by his constant thoughts of you.

“But I know that isn’t all there is to it, is there?” He continues, softly kissing your shoulder. “It’s not just pain you feel. There’s something else.”

Your poor bottom lip has been utterly abused by your sharp teeth. Whatever sacrifice it takes for you to keep from admitting the truth to him. He discards your tewng with one hand.

“A unique sense of-” He spreads your folds to suddenly massage your peeking clit with his pointer finger, stealing a gasp from you. “Pleasure.” Neteyam finishes with a grin.

You turn to putty in his hands. The tension riddled along your muscles unravel as he rubs circles along your clit with just the right amount of pressure. When he clasps the chain between his teeth and tugs your eyes fly open, taking in your surroundings as if the pleasure has made you forget where you are entirely.

“Can’t space out on me yet, princess. We still have more to discuss.”

Talking appears to be the last thing on your mind, hips already rolling to hump against his hand. So close to the edge already that it causes a burst of pride to warm in his chest. Warm thighs bracket his hand as if afraid it will pull away at any moment. Smiling softly at the display, Neteyam smoothly covers your upper body with his own, nose to nose in a matter of seconds.

There is nowhere for you to hide now, every microreaction bared for him. Those vibrant eyes remain locked on his own, but he catches the way they occasionally dart to his lips before returning.

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Your lips against his are like decadent chocolate, the swirl of his tongue around your own is another burst of flavor he simply can not get enough of. And so the prince swirls the kiss into a languid roll of passion that leaves your lips ruby red and breaths coming out in puffs once he pulls away.

His hand is drenched in your juices. So much so that when he switches to his thumb rubbing your clit and pointer finger tapping at your entrance, those soaking walls capture him at the first sign of intrusion. Your tight heat sucks in the first digit, pulsing around him greedily as your eyes roll back.

Another tug to the chain and he has your attention again.

“Let’s start with an easy question, tiyawn.” He starts. “What were you going to do to Ke’ve?”

Smart little thing that you are, or perhaps manipulative is a more accurate term, you act as if the pleasure has completely swept you away from understanding him. Beautiful little whimpers rumble in your throat and a look of pure lust crosses over your deceivingly innocent features.

Neteyam isn’t willing to wait to see how you act your way out of this.

His finger stops curling and thumb halts before his other hand pushes your thigh upward so that he can land a crackling spank to your ass.

“Princess,” Neteyam drawls out in a mocking sing-song voice. “I’m running out of patience.”

The charade drops but your body trembles from the sudden lack of stimulation.

“I was going to distract him.” It’s spoken so softly that his ears twitch and strain to make sure he hears you correctly. The finger inside of you restarts, curling up against your g spot while his thumb torments that bundle of nerves from the other side.

“That’s a nice way of putting it.” He slots his face against the slope of your throat. The fragrance that is so uniquely you is especially strong here so there is no stopping the way his tongue naturally flicks out to draw a wet line from your collarbones to jaw. “Let me be more specific. How were you going to distract him?”

The context clues were clearly enough to put two and two together, but he still demands that you say it out loud. The first step to developing remorse is acknowledging what was done.

When you take your time thinking up a strategic answer he cruelly pulls his finger out and jams a second one back with it on the thrust. Your toes curl and your face is turned to bury in your hair.

“Princess.”

No response, just a small whine as he scissor his long digits to stretch those velvet walls.

“Were you going to suck his cock?”

Your silence is rewarded with his hand stilling. The disappointment has your lips parting to no doubt say something far outside of a good girl’s vocabulary, but one raised brow has you falter in that decision.

He twirls the middle of the chain around one finger so it is shortened and with each word he tugs it back sharply.

“Were. You. Going. To. Suck. His. Cock.”

“Ah mm Yes!” You gasp, eyes squeezed shut but pussy wildly pulsing around his fingers.

“That’s what I thought.” He revels in the naive relief you exhibit when he begins his ministrations between your thighs again. How cute of you to think that a little truth would forgive your earlier sins.

Neteyam prowls down your body, savoring the slide of your skin against his own until he is settled between your thighs that are now pushed over his shoulders and he has an unobstructed view of your greedy cunt. While diligently pushing you closer to an orgasm, the alpha takes special care to decide where his next visual claim will be laid. He decides on two spots.

The first one is atop your upper thigh where it will be in clear view of anyone you come across and the second is harshly sucked into the sensitive flesh of your left inner thigh.

“You will never walk upon Omatikay soil without my marks.”

You don’t appear to hear him.

“Oh mm Neteyam…feels so good.”

It might just be the first good thing you’ve said all day and his inner alpha purrs in deep satisfaction. Unfortunately for you, punishment comes before rewards.

Retracting his hand entirely, Neteyam swipes the remnants of your sticky arousal over your inner thighs, painting his beautiful canvas. There is no time to complain at the loss before he is running the flat of his tongue from your convulsing pussy up over your clit and even navel.

That wet muscle dances along and between your folds in practiced precision. Your essence tantalizes his very tastebuds until he is producing so much saliva that it is difficult to say how much of the wet mess at your apex is made from him versus you. He supposes in some ways he is responsible for both.

The prince’s lips shine with the evidence when he pulls back to speak.

“Do good girls do that?”

“Huh…what?”

“Do good girls try to suck cocks that are not their alpha’s?” He reiterates, weaving a firm steel into his voice.

“I…uh…no,” Comes your timid response.

Those thick lashes flutter when he returns to feasting on your delicious cunt. It only lasts for a second, however, before he is speaking against the soft skin of your thighs.

“That’s right, tiyawn. Good omegas know who they belong to.”

Your body jolts as if stung by lightning when his thumb rubs at your sensitive nub again. He can see it in your face now. His omega is just barely tipping on the edge of release.

“So what do you think you should do about it?”

Breath borderline erratic the muscles in your legs tense in anticipation of that wonderful release. The same one that he roughly rips away when you don’t respond, not daring to even breath across your cunt.

“No no please! I’m so close! Just a little longer. I wanna come!”

“What do you think you should do about it?” Neteyam repeats, tampering down the smirk that threatens to cross his lips when he sees the way you whine and tugs at your bonds.

“For…for what?” You’re so genuinely confused he has to hold back a coo at how adorable you look.

“What do you think you should do to make up for trying to suck his cock?”

That little head of yours is working overtime to craft an intelligent response. It becomes all that much harder when he starts playing with your clit again, keeping you tantalizingly close to the edge but never over.

“I…I could…I..”

“Yes?” Neteyam considers himself very patient but he is forced to halt his touch when you take too long to respond and get far too close to coming.

“No wait! Why did you stop?” Your foot stomps against the rock like the spoiled brat that you are, so utterly confused and crestfallen at being denied for the first time. Has any male ever even tried to edge you? If your response is anything to go off of, it’s clear that he will be the first to teach you the joys of orgasm denial too.

“Answer my question, oeyӓ tiyawn [my love].”

Frustrated tears run from the corner of your eyes and this time Neteyam is positive they are genuine. Your little pout is broken by sharp teeth torturing your bottom lip again while you try to get a hold of yourself to respond properly.

“I…I could suck your cock.” It comes out almost as a question but the prince is eager to take it.

“There you go.” He hoists himself up to deposit a kiss on your lips before shrinking back down and continuing a very special kiss between your legs. Your pretty thighs immediately clamp around his head, shaking so hard he can feel the vibrations. As much as he wants to taste your release properly he can’t pass up the opportunity to see your face for the first time as you come.

So the alpha escapes the cage of your thighs and replaces his tongue with skilled fingers the fuck up into your pussy and play with that precious bundle of nerves. He kisses his way up your body, this time being mindful of the crystal chain, until he is nuzzling against your cheek. The woodsy essence of his own scent will integrate there, letting everyone know that you have been claimed.

“Such a smart girl my omega is. So good for her alpha.”

That is your undoing. Like a woven tapestry he watches you unravel into an explosion of pure ecstasy. All of this time you’ve denied yourself the wondrous caress of an alpha’s praise. It’s left you with no defenses once finally showered with his sweet words. Neteyam groans deeply beneath your whiny scream, savoring the way his hand is now properly drenched as he rides you through the orgasm.

You don’t register when Neteyam pulls away. In fact your head is so high above the clouds that it’s only when your hands drop like a dead weight against the boulder that you realize Neteyam has cut your bonds.

It feels as if the world is a hazy blur of color, everything so vibrant and wondrous as you come down from that high. Even the simple kisses Neteyam gives to each of your wrists feels like drinking sunshine. In fact it is so incredible that you instantly crave more.

More of him.

More of this electric pleasure.

Anything and everything that has brought you into such a happy state.

However, when the prince comes to carefully help you off the boulder and back onto your feet, it’s suddenly clear what it will take to get another taste of cloud nine. And in this case, that means tasting him.

Neteyam hardly needs to prompt you onto your knees. Whatever is brewing inside of you is now your new addiction and somehow being at eye level with his crotch has never seemed more appealing. Your alpha wants you to atone for your sins, perhaps then he will grant you another orgasm. Well if taking him down your throat is redemption then you are going to be good at this game.

Past experience is the foundation of your confidence.

Hands still shaking with aftershock, they fumble to get a hold of his tewng. You’re about to catch hold of the waistband and simply rip the fabric down when strong hands catch your wrists. You look up at him in bewilderment. What type of man stops a woman on her knees second before he is about to get his dick sucked?

“We’re not going to do this your way, princess. If you want to make it up to me then you will learn to follow my instructions.”

In some ways it’s borderline insulting. What is wrong with the way you suck a male off? No man has ever complained. And if they did, how would Neteyam even know? He’s never experienced nor witnessed what you do. But of course as an alpha he must believe he knows best.

Typical.

Those thoughts don’t bubble into words, however, because as much as you would like to prove how fucking fantastic you are all on your own, you don’t want it more than another orgasm. Preferably by the means of his skilled tongue.

When he drops your wrists you shift uncomfortably, both impatience and the tight press of the clamps around your nipples creates the undeniable need to squirm. All while Neteyam simply watches you from above, perfectly calm and entertained by your position.

That is until you go to shift the clamps and your wrists are immediately snagged again.

“Did I say you could touch that?” He asks, that smooth voice taking on a smoky edge. Just when you are about to pout, however, Neteyam pulls your hands to place them along his upper thighs. You don’t need to be told twice. Running your hands along the smooth skin and squeezing the corded muscle there is a nice enough distraction to silence your objections.

That is, until a new distraction presents itself.

His long fingers carefully start to undo the ties of his tewng. Done at such a leisured pace it’s obvious he is determined to torture you, even pausing at one point to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before finally lets the cloth fall away.

Excitement quickly mingles with apprehension when you see what you are faced with.

Beta males have always satisfied you with their size, just enough to make you choke a little and hit that special spot inside of you. However, you’ve forgotten entirely what it means to be with an alpha. Neteyam’s cock curves up against his lower abs, fully hard and already sporting a drop of precum. But even the thought of fitting your mouth around that bulbous head, let alone trying to get the massive length down your throat makes your ears begin to twitch.

All confidence quickly drains from your face.

“Are you ready to listen now?”

Finally peeling your gaze away from his twitching cock, you look up at him to see him staring down at you with the same intensity.

“Yes.” You whisper, suddenly grateful for promised instruction now that you’ve been properly thrown for a loop. Perhaps you should have branched out to fucking with alphas at least once, just to know the difference properly. Because now you feel like a proper virgin waiting for their first lesson on giving a blow job.

Surprisingly there is one feeling that rises higher than your trepidation.

Curiosity.

Somehow the challenge before you sparks a further interest. A need to map out every part of his body until it has become less mysterious. Until it feels familiar beneath your hands.

And as if Neteyam can read your thoughts, he says, “You can explore now, tiyawn. Take your time.”

Take your time. Not the direction you would expect from a male whose cock is fully hard and jerking against his lower stomach. You had thought all alphas to be forceful, wanting to claim and fuck in a quick and dirty fashion. But Neteyam stays true to his word when your hands slowly travel up his thighs.

You are given more than enough time to familiarize yourself with the area. You start small, running the pads of your fingers down his muscular abdomen to feel each and every muscle there. Then once a little bit of confidence has been regained they come to rest around his base.

The dark blue shade of his skin elegantly bleeds into a beautiful purple the closer to the tip it goes. All to then end on a subdued shade of pink along his head and balls. Even without the moonlight you can make out the small tanhi that dot along his skin. They lead along the side, creating a trail beside the thick vein lacing the underside of this cock before fanning out around the tip. As if they were perfectly crafted to entice your eyes towards the prize.

Neteyam’s tail lashes the first time you run your fingers over him. His arousal is an essence that infiltrates the very air around you like a thick cloud. Surely he must be anxious for you to hurry up, but the prince keeps his body strictly in place for your exploration.

It is only when he catches your tongue swiping over your bottom lip that he speaks up.

“You can use your tongue, tiyawn.” With an inaudible gasp you pull back in surprise, practically forgetting he was there. An amused grin shows off his pearly white teeth, never faltering as you hesitate for a moment. “Are you feeling shy, princess?”

“No.” You bite back even as your stomach does a somersault.

“Remember, I will guide you. No need to stress.” His fingers run through your scalp and in spite of how good that feels you rear back and glare at him.

You don’t need help. And you sure as hell are not shy. So what if you are a little caught off guard? That does not give him the right to treat you like an omega virgin ripe for the picking.

So you draw forward and boldly draw the flat of your tongue slowly from the base to tip. Much like he had done between your own thighs. Because much like him, you are not afraid and you are not one to hand the reins over easily.

What you do not anticipate is how the taste of him blossoms over your tastebuds. It sends a thrill through you that is difficult to conceal as you go in for another taste. It gets sloppy very quickly. The moment you try to take the head into your mouth, your nerves get the better of you and that ends up making you draw back.

Just in time as Neteyam slots a hand in your dark locks and grabs hold of the roots. “Why are you rushing, omega?”

“I am not.”

“Follow my directions. No need to prove yourself.” He says, but he already wears a crooked smirk.

It continues like this back and forth until you are finally tired of having your head yanked back by your hair so you wait for his instructions. Neteyam is meticulous in the way he has you explore, the way he forces you to taste him before even giving you the chance to take him into your mouth.

But when you do finally take in the first few inches your inner omega springs forth without reserve. You feel every ridge and vein of his cock as they slip past your outstretched lips. And that stretch, that utterly deniable feeling of being stretched full, is what has you drawing in for more.

Before now being on your knees has always felt like a place of power. You’ve riddle men down to whimpering messes just by the skilled trace of your tongue. You’ve swallowed everything they’ve had to give while they’ve sung curses to the sky. It is them that is rendered entirely insatiable as you hold their pleasure in the palm of your hand.

It doesn’t feel that way now.

It’s hard to determine what he awakens within you but every time you are pulled off of his cock and told to take a moment to breathe, it is you that feels insatiable. You figured it would get better once Neteyam fell deep enough into his own ecstasy but somehow the evidence of his pleasure only escalates your own addiction. You can never get enough of him.

Never will you tire of seeing his magnificent neck on display when he throws his head back with a rumbled groan. Never will you suck down the taste of him enough to satisfy your carnal desires. And never will there be a more magnificent feeling than the wash of his praise over you as your throat contracts and you gags around him.

It is him that leaves you ravenous.

“All the way down now, princess. That’s it, you can take it.”

You’d take just about anything this man says at gospel at this point. A fact that is evident by the way you no longer hesitate to sheath him down your throat when commanded. And when those sinfully gorgeous hips start to move, you fight every need for breath and simply let him fuck your throat without complaint.

In fact it is you that complains when you are given a chance to breathe, tears streaking down your face and drool coating your chin.

“No whining.” Neteyam tsks, wagging a finger playfully. It would normally piss you off but now it only registers as the absence of praise. So when he continues to the pattern, moaning and bucking his hips only to pull off seconds later, you bite back the urge to cry and beg for his cum. “Just get me wet, princess. Tongue out. There you go.”

It makes no sense, but then again that seems to be the theme when it comes to Neteyam. He demands you suck him off only to deny you the pleasure of feeling him shoot down your throat. Your pretty face is nothing but a mess of tears and spit when he finally rears you back for the last time. For a moment it seems possible he will jerk himself off and finish across your face or pinched nipples but his next direction has your tail tucking.

“There’s my good girl. Now stand up for me.”

“Neteyam.” You whine but he is quick to grab hold of that crystal chain and force you to your feet as your nipples ache.

“Are you still wet for me, omega? Spread your legs.” He slides a hand between your thighs to inspect the evidence of just how aroused you truly are. “Very good girl.” He grins against your ear, as if he didn’t already know how desperate he has made you.

It’s only a second of attention to your clit before he is taking your hand and dragging you through the forest.

Neteyam has always been known for being meticulous. Or in Lo’ak’s words, obsessive. He has lived his life with a plan and great attention to detail. So when he has you following him, your hand in his own, he can’t help but look for the perfect spot to take you. The ideal place where he can admire you spread out for him and finally experience what it is to be inside of that sweet little body.

He’s pleased to find you put up no fuss when he coerces you onto your stomach with your face down and ass up. In fact, your spine curves as you look back at him, a seductive gleam in your eyes that says you are still not above playing games to get what you want.

“M’ready.” You sigh against the grass, tail curling upwards to give him access. It may as well be the equivalent of snapping your fingers in a fetching command. Regardless, Neteyam decides to let you off this time, especially when you are creating the most gorgeous display for him.

Your pussy clenches around open air, your cunt an absolute mess that has dripped down between your thighs. There is no mistaking what you want.

But that doesn’t mean that is what you’re going to get.

You don’t immediately react when he uses both hands to knead and spread your plump cheeks apart, but when he begins to push a finger at your tightest hole, you squeak and draw back. With a stern hand gripping your hip he pulls you back against him where he kneels. Tentatively you trust him once more only to squirm when he only sticks his fingers into your pussy in order to collect your slick arousal and spread it between your cheeks.

“Neteyam!”

“Mawey, princess. You’ll like it, I promise.” And you will, despite your better judgment.

“No, not there!” Were it not for the hazy glow he has you in now you surely would claw his eyes out for even suggesting such a thing but with his thumb reaching down to rub at your sensitive clit, your defenses are greatly weakened.

“And why not, tiyawn?”

“I want you to fuck me.” You drawl with a whine.

“And I am.” Neteyam slinks up so his chest is pressed against your back, pushing away your hair so he can whisper in your ear. “I am going to fuck my spoiled brat until the only words she can manage to utter are thank you and my name.”

You sputter at his sensual words, pussy trying to clamp around the finger that swirls through your juices.

“But that’s…t-that’s not what I mean.”

“Are you nervous, tiyawn?”

“N-no.”

“No male has ever tried to stretch this little hole before, have they?”

You simply attempt to tuck your face away from him as it turns a lovely shade of red. Neteyam grins and kisses your cheek.

“I am going to take every first you have left, princess. I will fuck all of your holes over and over again, including this naughty little hole.” A shudder ripples through your trapped frame. “Your greedy pussy too but the first time I do that we will bonded beneath Vitraya Ramunong so until then…” He grips your hip to keep you in place when his lubed finger finally starts pushing past that clenching rim.

“Breathe oeyӓ tiyawn.” He hushes your whines. It takes considerable effort to coax you into relaxing for him but Neteyam finds that the right amount of praise and gentle kisses seems to get the job done.

Fuck, you are so incredibly tight! It feels as if you are trying to cut off the circulation in his fingers as he adds another. His heart races at those pulsing walls around his cock. You do nothing to aid his patience as little pants filtering from your lips and soon your eyes are fluttering closed.

You won’t want to admit it, but this new pleasure has you entirely hooked. A strange sensation no doubt, and even uncomfortable at times he can tell as you struggle to take a third finger but so too do you eventually start pushing your hips back against the intrusion.

Holding you in place is no longer required, allowing his other hand to slip to the front of your body and resume strumming your clit. Grass becomes intertwined with the sparkling crystals in your hair due to the way you keep turning your head to whine and squirm.

“I wish you could see how perfect you look like this. Sweet little ass sucking in my fingers like it was made for this. I knew I’d see you like this someday, my pretty brat learning to behave.”

“F-fuck you.” You sputter.

Neteyam can’t even find it within himself to be mad when you are clenching around him like this. He’ll take care of that naughty mouth soon, but for now he is content to focus on making your body fully submit to him.

“As you wish, omega.”

The prince pulls his fingers out and makes sure to spread more of your natural lube over his cock. He feels like he could bust any moment just looking at your hole clenching at the loss. The gleam in your eyes when he lines the head of his cock up to your tightest hole gives him all the information he needs to know.

“Teyam!” You gasp just before his head makes it past the entrance.

“Doing so good for me, omega. Stay nice and relaxed.”

“It’s not going to fit.” The protest is greatly undermined by the way your pussy leaks juices down your thigh.

“Don’t worry, princess. I’ll make it fit.”

And true to his word, Neteyam patiently rears forward and rubs sinful circles over your clit until his pelvis is cushioned by your plush ass.

“Oh my Eywa!” You quiver, thighs no longer doing the work to keep you up.

“What was it you said about getting off your ass?”

“You fucking…Oh…asshole.” Your insults are barely tangible as he begins with shallow thrusts. “Oh my…oh…aahh.”

“Different than you thought, isn’t it?” He smirks, but even he has to close his eyes and take a moment to breathe. Your walls cinch around him so tightly it feels as if you're trying to strangle his cock. Even his shallow thrusts take considerable effort, even more difficult not to prematurely fill you with his seed every time those gummy walls pulse. “Deep breathes. Let yourself enjoy it.”

“M-more.”

His ears perk, wondering if he has misheard you.

“What was-”

“More! Move now! Move fucking now I swear-” The air is punched from your lungs when he harshly rears back to the tip before plunging himself all the way inside again. The noise that escapes you is one he has never heard before and he knows for a fact that it rings loud enough through the trees for the others to detect.

Grasping a handful of hair he pulls you up onto your knees so that your back is flush against his chest. From this vantage point he can see the crystal chain sparkling in the sunlight.

“Is that any way to ask for what you want?” He rumbles against your ear.

The sound of clapping skin echoes through the forest as you eagerly push yourself back against his now brutal pace.

“Teyamteyamteyam,” Comes your endless spew, head thrown back against his shoulder. He’s too lost in his own ecstasy to chew you out for not answering his question. Instead he roughly manhandles you off of his cock and pushes you to lay down on your back.

“But-”

Legs thrown around his waist he sinks back inside to the hilt. “You need to learn some fucking patience, princess.”

“I’m sorryyyyy!” You drawl but those little hands are already grasp at his biceps, demanding that he slots himself closer. Looking down he swears he can practically see his cock moving in your stomach.

“How are these pretty tits doing, hm?” Swooping down, he leaves sloppy kisses around your secured nipples, groaning when your fingers claws at his hair to pull him closer. “Tell me the truth now, princess. Tell me how much you love me my cock in your ass.”

He knows you're far gone when a response comes back without any fight. “I love..ngh..ah…I love your cock in my ass. Don’t stop, alpha. Pleasepleaseplease.”

“Take a breath for me.” He commands softly and the second you comply he undoes both claps in tandem. In some ways he has heard that taking them off is more painful than putting them on. If that is true, you must have a secret love for such pain because you bare down on him so hard that it takes everything within him not to bust inside of you.

“Fuck!” You curse, yanking him down impossibly closer. “Neteyam!”

“Good girl, princess. My good girl.” He murmurs between sloppy kisses laid on your chest. He licks gently over your pointed nipples in efforts to soothe them.

Neteyam’s own patience is quickly unraveling but he wants to come in time with you. He wants you to squirt across him as he paints your walls white. So with his own breaths coming out in pants and hips ricketing at a desperate speed, he reaches between you and assaults that little bundle of nerves.

“Come on, brat. Do as you're told for once and come for me.”

You steal the very air from his lungs. Your silky walls milk him dry as you come around him. Stars dot his vision and his abdomen flexes at the pure pressure of his own release. He spills himself inside of you as your nails dig into his shoulder blades.

When he finally does come down from that high, your grip won’t release. His name is a whispered mantra on your lips as you pull his heavy body atop of yours. He falls without resistance, crushing you beneath him.

You’re overwhelmed. It makes him both proud and spiteful that no other male has truly managed to get you into this floaty state before. From the way you claw at him as if he is the very oxygen you rely on, it’s clear you don’t know how to handle such new intense emotions. To think you’ve gone so many years without truly satisfying your omega.

“I’ve got you, omega. Your alpha’s here.” He tries to prop himself up on an elbow to relieve some of his body weight from you, but that has your panic rising. With an endless draw of sweet nothings he presses himself back down just in time for your lips to demand his.

That anxiety gradually smoothes away the longer he indulges the impromptu makeout session. When his tongue swirls around yours, your movements become more leisurely. Even the very nature of the kiss becomes lazy while you softly play with his neat braids.

“Teyam…”

“Yes princess?” He checks to make sure your breathing has finally turned back to normal after pulling away.

“I’m ready to sleep.” You say as a matter of fact.

“No tiyawn we still-” It’s too late. Chest somehow managing to rise and fall beneath his weight and eyes fluttered closed, you are dead to the world. Very typical fashion for you to simply state your wants as reality without waiting for any protests.

He rolls his eyes fondly before carefully situating both of you onto your sides. His legs feel like thin vines walloping in the wind. Neteyam has to hold back a groan when he finally manages to slip out of you. Bathing in the sunlight with you tucked against his side, he allows himself one moment to recover and bask in the feeling.

And when that moment is gone, he does everything in his power to dress and clean up both of you without disturbing your slumber. Your hair is still tangled and the echoing screams are sure to be enough evidence of what has happened between you two but when he walks out carrying you bridal style, he playfully glares at the other males who are anxious to make their teasing comments. They will beat him up about it later, for now it is important that you sleep.

With narrowed eyes and a hiss he demands their silence before he situates you in front of him on the pa’li. Facing sideways on the horse you snuggle closer in your sleep, body shivering. You only wake for a second so that he can slip his thick poncho over the both of you. This way you are kept warm and eyes are shielded from the sun as you sleep.

“Well?” Tak’nal, his second in command, asks with a raised brow.

“Problem solved.” Neteyam says simply. “Let’s go home.”

Writing this felt like a fever dream😂🫠 Please don't be shy, let me know what you think😚💗

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