#finger leather coral

[critter-creature-or-beast]

Image by Derek Keats, CC BY 2.0

[mills-73]

Don’t Stop

After 30 years in another dimension, Stanford is quite inexperienced in the women department, although he does know how to pleasure you quite well.

TAGS: 18+, smut; dude is touch-starved, do you see where this is going? mild humiliation (you tease him and he gets horny), p in v, cunningligous

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

You never knew Stan had a twin brother up until recently.

You came into work, seeing double, thinking you had some serious brain damage, before Stan explained the situation to you. His name was Stanford—which confused you until that was also explained—and he’d been trapped in another dimension for thirty years. Heaven knows that alone threw you for a loop.

Dimension? Portals? Total baloney. But hey, it’s Gravity Falls, so it’s 99% likely to be true. And with one look at Ford, you believed it instantly.

He truly looked like he was out of place here, like he spent so long somewhere else that he didn’t know how to fit in anymore. He was paranoid and definitely had a loose screw or something with the way he tore apart the Mystery Shack “just in case he’s here.” You had no idea who this “he” person could be, but you didn’t question it.

Stan finally, after months of being here and begging him to let you in on the secrets of the Mystery Shack, finally spilled the beans to you. You soaked up every word with a smile on your face.

When Ford actually noticed that you were in the room with them, he stopped dead in his tracks and just kind of stared at you, a small tint of coral flowing over the bridge of his nose. You could barely see it because of his glasses, but then his cheeks puffed a little and you knew he was embarrassed about what you just witnessed him doing.

You introduced yourself to him, attempting to shake his six-fingered hand. He politely refused. You and Stan shared a look of unease but otherwise left Ford alone for the time being.

You went about your day, Stan leading a group of tourists through the museum as you sat at the counter and observed Ford looking at every object in the room. If there was anything yellow or triangle shaped he threw it away despite your protests.

He seemed a little weird, you thought. Handsome as fuck, but weird. Especially when he’d just stare at you when he thought you weren’t looking, almost as if he didn’t think you were real. You didn’t think it was creepy or anything, but almost cute, maybe. He seemed so interested in you, squinting his eyes, tilting his head, even going as far as to come up to you and poke your shoulder. You only raised an eyebrow at him when he did that and he rushed out an apology and quickly left. You didn’t see him for a few days after that.

When you did, he carried a worn, brown leather journal in his hands. He sat in the gift shop with you and wrote in it for the rest of the day, giving you the occasional glance over his glasses.

You wanted to know what his deal was with you, but you couldn’t really outright ask him. He probably just felt weird being around people he didn’t really know all that well. Although, even if that was the case, why would he actively sit in a room with them? You decided not to think too much about it or your head was going to explode.

What you were really curious about was what he was writing. Stan had told you yesterday that he wrote three journals documenting the paranormal creatures and anomalies he’s found throughout his time in Gravity Falls. It sounded interesting enough, and you wanted to ask him about everything he knew. But he had just come back from being in another dimension, so you thought it’d be best to give him some space before you bombard him with question upon question.

For the remainder of the day, he didn’t talk to you. And he wouldn’t for a few weeks. But he was always keeping an eye out.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Your interest is piqued at very best when it comes to the mind of Stanford Pines. Him and that damn journal he keeps on him at all times now has you tracking his every movement when he’s around, trying your damnedest to get a peek at what he’s writing. But whenever you get close enough he snaps it shut and immediately pretends he's finished with whatever he was doing.

Now you’re even more curious.

How can you make him leave that journal behind for just a few moments so you can take a peek inside? You figure he’s not stupid enough to leave it behind if he goes somewhere, so you ask Stan to swipe it for you while he’s sleeping.

“You owe me twenty bucks, kid.”

The next day, Stan slips you the journal, holding his hand out for the money you owe him. You sigh and slap it in his hand.

“Tell no one.”

You roll your eyes and sneak off to the roof to read it. You feel a little bad about invading his privacy like this, but you have to know what he’s writing about all the damn time. It’s like a plague that can only be cured by reading the journal's contents.

You open it to the first page and your lips part in a gasp.

There’s multiple doodles of what looks like you scattered around, your name repeated over and over and then crossed out. You flip the page. It’s a journal only dedicated to you, your behavior, drawings of your face. There’s one page in particular that looks as if Ford went on a deep dive off the dark end.

Ford seems fascinated with you. You trace the ink lines of his pen with your finger, your eyes flickering over each word. He mentions at one point that he doesn’t think you’re real, going as far as to say you’re a succubus sent to make him lose his mind. Which is a little far out, but it makes you laugh. A sex demon? Really?

The other things he says about you is a little…weird to say the least.

“Could this be another one of Bill’s tricks? Is he trying to control me by using her? I need to check her eyes.”

The phrase “look at her eyes” is repeated over and over again across countless pages. More drawings here and there and comments about how he can’t stop thinking about you. He expresses he understands what’s happening to him so he’s writing all of it down, watching you for the better part of his day just to see if he can figure you out.

It’s kind of cute.

You assume that because he’s been gone for so long he doesn’t know how to approach you to actually try and talk to you. Or maybe he just likes observing from a distance.

Whatever the case, you snap the journal closed and stare off into the forest.

You have an opportunity to tease him for the stuff you’ve found, but is that too cruel? He’d blush so beautifully if you ever told him what you found out.

You think for a minute.

It’s not that cruel.

With a smirk, you climb back down the latter to the gift shop, spotting Ford turning over everything in sight. You know what he’s looking for, so you just stand there and smile.

“Looking for this?” You wave the journal around, watching his back stiffen and his eyes widen.

“H-How did you get that?”

You shrug your shoulders, flipping it open. Ford rushes for you and snatches it out of your hands, holding it close to his chest. His face is pink and his eyes look fearful.

“Very interesting topics you chose to write about. Is that your latest research?” You tease, stepping closer to him.

Ford swallows thickly. “You—You weren’t supposed to see that. How did you even—?” He blush deepens, a hand reaching to scratch at the back of his neck.

You feign innocence and smile sweetly at him. “I’m very curious to know about this succubus. I thought they were just myth?” He looks around as if he’s hoping someone will come in and save him from his embarrassment. “It’s cute you thought I was one. I’m very honored you see me like that, Ford.”

“It’s not what it looks like! I promise,” he raises his voice. “

“Then what is it like, Ford? Hm?” You reach your hand out, running your fingers down the side of his face. You delight in his shiver. “Because it seems to me that you like me.”

Ford stutters over his words, his eyes flickering to your lips. “I don’t know what you mean.”

You shrug. “If you say so.”

You begin to walk around him, ending the conversation, but he grabs you by the arm and stops you, whispering a soft “Wait.”

Your eyes meet and you smile. “Yes?”

“What…What didn’t think of it?”

“Of the journal?” He nods. You smile. “It was interesting.”

He’s silent, looking at your lips as his tongue darts out and wets his own. You lean in, whispering against the shell of his ear. “Do you like me, Ford?”

His gulp is audible. “I’d say I’m…I’mintrigued by you.”

“Only intrigued?” Your fingers run down his arm to his hand, your thumb running over his knuckles. His intake of breath makes you smirk. “I think you’re a bit more than that, handsome.”

After a few moments he admits "I find you stimulating."

You giggle at him. You turn you head so your lips are inches apart, loving how he eyes your mouth with ferocious need. "How stimulating?"

Without a seconds thought, he crashes his lips against yours, dropping his journal to the ground so he can grip your hips in his hands. You gasp in surprise but simmer into the kiss.

He's a little sloppy with it but you don't mind all that much, kissing him back with enough fervor that has him moaning into your mouth.

Ford pushes you up against the wall of the Shack, whimpering breathlessly as he bites at your bottom lip. Your hands come up to wrap around his neck, your fingers deftly running over the ends of his hair. He moans and begins to pepper kisses down your jaw and to your neck.

"Ford," you moan, trying to get his attention. "Ford, wait. We can't do this here."

He murmurs something under his breath before dragging you by your hands to another room of the shack. It's his bedroom.

You look at him, noting the need planted all over his face. You never really thought of him like this before, but seeing him actually want you like a crazed mad-man has your heart stuttering in your chest.

Before you know it, he’s on you again, pushing you towards the bed and climbing on top of you. His hips rut against yours as he licks into your mouth, his hands slipping underneath the hem of your shirt. He seems so desperate for you, and you guess spending thirty years without someone to fuck time to time would have its effects on someone. Hell, you don’t even know if you could go thirty years without sex.

The feel of his fingers on your skin sends a jolt of fire to your core, your heart rate picking up as you realize how far he wants to go with this. His erection is pressing against your thigh, so unbelievably hard that you understand his neediness.

“Your skins so soft,” he whispers against your lips, giving you one last chaste peck before sitting up, admiring you from above. “Do you want to do this with me? Because I really…” he gazes down your body. “I swear you put a spell on me or something.”

You laugh at his remark, sitting up on your elbows. “I want this.”

At your consent, he kisses you again, his hands roaming over every inch your body. You arch into his touch, sighing into his mouth when his thumbs run across your nipples.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, a little unsure. He tweaks at each bud, a shiver in running down your spine.

“Yes,” you breathe. “It’s perfect, Ford.”

He slips your shirt over your head, tossing it to the side, leaving your bra. His lips trail down your neck to the top of your breasts, your fingerings burying themselves in his hair as he kisses each one. He pulls the pads of your bra down, the cool air making your nipples pepper in response.

Ford’s mouth latches on to your right tit, his tongue lapping around. A moan drags itself from the back of your throat, sitting up slightly to unclasp the fabric from your body. His other hand comes up to give attention to your other boob, pinching and tweaking at your nipple.

He praises your breasts with his mouth before moving downwards, quickly ridding your body of the rest of your clothes, leaving you bare and vulnerable for him.

“It’s—” he chuckles nervously. “—It’s been a while since I’ve done this, if I’m being honest.” He licks his lips and leans down between your thighs, kissing the skin tenderly. You shutter. “Let me know if I’m doing things right.”

You nod and he kisses you again, trailing up to the spot between your thighs, the stipple of his beard scratching you in ways that make you tremble.

Slowly, teasingly, he begins to lap at your folds, tasting your essence. He hums softly, seemingly lost in the sensation as the pleasure builds higher and higher. Your fingers find their way to his hair, pulling gingerly at the grey strands.

"Oh, fuck," you cry as he sucks at your clit. "You're doing so fucking good. Oh my god!"

At your praise, he seems to go harder, the vulgar sounds of your own wetness and his tongue echoing off the walls. You feel one of his fingers slip inside you, his tongue never stopping it's ministrations against you clit.

You cry out as he begins to finger you slowly. Pressure begins to form low in your gut, wrapping around the bottom of your spine. He adds another finger after a moment, scissoring them inside of you.

His other arm comes up to wrap around your hips, holding you in place as he curls his fingers, making you gasp. Your orgasm is fast approaching and you don't know if you can hold it off for too much longer.

Another nip to your clit and a particularly rough thrust inside, you shatter. Your thighs shake graciously as he helps you through your orgasm, quickly becoming almost overstimulating that you have to beg him to have mercy on you.

He smiles up at you from between your legs, his lips glistening with your slick. "Was that okay?"

Still breathless, you nod. "You did so good, handsome." His glasses are foggy and a little crooked and you reach out and fix them. "Did you want to do more?"

He groans. "Yes, please. I need more."

"Then take what you need, honey," you tease, spreading you leg further.

Ford is quick to remove his clothes, his cock hard and the tip an angry shade of red. "Don't laugh if I don't last very long," he murmurs, sliding back between your legs, dragging the tip along your folds.

You bite your lip at the feeling, bucking your hips to invite him to push inside. As he does, you gasp. He's not entirely huge, but he's thick, and he streaches you out perfectly.

He feels fucking amazing.

When he bottoms out, he falls over you, holding himself up by his arms. He shutters, his eyes closing as he looses himself inside of you. Ford pulls out, shallowing thrusting inside of you. You purr at the feeling, meeting his movements, soft moans slipping past your lips.

He picks up the speed, pulling out completely and slamming back inside of you, hitting your sweet spot just right, causing you to throw your head back in a silent scream.

Ford fucks you slow and hard, the sound of skin meeting skin and vulgar yet breathy moans filling the room. He whimpers above you, his cock twitching inside you.

"Fuck, Ford. You're fucking me so well," you cry, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Please. Go faster."

"I-I don't think I can, darlin'," he gasps.

"Then let me ride you."

He groans at your words, slipping out of you after a few seconds. You flip the two of you over, settling on top. You guide the head of his cock inside, lowering yourself down until he fills you up perfectly.

Ford stares up at you, lips parted in awe. You start to grind down on him, moving your hips in a circular motion.

"Fuck," he whines, "you're amazing."

You start to bounce up and down, holding yourself up by your hands on his chest, your nails grazing over his skin. He flexs his hips upwards to meet your hips, not being able to hold his moans of pleasure back.

"Please," he begs. "Don't stop."

You weren't planning on it, riding him like your life depends on it. The stimulation to your clit and the tip of his cock hitting you just right has you falling over the edge not even a minute later, your legs spasming as a second orgasm washes over you.

His own moans become more strained and whiney, and you know he's close as he begins to pump inside of you, matching your rhythm.

"Cum for me, Ford," You say, breathless and desperate for him to fill you up.

He throws his head back, mouth drooped open as his hands come up to your hips. He grips them roughly, fucking up into you roughly, making you scream out in pleasure. He's whimpering and groaning and you feel him spill inside of you seconds later, fucking you through his orgasm.

Your breaths fill the air around, your body slumping onto of his.

"You were great," you mumble into his neck.

You feel him turn away, hiding his face into his shoulder. "I, uh...t-thanks."

You giggle. "Don't be getting all shy on me now."

Slowly, you roll off of him, Ford hissing at the stimulation. He pushes his foggy glasses up on his face, not daring to meet your eyes.

"Was it okay?" he mumbles. "It's been a little while and--"

"It was more than okay, Ford." You smile. "I hope we can do it more often."

He looks over at you, a blush on his cheeks. "I'd...I'd be okay with that."

You smirk, giving him a kiss. "Good."

~

ARTWORK BY @pumafysketch

ty for reading! i honestly hate this but it's wtv. i’ll probably write more but anyway

tags: @loslox @emgrth

[iceonneo]

office ; z.cl

chenle x fem! reader peek : “your meeting literally starts in 30 minutes by the way and we’re in your offi-” voice caught in your throat as you felt him dragging down the dress zipper by his mouth. “I'll make it quick." warnings : swear words, unprotected sex, lil degradation, edging, orgasms, dirty talk, use of names !! mdni ¡¡

ཐིཋྀ˚彡

Tapping of the leather of the sofa, your eyes flickered towards the door knob as it began to twist.

In came your husband. His hand automatically pushing his hair back, other hand carrying a cup of coffee before he pushed the door behind him close by leaning on it. A sigh left his mouth and his vision landed on you.

His eyes lit up before darkening as his gaze trailed down your body. “You’re here?” He asked, voice breathless, setting down his coffee.

“Well you asked for me, didn’t you?” You exhaled before getting up as you walked over, hands immediately fixing his tie. “Yeah.” Chenle said, looking at your new dress that hugged your body way too good.

“Chenle, seriously, how could you forget those files?”

“Well, at least I get to see my wife, don’t I?” He cracked a grin causing you to throw your head back in frustration, a small laugh escaping your lips nevertheless, “Thank god you own the company so you’re not getting in trouble. What am I gonna do with you?”

Detaching your fingers from his tie, you walked around turning away from him, looking at the documents on his table, making sure they were the right ones for the upteenth time.

“Well for starters,” Chenle walked over, hands in pockets and his coral hair shining under the sunlight leaking through the blinds in his office. His figure right behind yours that slightly leaned against the table.

“You can be a good girl while I backshot right into you.” He whispered, his voice hitting your nape as you snorted, “The fuck?” Your attention diverting towards his hands that had started to travel from your sides to your thighs from behind.

Sending a warning glare towards him from the side you kept your hands over his, “Your meeting literally starts in 30 minutes by the way and we’re in your offi-”

Voice caught in your throat as you felt him dragging down the dress zipper by his mouth. “C-Chenle.” You said, trying to appear as stern as possible.

“I’ll make it quick.” He mumbled as his hands grabbed yours situating them over his belt. As if you already know what to do, your fingers already started unbuckling.

“Chenle we shouldn’t,” You breathed out as he rotated your hips, turning you around, “We shouldn't.” He nodded before tilting his head, smashing his lips, mouth all over yours.

Mouths moving fast and rhythmically against each others as your hands landed on his chest, “We should stop…”

“Totally.” He said before latching his mouth to your neck as the both of your hands landed on the table for support. His hand gripping your waist and the other dragging your zip completely down. The way his mouth sucked everywhere, leaving kisses and the way his tongue knew just how to turn you on. You could already feel yourself getting wet.

He was one of the most stubborn man you knew.

And before you know it, You were turned around again, against the table this time.

Feeling the air hit your bare back and bottom, you hissed. “Chenle, not here.” So intoxicated by him, you didn’t even when he unzipped himself and got his dick out.

“As you say.” He said and there it was. His cock entering you from behind as you held your breath, eyes shut and eyebrows pulled together. Though you couldn’t see him you know damn well how hard and throbbing his pale, pink dick must've been. “Couldn’t even hold back for a few minutes, could you?” You got out through your gritted teeth, head against the glass table.

“I didn’t even get this dick moving yet so fucking wet, aren't you?” He snapped back. The cockiness almost making you let a curse you before you felt him plunge into you. A loud moan left your lips before you slapped your palm to the mouth.

“Be a little quiet if you don’t want the entire management team to press their ears against the doors.” He said before gripping your sides, moving faster.

Body shaking with every thrust and you felt your knees get weaker. You struggled to keep your balance, your palms slipping slightly on the glass surface. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through your body, making it harder to stay silent.

Chenle leaned forward, his breath hot against your ear. “You love this, don’t you? Being fucked where anyone could walk in at any moment.”

You bit your lip, trying to stifle another moan. “Yes,” you whispered, barely audible.

He chuckled darkly, his pace quickening. “Good. Because I’m not stopping until you’re screaming my name.”

The way his cock, now coated with your fluids slid in and out, The pace making you see stars. He stretched you out so good, the position was too good, The feeling of him hitting each and every spot- it was all too good. Your grip tightened on the table as you felt the pressure building inside you. The risk, the thrill, it was all too much. You were close, so close.

“Sir?” A knock was heard from outside as your eyes widened. It were almost like a glass shattering inside your head as you came back to your senses.

Pushing him out of you, you quickly got up, zipping your dress back.

Chenle cursed loudly before composing himself, “Yes?” He said, loud enough for his secretary to hear from the outside.

“Sorry to interrupt you sir, I’ve come to remind you that the meeting starts roughly in 5 minutes.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, ears turned red as chenle rolled his eyes, annoyance visible in his tone “Yeah, you might as well leave now.”

“Fuck, the entire building is gonna find out” You screeched into your palms in distress as chenle groaned.

“That fucker donghyuck, I was about to hit it!” He exclaimed dramatically, “Let’s see how long his nosy ass lasts in my comp-”

“Chenle, zip yourself!” You gasped as your hands flew to his crotch, tucking his hanging load back in as you let out a bewildered laugh,

“Baby, should I cancel it?” He whined into your ears, hands around your hips.

You gasped again, turning him around as you pushed him by the butt towards the door, “You better get your ass into that meeting now!”

He laughed loudly, way too loudly, getting out the door as he winked your way, mouthing ‘wait till we get home.’ before he shut the door close while you chuckled to yourself.

ཐིཋྀ˚彡

Chenle didn't play when he meant wait till we get home.

The way he was devouring you wasn't helping. His tongue diving into every crease of yours only fueled to your high. the way his hot mouth sucked on your core as if he were some starved ass animal, the way his eyes occasionally looked up at yours just to admire that pretty face of yours, all fucked up and out of it just because of him.

Your thighs tense and red in contrast to his pale hand gripping your legs to keep you wide open. Trails of moans leaving your mouth as he finally found your spot, teasing you with it.

"C-Chenle please oh.." You got out, fluttering your eyes open as you looked at your man below.

"Please what, baby?" He asked lowly, his breath hitting your open core. The sensation only making you squirm as you frowned. Chenle tutted before dragging his thumb along your slit, testing your patience.

You almost cried out, wanting him so bad. "Oh, please fuck me chenle fuc- OH FUCK" a squeal left your lips when you felt him suck on your sweet spot. His tongue and lips absolutely wrecking you. your eyes rolled way back your head and the grip of your hands over the sheets intensified.

"Just l-like that" You encouraged, tangling your fingers through his pink hair guiding him into yourself as he increased the friction without a complaint. His tongue moving in circles around the spot as you felt yourself get light headed almost. The feeling of it lighting up a fire in your stomach as you felt it coming. "Baby, I'm gonna- gonna cum" Were your last words before you burst and chenle watched you drip.

"So pretty, my baby." He murmured as he grabbed your hands, kissing the knuckle top.

Too fucked out too even process him on top of you until you felt his lips on yours. Reciprocating the kiss back, you felt his dick tease at your entrance.

your hands that gripped the couch transferred over to his hair as you groaned into his mouth, wanting more.

You had taken one step into the house and chenle had already locked the door, flung the curtains close and pinned you over to the couch right away before tearing your dress off you. God forbid you breathe peacefully one night even, your pussy had not known peace since you married this man. This man, also the love of your life.

"Oh fuck, you're gonna take me in baby?" Chenle asked against your mouth as your head dipped further against the armrest, frowning as you hummed in response.

His dick, hard and solid from replaying the picture of you bent over all meeting long, slid inside you as your mouth fell agape, at a loss of words. Not even given enough time to process and your legs were over his shoulder. His hands gripping your thighs as your legs thrown over him were already shaking.

"chen- oh fuck" was all you could get out when your husband started moving. No warning, no cockwarming nothing but straight up bang bang bang into that pussy.

Your cursed into air as his slams grew relentless. Each thrust sending a shock in your body as the moment felt way too good to be true. your nails dug into the couch as your body jolted up and down with his thrusts.

The sound of skin slapping against each other filling the room. You moaned as you felt him hit a certain spot. Chenle slowed down, a smirk fixed on his face as the grip on your thighs never left, "Oh is that your spot baby?"

Too fucked out to even hold an ounce of shame you moaned loudly as his tip dragged across the particular area, slow and torturing. "Chenle please.." You whispered out, wanting him more than ever. He raised his brows slightly, "Words, baby." He loved, absolutely loved the sight of you fucked out, contrasting from the character you were on a daily basis. Always as egoistic as him and Collected, but under the influence of his dick you turned nothing but his whore.

"Chenle please fuck me, I need to feel you deep inside me ple...- oh."

The sight was driving him crazy. Your hair messy, face flushed and eyes closed, brows pulled to a frown, lips caged by your teeth holding back the shameful lewd noises you wanted to moan out loud to let the whole city know how good this cock was, sweat covering your body, tits bouncing slightly and nipples hard as he thrusted slow into your tight cunt, full of your juices that leaked out whenever he moved back.

"Fucking hell" He groaned as he pulled out, gaze glued to your pussy, swollen, puffy and wet- wet would be an understatement, flooded actually. His attention quickly catching up to the stringy whines leaving your mouth.

Wasting no time, He gripped your inner thighs with force as he rammed his cock back. The feeling already awakening the rippling sensation in your stomach again as your hooked your ankles from the behind oh his neck, bringing your cores closer as chenle grunted. Your moans breathless loud and pitched than before with thighs thunderously shaking under his palms gave chenle the signal he needed.

He slipped on of his hands below, over the connection of your bodies, immediately pressing his thumb over your bud as you choked on your own moan. gasping loudly as you moaned his name over and over again.

His sloppy girthy dick plumbing into you along with the added stimulation of his fingers over your clit, rubbing in circles harshly made you lose your mind almost. The moans of your both bouncing off the walls as chenle practically thrashed you against the couch.

You didn't even know the couch could shake until today.

"Fuck, fuck fuck, I'm gonna.." You trailed off, attention diverted towards the wave of pleasure of your high washing over you as you arched your back to a maximum against the leather. Your slick flowing out of your hole over his dick making a mess. Chenle never stopped his dick, nor his fingers, pumping you over and over again as his grunts began frequently.

"C-chenle" you whimpered out, pussy already swollen, drenched and overstimulated. Yet the beast on top of you wouldn't budge a bit.

"Fuck I'm gonna fill your pussy up, I'm gonna have my load all over you, sit up." Nodding out of your daze, you slowly rose up, moving your thighs off his shoulders as chenle continued to fuck you. The way he had been pounding this dick into you since the past three hours, you just know you were bedridden for the week.

Giving final jerks into you, he moaned out as he flooded you. The warmth filling you from the inside as you felt complete. when your hole was leaking to the brim, he pulled out. Bringing his dick to your face as he fisted the remaining of his liquids out. His cum decorating your face, dripping off your chin right onto your nipple.

The sight so fucking unreal he thought he could come over again just by looking. "fuck baby" he breathed out before getting off the top of you, his palms over your knees as he spread you out. Your legs opened as he got a view of your core.

Almost as if he were beyond stunned he let his eyes rake over the sight. pussy still tight, bright, throbbing. fully swollen and coated with your slick. Your entrance oozing out his cum, white liquid dripping down, he was gonna go insane. As if hypnotized, he got his finger out, gathering and stuffing his seed back into you.

"Oh hell no, stop it" you groaned into your palms, feeling your conscious and shame take over. Chenle rose to his feet, fingers still burried deep in you, coating your walls white with his fingers, "Baby, can you take one mor-"

His sentence cut short before you detached yourself, thrashing a pillow over his face suffocating him almost as the poor guy below raised his hands by the side in defense.

With a huff, you got up already making your way to the bathroom with your wobbly legs as chenle pulled the pillow off, letting his laughter die down, "Baby wait, you can't walk I need to help you."

His arm extended out grabbing a towel as he quickly followed behind, "I heard if you fuck an even number of times, the universe grants you a long life so we might need to make that nine rounds a ten lets shower se-"

"ZHONG CHENLE!"

an original iceonneo work.

[eywa-eveng]

ᴠᴏᴡs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙɪɴᴅ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ – ᴛᴏɴᴏᴡᴀʀɪ & ʀᴏɴᴀʟ X ᶠᴱᴹ ᴹᴱᵀᴷᴬᵞᴵᴺᴬ ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ – 12.8k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ – angst, hurt/comfort, slight nsfw

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs – pregnancy, mentions of childbirth

A lorpaytsyal with its rows of shimmering fins swims past, stirring a cloud of syuratan that glitters like a burst of blue stars over the sun speckled sand. The shape of the white light bends to the pattern of the rippling waves, tracing out swirling shapes that break only in the shadows beneath the rows of coral. The polyps bloom in shades of purple, spindly limbs weaving together to form a canopy of darkness. Some pieces are broken, the cracked knobs revealing inner layers where something tore away the unwanted sprigs. The stony flesh of the coral has been cracked and shaped into a small alcove, just big enough to host a nest. A bed of stray lengths of seaweed and dead fragments of coral sit in the space hollowed out in the shadiest part of the sea floor. It’s lit with only the faintest glow of blue algae that’s dotted over the eggs nestled within the shallow burrow. Nestled in the shallow burrow are eggs, enough that a few going missing wouldn’t be enough to noticeably deplete the clutch.  

Light warms the hidden recess as you swim closer, the txampaysye clinging to your back filling the dusky hollow with the light of a soft sunrise. The pale green shells take on hues of gentle yellow and warm pink as you pick over the mound of eggs. They’re small, no larger than your palm, and each is only the weight of a small stone. You’re careful as you sift through them. The shells are soft and pliable, the texture like skin as you press lightly against each one. Curious fingers trace over the weighted areas of the wrinkled shells, feeling the slightest silhouette of the sea snake growing within. The light of the gill mantle is just enough to pierce through the thin membrane to the veins lacing through the shell. Each occupied egg is set gently aside but every few are empty, unviable. The shells harden when there is no life to support inside it. Though there’s no way for the mother to know that so you’re quick about your work, checking and replacing the eggs before an angry snake comes threading through the net of coral branches. By the time you’ve picked over the entire nest you’re left with a bounty of six eggs that you tuck gratefully into the satchel slung across your chest. 

It’s already heavy with other trinkets found during your exploration. Pearls in shades of blue and pink, shards of crystal smoothed over by the tide, and shells formed into delicate designs. The fabric of your pouch is nearly over encumbered as you tuck the last egg inside, leather ties straining as you tighten it closed. Sunlight traces across your skin as you swim away from the resettled nest, spears of light beginning to poke through the farther you get from the center of the coral hoard. The light of your tanhì flickers out as you emerge, sunlight swallowing the flecks of bioluminescence as it dances over your skin. Its warmth is lost in the coolness of the water as you swim, calling for your tsurak with a few throaty clicks. It takes time and a few more calls before the skimwing returns in its own time, darting through the forest of sea plants and schools of meandering fish to find you, though it doesn’t stop to allow you to mount as it rushes past. There’s a practiced ease to catching the handle of its saddle and tucking yourself against its back. Tsurak are known to be temperamental creatures, stubborn and selective with who they allow to bond with them. 

It is only your own temperament that keeps your fieresome companion returning after hunting in the open ocean. Some mounts have been known to leave the village and never return, leaving their rider to find another mount to bond with. It’s a vague fear whenever you go beyond the bounds of the village. You are not a hunter despite your childhood training. There is no reason for you to be beyond the seawall if not for your own pleasure and your tsurak knows this, can feel it each time tsaheylu is made. Your curiosity and excitement sings through the bond. It should’ve been tampered years ago and likely left you without a willing mount but you’ve yet to allow expectations to dampen your indulgences. There is balance in your excursions. For every treasure you find there is something of utility. Bones to be made into needles and knives, healing plants that only grow in the deeper waters, fish that seem to favor areas beyond the village. You leave no room for reproach and so you’ve been allowed to continue to spend your days however you’d like, coming and going as you please unless something in the village demands your attention. Still you return while the sun is still high in the sky. 

The terraces are crowded with people fishing as your tsurak leaps over the wall, beating its wings with a loud screech that draws eyes to your arrival. There’s no slowing even as the shore draws closer. Instead you simply loosen your grip and pull your tswin free of the bond, sinking into the water as your tsurak turns tail towards the open water once more. It leaves you in a cloud of frothy bubbles stirred by the rapid swing of its tail fins, unbothered by your distance from land. This is the way of things between you. Your chosen mount is bolder than most, hardly tampered by your own personality echoed through tsaheylu. It is a privilege to ride such creatures and it never lets you forget even after so many years of bonding. 

Warmth kisses your cheeks as you surface for a breath before diving back into the water. The morning had been tiring, your palms and feet scuffed and sore from climbing along the jagged edges of the island cliffs. The shore isn’t so far off that you’ll tire before you can reach it yet you still roll to your back and allow your body to float on the gentle waves. A deep orange glow plays behind your eyelids as you close them against the bright light beaming overhead, the heat of it drying the drops of water from your exposed skin. Beneath the water, the lazy paddling of your tail is interrupted by a quick tug that shocks your eyes open, stinging your gaze with the white heat of the sun. It’s hardly frightening as you recognize the distinct feeling of fingers wrapped around your appendage, though it isn’t exactly a pleasant sort of shock. The white clouds seared into your eyes disappear as your secondary lids slide closed as you look beneath the water to see the one bold enough to snatch at your tail. 

A sharp swing of your hips yanks you free of Tayku’s grip and he lets go willingly, raising his hands in a show of peace even as a roguish smile plays at his scarred lips. The boy is young–young enough to be your son–and yet he chases your tail as if it’s dipped in nectar. There’s an air of flirtation about him as he swims circles around you, the smug smile never leaving his face. His intentions are clear, as clear as your own answer has been. A terse rejection is what he and all your other suitors have received since this new season of courting began. It’s why you find yourself beyond the bounds of Awa’atlu more often than not in recent days. To avoid interactions such as these where the newly made men of the clan come nipping at your ankles, yapping about giving you strong sons. 

It wouldn’t be so terrible if they were closer to your own age, if you hadn’t watched them grow up alongside your firstborn. Each of his life achievements you’d been there to see and now he’s pulling his tswin over his shoulder in a bold display of his intentions. It would almost be endearing if he was younger and didn’t yet know the weight of his words and what he is asking for. But he’s a man now, one of the People, and knows exactly what he’s asking for as he tilts his head and flashes his fangs. You watch him posture and boast in the water for a few moments longer before rolling your eyes hard enough to open your secondary lids and turn to swim towards the shore. 

A brief surface for air gives Tayku a chance to swim beneath you and you nearly knock into him when you dive under again. He’s close, not so close that you can scold his overly familiar behavior, but just near enough that you can’t forget his presence. He clings close like a fish to the underside of a nalutsa, swimming with his face towards the surface and eyes on you. His distance is well-placed, just far enough to keep out of range of your annoyance. For all their simpering advances the young men don’t allow their infatuation to cloud their knowledge of your brash personality. This is the closest Tayku has gotten in all his advances and he still knows to keep out of your reach after inciting your temper with his childish grabbing. You’ve never been known to be particularly docile. If you were a fruit your skin would have thorns and your meat would be sour before it turned sweet, a delicacy only few people could enjoy despite the outwardly attractive look. 

«I was looking for you earlier.» Tayku signs, perfectly timing his words to your sparing glances towards him. It isn’t interest that draws your eyes to him. You’re more curious to see if he’ll leave you be if he’s ignored, though it seems Tayku has taken your brief glances to mean more than they are. He must have because he doesn’t abandon the conversation even as you arrive at the village, pulling yourself on to one of the many overhanging paths without so much as a parting glance. He stutters for a moment as you whip your loose hair over your shoulder, pelting his face with stray drops of water. 

“Where did you go today?” He asks after pushing his own damp hair away from his face, arm flexing purposefully. He’s harder to ignore outside of the water being the size that he is. Tall and wide, crowding your vision as he trots along beside you, uncaring of where you may be leading him. It hardly matters. The village is a place of finite spaces and he’s well aware of where your marui is. All of your suitors are if the gifts left outside your pod are any indication. Newly tanned fish leather, a carved box full of delicate beads, a freshly caught fish wrapped in thick leaves. There has been no shortage of anything in your home since the village welcomed its newest adults into the ranks. 

It feels so strange to be spoiled in this way again after so many years. Your time for courting had come and gone with no mate to show for it. Your son was made from a humble request for a fertility match. A quiet meeting with the village elders and tsahìk praying that Eywa grant you the child you’d so desperately wanted despite your lack of a mate. It had taken some time but they found an auspicious match and you fell pregnant quickly after, still unmated but filled with new life. It’s just as well that the two of you forwent the forging of tsaheylu seeing as your child’s father went on to be named olo’eyktan soon after you fell pregnant. He was mated off to the chosen tsahìk as is tradition and you certainly didn’t have the knowledge to assume such an esteemed position. 

The three of you became a true family, raising your children together as proper siblings despite their mixed parentage. And seeing Ronal pregnant again after so many years has raised the desire to be a mother within you once more. It was your mistake in making your intentions known to others because now you have men like Tayku trailing after you in the hopes that they’ll be the father of your next child. Never mind that they’re all nearly the same age as your first, some younger in fact. Far too young to be sniffing after you like a hunting nantang. You say as much but Tayku simply laughs, tossing his head back as if you’ve just told the funniest joke. He’s hardly being subtle in his advances. It’s nearly desperate how badly he wants to please you and yet he won’t indulge your greatest desire of being left alone to find a willing man on your accord. You’d been there for the first matchmaking and now know what to look for. An unestablished man is not something you are interested in at your age. If you are to share a parultsyìp with someone you’d rather they know their place among the clan.

Tonowari was beyond your expectations. The day the elders had collected you, and led you to a marui seldom used and sequestered within a particularly thick thatch of mangrove roots, you hadn’t known what to expect. Least of your wildest imaginings had been the clan’s finest warrior and chosen successor to the olo’eyktan. Everything that Tayku is even now in his youth is a single spark next to the open flame that Tonowari was when he was the same age. He’d been a few years your elder when you formally met, already covered in a multitude of scars and tattoos. Testamates to his prowess. It was your honor to give him his first child. 

His arrangement with Ronal was to the benefit of the clan and you’d never begrudge them that. If not for the elders’ decision you would’ve been settled with less than the best the clan had to offer you. It hardly mattered that he was mated so soon after. And now, nothing would make you lower yourself to allow the first man that asks to father your next child. If you were to have another baby it would be with a man who had earned his place within the clan, not these boys that had only just come into their own. 

“Did you find anything interesting today?” Despite your lack of answers Tayku keeps up a steady stream of chatter that sounds like bugs buzzing in your ear. He’s sweet and eager to please, and handsome despite the thick scar running through his lips. He will make a woman very happy someday. But not you. And you aren’t selfish enough to rein him in until you’re satisfied that he’s proven himself. That could take months or years and by that time he’d expect to mate fully for all the trouble you’d put him through. It wasn’t something you wanted. 

Being tied so closely to someone has always held a bit of terror to someone like you, utterly uninterested in staying tied down. When you were younger you dreamed of exploring the ocean, of visiting with neighboring sea clans and learning their traditions. But now you have your son, you have your family. Even without a mate you’ve managed to halt any plans of leaving Awa’atlu for too long. Still your childish fear of being mated persists. It may be rare but mating bonds can go sour and without death to break it you’re left tied to someone your soul no longer desires. It makes you wonder if Tayku even realizes what he’s asking of you. He has heard that you want another child, yes, but he courts you as if he expects tsaheylu to be made. You’re little more than a stranger to him, the mother of his childhood friend. To be tied to you could be his nightmare but he can’t see past the opportunity to lay with a previously untouchable woman. The thought is dizzying. 

“Don’t you have chores to attend to?” You ask at last, tiring of him shadowing your every move through the village. He raises his chin, grinning down at you, most likely elated that you’ve finally deigned to speak to him after his flaccid attempts at starting a conversation. 

“I’m already finished. I went hunting early this morning and my catch was enough for the day.” He goes on about the two large fish he caught along with his regular bounty, enough to measure the haul of any other hunter still out fishing beyond the reef, caught within the first few hours of the day. “I wanted to bring you one but I couldn’t find you.” Just as well because you wouldn’t have accepted his gift. A fish as large as he says is far too sumptuous to hoard to yourself with only you and your family. It’s a lavish courting gift, one that anyone would be elated to receive, but it would be passed out of your hands just as quickly as it came, sent off to feed the village as it should. 

“Do not feed me before the village. Your duties come before your indulgences.” It’s what you were always told when you were caught sneaking off somewhere but he blinks as if he’s never been scolded in the same way, his smile slipping for a moment. Your words are no harsher than they’d usually be but it seems they’ve finally started to break through the shell of adoration he’s formed around himself. Of all your aspiring mates he is one that has lasted the longest, clinging to even the thinnest thread of hope that you might one day share in his laughter or return a flirting remark. Instead you’ve remained steadfast in your rejection. In the days to come you can only hope he will fall away and shun you like the others, scorned and embarrassed by their own insistence that they’d be the exception. His mood only worsens, smile falling completely, when your son’s voice carries down the path towards the two of you.   

Ketsräno stands with his brother at his side, both their faces drawn tight in a show of hostility. Ao’nung has his spear in hand, ears drawn back as he glowers at the man beside you. Tayku is closer to his age, an old playmate and friend that slowly fell away as his responsibilities expanded. It is easy to see why neither of your sons would be happy to find an old acquaintance lingering close to their mother. 

“Ma Sempul is asking for you.” Ketsräno says, eyes not leaving Tayku’s face. A heaving sigh empties your lungs. Returning to the village has been one inconvenience strung after another like beads choked around your throat. It had been your hope to return home and go over all of the morning’s findings, but the wind has seen fit to blow you from one discomfort to the next. Tonowari is one of the people you’d least like to see today aside from these men flocking to you like hì’ikran over a dead fish. His sentiment towards you seems to have soured lately and you aren’t keen on subjecting yourself to his sullen mood. But the summons seem to keep Tayku at bay, at the very least. Any man with love for his life would be too afraid to follow you into the akula’s den Tonowari’s home has become in regards to you. Or perhaps he simply isn’t keen on testing your sons as they part to allow you past before meeting shoulder to shoulder once more, a clear sign for their old friend to keep his distance. 

They’re fiercely protective of both you and Ronal. It’s your hope that you’ll find the tsahìk at home beside her husband but there is no such grace upon your arrival. The marui is deserted save for the olo’eyktan sitting just inside the entrance whittling away at a piece of gnarled driftwood. 

A glance at the sun still sitting at its peak in the sky tells you none of your children will be joining their father for many hours to come. Tsireya will be teaching the village children, and Ao’nung and Ketsräno will likely have returned to their own chores. If Eywa is kind Ronal might return to relieve some of the tension already beginning to fill the home. Emotional discord incites her temper. As tsahìk she empathizes in a way that runs far deeper than anyone else and the labor on her soul is nearly exhausting at times. Her tolerance for such things in her own home has dwindled to nothingness with her pregnancy. If your silent prayers are heard Ronal will return shortly and send you away before Tonowari can finish saying his piece. Because he seems to be in no rush to speak to you despite asking for you as wood shavings gather at his feet. It must be his expectation that you’ll speak first, a trap for him to find something to pick at you for. You tighten your satchel over your chest and hope he won’t ask about its contents as you go about making a purposeful formal greeting. 

“Oel ngati kameie, olo’eyktan.” You bow far lower than necessary and watch Tonowari’s lip twitch with displeasure. “Your son said that you were looking for me. How may I be of service, nawmtu?” It’s a thinly veiled dig and he knows it. There’s no reason for such formalities between the two of you. You may not be his mate but he is still the father of your child and that affords you some privileges when it comes to speaking with him. Purposefully invoking formal speech is a slight against him, as if he is a stranger to you, a clan leader and nothing more. At last he sets aside the wood he’s carved into a lethal point and sheathes his knife, standing to his full height. His jaw is set, muscles flicking beneath the ink of his tattoos. 

“‘Nawmtu?’” His tone is curt, brows knit tight as he stares down at you. 

“Have I said something wrong?” He nods with soured understanding at your coy question, clearly not pleased with your sudden lack of sense. He stands aside and nods for you to enter and you bow in thanks despite having entered his home many times with no permission needed. This is the place your son was raised, of course you have long since been given leave to come and go as you please. And yet you stand just inside the entrance, feet not moving a step further until Tonowari pulls the covering shut to be sure your meeting won’t be disturbed. Any hope of Ronal coming to dissuade her mate’s brewing anger is dissipated with the closing of the curtain.

Without the uncovered entrance the marui has gone somewhat dark, only the faintest light filtering through the blue membrane woven into the curved wall. It’s not so dark that you can’t see but just dim enough that Tonowari’s tanhì have come to life. Anxiety curls in your stomach like stinging tendrils. What had you done to make him so upset with you that he wants no one to stumble upon this conversation? Many nights have been wasted worrying over what could’ve made him turn so cold towards you in recent times, and many more days were lost returning the bitter feelings he has given you. The love you thought you had for each other has withered on the vine, leaving only this angry awkwardness in its wake. At least Ronal is still kind, still loving, albeit more distant than before. 

If he will not speak on it you will not ask. So the two of you stand in the dusky room, eyeing each other with no words to say. He has called you here. If he wants to speak you’ll hear him, but it won’t be your voice that sparks the embers simmering between you. 

“Sit.” He says at last. His voice is stripped of any emotion. There’s only the blunt command of a man above your rank. Your knees find the woven floor and your teeth nip at your lip, biting near to bursting to keep your less than polite remarks at bay. It’s clear his patience with your attitude has thinned beyond salvaging. It feels as if you’re a child at your parent’s feet, waiting to be scolded for unruly behavior despite your age. You’ve aged far beyond reproach, but no matter your relations Tonowari is still olo’eyktan. 

“There are no eyes but mine to see you now, so let this song and dance be finished.” He expects that your attitude will dissipate because he asked it of you? After weeks of animosity he wants to call off your ire with only a few words. Not even an apology for forcing you to anger. It’s almost insulting how sure he seems of your complacency. He walks to sit behind you and you flinch at the feeling of his hand brushing behind your ear. First one then the other as he removes the dried fish fins you weave into your hair. The style is reminiscent of how forest Na’vi adorn their hair with feathers, though it’s a rarer style to find in Awa’atlu. Still, in recent times you’ve noticed younger women beginning to favor your hair ornaments and clothing. Likely in the hopes of catching one of the men trying their hardest to court you. The thought of Tayku and the rest willfully ignoring girls that would happily be courted only further sours your mood and distracts you enough that Tonowari’s hand brushing against the nape of your neck startles you. 

“What is on your mind that you’re so distant from me?” His voice rolls like thunder through the dark pod as he begins to comb through your hair, carefully unwinding any tangles he finds. So it’s you that wedged this distance between you? It also must have been you that started this battle of poorly concealed anger. How can you be faulted for your distance when it was he who first sent you away with his sudden lack of kindness?

“Where is Ronal?” It is not what you mean to say but it’s the only thought plaguing your mind aside from the resentment festering in your heart. 

“Ronal?” He seems taken aback. “I’ve called you here and you are thinking of her? How far your heart has gone from me.” 

“It isn’t me who put this distance between us.” You say bitterly. It is not your place to be faulted for his own lack of accountability. 

“No?” He doesn’t sound convinced. If anything he sounds more incensed than he had been before. “I’ve been hearing things recently, talk among the People.”

“There is always talk in the village.” It’s how days are passed. Idle chatting about small squabbles and other petty drama between people. Family rivalries persist through generations, childhood rifts persist through the years, age old stories are told to warn younglings against the mistakes of the past. Talk never ceases, it rolls in and out like the tide, constantly renewing with more things to whisper and laugh over while cooking or fishing. The elders of the village are far more intune with the business of everyone else, but it isn’t so surprising that things have gotten back to Tonowari. It is his job to keep the clan in harmony and he can’t do that if he allows conflicts to fester without at least a small acknowledgement. 

“Yes, there is always talk, but very seldom does it involve your name.”

“But it isn’t surprising if it does.” Whatever gossip has spread with your name linked to it can hardly be of consequence. “Is someone questioning my abilities as a tattooist? I’ve heard Wepxtil has gotten better at his craft as of late. If he wants to spread word that his abilities have eclipsed mine I don’t care enough to stop him.” You’re one of the most renowned tattooists in the clan and many people carry your marks on their skin. The elders have said that hands like yours are only born once every few generations. If someone wants to question your abilities they’ll simply have to ask Eywa why she has blessed you so graciously. 

“It isn’t about your tattoos. No one would believe that someone that just passed his rites could rival your abilities. It is about other names that have been spoken in the same breath as yours. Rumors of your future.” 

“Speak clearly then.” You’re growing tired of his words swimming in circles. 

“There is talk of you wanting another child.” He says it as if he’s swallowed poison, like the words sting his tongue as he speaks. 

“Is that all? It is the truth. I want another child. Ketsräno is a man now. He doesn’t need his mothers to dote on him as Ronal and I used to. My nest will be empty once he finds a mate. I want a new baby to love. Seeing Ronal pregnant again has made me miss motherhood. She looks so happy. I’m jealous.” The last part is said in jest as an attempt to lighten the heaviness in the air. You could never be jealous of Ronal. She is strong and beautiful, yes, but she is your equal in family matters. Your hearts share a bond that is deeper than simple friendship. Her children are yours in all but blood. You’ve raised them as your own just as she has raised your son. There is only love between you. Or there had been before this sudden rift. Tonowari doesn’t seem to hear the joke in your voice. His hands fall still in your hair. 

“Jealous?” 

“Not truly.” You rush, trying to keep the exasperation from your voice. “I only meant that seeing her pregnant again has brought back cherished memories. I’m not too old to have another. I would like to have at least one more.” 

“So it’s true. You want another child.”

“Why are you treating this as if it is a problem? I expected that you’d be happy for me.”

“Happy?” His anger bubbles over at last. His hands fall away from their idle combing and he stands to pace, tail strained tight with tension. “How can I find happiness when you try to keep this from me? I didn’t hear these words from your own mouth, I had to hear them from others.” 

“I hadn’t thought it mattered to tell you. I was going to see about any unmated men of the clan that showed interest before asking for another match from the elders. Though I suppose I should’ve gone to the elders as I had before, or at least asked Ronal of her opinion. Trying to find a match myself has been like catching fish in a torn net.” Which is to say it has been a failure, time and time again. The men your age had overlooked you once before or you turned away their offers of courtship for one reason or another. In the years since Ketsräno’s birth your options have only continued to dwindle. Now it feels as if you’re trying to reap crops from infertile land. 

“You still have not mentioned speaking to me about this.”

“What need would I have of your advice? I respect your word, of course, but fertility matches are matters for tsahìk and the elders. Olo’eyktan was not needed for my last match.” His insistence surprises you. Tonowari has been a strong and magnanimous leader since he was named olo’eyktan but he has always known his place, deferring to Ronal and consulting with village elders on things that were beyond his years of wisdom. Never have you known him to dip his hand into things that were of no concern to his position. He shifts to kneel before you, body moving with the tight precision of a bow being drawn. Tension has gathered on his shoulders beneath his mantle of akula teeth. 

“What need?” He tilts his head in a way you recognize, ears quirking upwards in interest as he assumes the tone he’d always use when the children asked him a simple question. It was slow and understanding of their lack of knowledge. For him to turn it on you as if you know nothing of what you speak about is patronizing. At last your distaste can’t be quelled and your lips pull back to show the points of your teeth. Instead of heeding the obvious show of hostility Tonowari laughs. It’s short and humorless but a chuckle nonetheless. 

Heat flashes across your cheeks, down your neck, and up your ears as they pull tight against your head. The loud hiss that accompanies the burst of hot embarrassment is perhaps the first you’ve ever directed at Tonowari. There’s never been a need to snap at him aside from a few dissatisfied scoffs when his words are just a touch too cruel when the children have misbehaved, though you’re admittedly the least strict of the three of you. Still it’s well deserved now as he treats you as if you’re a child for not confiding in him something that was none of his concern. Perhaps you might’ve told him when you found a match as you would’ve everyone else close to you, but now, before decisions have been made? He has no part in it.

You draw in a deep breath through your nose before pushing it out of your chest. “Apologize. Now.”

“You want an apology?” His tone isn’t as cruel now. Instead he sounds disbelieving as if demanding anything of him is beyond what he expected of your audacity. 

“Yes, I want an apology. You’ve been speaking to me with such disdain as if I’ve done something wrong for making a change in my life! It hasn’t even come to pass and here you are shaming me for going about it in a way that doesn’t suit your tastes. Apologize and tell me plainly what you want to say. I can’t know your mind if you do not share it with me.” The two of you are not mates, you do not share the deep emotional bond that forms when tsaheylu is made. Perhaps Ronal as tsahìk and his mate could parse what has been eating at his spirit but you aren’t so enlightened to his deepest thoughts. If he has something weighing on his mind the only way to share it is through words. Not this callous critiquing and avoiding he’s taken to. 

Tonowari sits back on his heels, no longer leaning towards you as he seems to mull over your words. His eyes linger on your face as if he’s trying to trace the shape of your pil with his gaze. It would almost be disheartening, his silence, if you didn’t know him to be a man of carefully considered words. In all things he is calm and collected. Striking only when a target is within reach and speaking only when he’s sure of his words. 

“I’m disappointed.” He says at last. 

“Disappointed?” Your voice is pitched with disbelief. “Because I want an apology after the way you’ve been treating me?” 

“Because you can’t seem to imagine why I would want to be told about this.” He still doesn’t sound angry. He rarely is. But he truly does sound incredulous as his lips pinch together to stave off the smile curling at the corners of his mouth. If he’d been truly upset before, the feeling has passed like a storm. Now he seems amused as he watches you work through your thoughts. He’s speaking in riddles, words tied into knots for you to try to unravel. 

“Is this because of Ketsräno?” At last a gentler expression finds the olo’eyktan’s face. 

“In part, yes, this is because of our son.” The way he says it is more possessive than you’ve ever known him to be. Our son. A reminder that the two of you will always be intrinsically linked no matter the paths you choose to walk. Still, you can’t fully understand his meaning. 

“What about our son? I have no interest in any of his old friends that have been fawning over me if that is your worry.” 

He frowns. “They should not be trying to court you.” 

“I’ve made my disinterest known but they’re rather persistent. It’s almost insulting that they think I would entertain their advances even for a moment.” 

“I agree, they’re reaching far beyond their place. But it would stop if you made your choice. I can be of assistance if you would only let me.” 

“Then who would you suggest?” He seems taken about by your requests for a name as if he hadn’t just offered his insight in the matter. When you say nothing more he nods slowly as if he’s made a decision he doesn’t wish to share.

“If you don’t know then I don’t wish to speak of it any longer. Clearly our hearts aren’t as closely aligned as I once thought we were.” He decides. 

“If you don’t wish to speak then I’ll leave. No sense in us sitting here exchanging barbs. You won’t tell me what you truly want to say and I’m not going to force it from you. It’s clear neither of us are in a place to speak kindly with one another.” He stands as you do, and for a moment you expect him to stand in your way. He doesn’t but seems to think better of it as his hand catches your shoulder before you can push the covering aside. With the petulance of a child you wrench your shoulder free of his hand only to tear your satchel as the overencumbered fabric finally gives way under the harsh movement. Crystals, shells, pearls, and eggs spill over the floor, leaving a glittering heap at your feet. For a moment you simply stand there, not even looking down to acknowledge the mess that’s been made of your collection. When at last you look down Tonowari is already there collecting what he can into his hands, pausing when he picks up one of the eggs. He stands, staring at the small egg in his palm.

“How many times have I asked you to stay out of their nests?” He asks slowly, fist curling around the hardened shell. It won’t burst as a fertile egg would but there’s a fear that his hold will be enough to shatter it as his knuckles begin to pale with the tightness of his grip. You ignore him and gather what you can in your hands, fully intending to leave without another word. He doesn’t allow you. Instead he lifts your chin with a gentle hand, blue eyes burning into yours. 

“You never listen.” He says softly. “What if you’d been hurt?”

“I wasn’t. I am not a child. I can take care of myself.” You say hotly despite the common knowledge that the ocean holds beauty and danger in equal parts. On another day you might’ve heeded his words as a gentle reminder to take care of yourself and not sprint into danger, but today you only hear incessant insults. 

“You’re acting like a child.” He snaps, anger finally rushing forward. You scoff, stepping back away from his touch. With your salvaged treasures held tight to your chest you turn to leave. He calls after you, drawing eyes to watch you stride purposefully away from him. Here is more kindle for their fire. How the rumors will grow with whispers of strife between you and Tonowari. No one but your family has seen the growing tensions between the two of you and now it’s laid bare for all to see. The prying eyes allow you the courtesy of pretending not to see either of you as he storms back inside, not bothering to follow you. His stubbornness is a blessing as you retreat home with all the dignity of a finless fish. 

What has changed? What has gone so wrong that Tonowari seems perturbed by your every decision. The first instances of his more callous attitude trace back to when you’d idly mentioned having another child while fishing in the terraces. The seawall has always been a breeding pool for village gossip and it doesn’t surprise you that rumors have sprung up like flowers in the wake of your thoughtless banter. He must’ve hoarded the knowledge to himself, let it poison his every thought of you until it all came rushing forward at once. 

There’s a braided band of flowers waiting just outside the marui when you return home and you nudge it inside with your foot, quickly drawing your own coverings to properly wallow in your thoughts by your lonesome. The treasures you salvaged from the floor are dumped unceremoniously into a basket. Some had gotten left behind but you don’t even want to look at what you’d managed to save. Instead you focus on cooking. Lighting a fire and gathering ingredients to keep your mind from wandering. 

Ketsräno doesn’t come home even when the evening deepens to night. It isn’t anything out of the ordinary, him not joining you to eat. Most meals are taken in communal eating areas or with the entire family. It is you that hasn’t been where you’re expected to be of late, the shared hostility driving you away from the simple comforts of a family meal. Instead you eat in silence, watching the dying embers of the cookfire. The night isn’t quite deep enough to sleep but you’re exhausted both physically and mentally. 

Tomorrow will be spent close to home, perhaps sequestered away just as you are now, with chores that keep you away from anyone else. Leaving home would mean facing your foolhardy suitors and disgruntled olo’eyktan. Neither sound appealing as you go about straightening the marui in the fading firelight before unfurling your bedroll, keen to be done with the day. You’ve only just laid down when someone enters the pod. Expecting that it’s your son returning from his meal, you simply roll away from the light coming through the parted covering, intent on falling asleep as quickly as possible. The blue light of Naranawm disappears just as quickly as it appears in the corner of your eye as the curtain is drawn once more. When no word of a greeting comes you know it isn’t your son. After a moment the marui swells with flickering light despite your groaning protests. 

“I am sleeping.” You complain, pulling the dark curls of your hair across your eyes in a vain attempt to shun the low light now filling your home. 

“Not deeply enough to stop you from speaking.” Ronal tuts. “I come to comfort you and you can’t spare me a single look?” Of course it’s her that has come for an unannounced visit. Where was she when you needed her earlier to help mitigate her mate’s bitter attitude? 

“What do you want, Ronal?” You sigh, finally sitting up to look at her. You needed her with you before, now you shun her presence as she stands beside the shell torch she’s lit with the forgotten wreath of flowers in her hand. It sets her hair alight with a wash of amber light that plays across the thick waves, green eyes paling in the orange light as she scowls at the gift. Distasteful fingers pluck at the flowers before she tosses it down. More petals fall when it lands but she hardly seems interested in the mess she’s made of one of your courting gifts. Truthfully, don’t want that gift or any of the others but there was still work that went into crafting it for you. Maybe you’d kicked it earlier but it deserves better treatment than being torn at by Ronal’s judging fingers. The gift and the boy that left it for you deserve better than your scorn. 

“I want you to be rid of your anger, firstly.” She frowns. “I’ve only just arrived. You have no reason to be upset with me. If you have anger you’d better dispel it before you decide to turn that venomous tongue against me.” 

In most things you and the tsahìk are perfectly matched. That includes a shared propensity for sharp retorts, though Ronal seems to keep her brashness reserved for you in specific. Perhaps because you’re the only one that won’t startle at her blunt responses. Her tongue is sharp as an arrowhead when she means it to be and she won’t spare you from a verbal sparring match if you provoke her. She’s likely to trade jabs with you long into the night if you think to turn your dour mood against her. Though she’s stirred your irritation simply by coming to disturb your peace when it was clear from the shut covering that you want to be left alone for the night. 

You stifle another sigh, letting the anger rush away from you in a deep exhale. “I’m sorry. Did you want something?” 

“I want nothing, it’s you that wants something. Another child, I’ve heard.” It isn’t a question. She means to tell you she already knows what it is that’s upset you and that she’s here to rectify the situation. She and Tonowari must’ve had time to themselves before the children returned home for the night. Ronal wouldn’t dare to raise such a topic of conversation where their ears could hear of their parents’ quarreling, though this goes far beyond the typical spats shared throughout the years. This will set a rift between the three of you that might never be bridged or mended. 

“I do,” your tone is careful, “though it seems my desire has disappointed everyone.” Ronal turns towards you with a swiftness, long skirt twirling around her legs as she snaps at you. 

“Skxawng. Sometimes I think you are willfully wrong.” The heel of her hand thumps your temple when you stand, as if she’s expecting something to rattle loose inside your head. All it earns her is a warning oìsss as you smack her hand away, temper flaring once more.

“Is it my lack of sense or everyone’s lack of explanation?” I snap. “Everyone seems upset but no one will tell me why. May the Great Mother guide me because I do not know what to do anymore.” 

“Ask.” She says it as if you’ve yet to think of such a solution. 

“Ask? That is all?” She stares patiently, emptily. Enough to draw a scowl to your lips. “Alright, Ronal, what do you suggest I do?” Her ear twitches at your sardonic tone but she seems to accept your words as a genuine plea for help. And it is, because you’re desperate to return your life to some semblance of peace. To do away with the pesky suitors and despondent looks from those around you. 

“You are asking for a fertility match?” This is hardly the formal environment in which you first kneeled before the previous tsahìk and passed on elders all those years ago, but Ronal is still tsahìk and she can make a ruling on the matter despite the lax environment. When you confirm your wish she hums. 

“I have already chosen someone suitable for you, if you’ll have him.”

You’re hardly convinced. “Who?”

“Tonowari.” She says easily. Your heart turns to stone in your chest, the weight of it dropping to your stomach. A flash of something cold prickles across your skin like an ocean spray as humiliation warms your cheeks. 

“Don’t mock me!” For a moment you truly thought that she had come to offer her guidance as tsahìk but even now she is clearly teasing, trying to further incite your ire. What had you done that both of the people you hold dearest seek to toy with you in this way. A prickling heat rises behind your eyes as tears begin to blur the edges of your vision. All these years of love and compassion and they’re tossing it aside to tease you for daring to want something more in this life. Ketsräno is all you have that is truly yours and even he is shared with his father. Soon he’ll slip between your fingers, passed from one hand to another as he makes his own path and finds his rightful place among the clan. Is it such an awful thing that you want to go through the journey again? Raising your son has been your greatest honor, more than any glory you’ve received within the clan. You were meant to be a mother and they’re mocking you for it. 

“Get out.” Ronal seems surprised, ears flicking upward as her brows rise in disbelief. “Get out!” 

“No.” She sounds astonished that you’d ask her to leave. 

“Leave! Get out and leave me be!” You aren’t shouting, not yet, mindful that the woven walls aren’t thick enough to trap your voice inside if you speak too loud. 

“Mawey, paskalin.” The term of endearment is hardly mollifying but you gather yourself even so. Anger has turned to sadness and all you want is to be left alone. By Ronal, by Tayku. Everyone. The chaffed heels of your hands are rough against your cheeks as you dry your tears. Ronal pulls your hands away from your face to lead you to your bedroll, pulling you down to sit in front her. Slowly she releases your hands in favor of holding your face. Her thumbs are soft as they brush away the stray tears still beading in your eyes. 

“Ease your storm.” Her voice is low as a roll of thunder though you can’t decide if the rain is coming or going. Going it would seem, as she holds your face like a precious stone between her hands. 

“I would never do anything to hurt you. Why have you lost faith in us?” Us. As if Tonowari didn’t look to be cursing your name the last you saw him. You left him. Walked away without a second glance as if he meant nothing. A bridge has two sides and both of you have burned them in turn. 

“You have been hurting me at every turn in recent days. Where were you earlier? Surely you knew Tonowari was going to express his anger eventually and you left me with him to drown. At least if you had come to send me away I wouldn’t be so upset now.”

“So it is my fault that Tonowari wished to tell you his feelings? He is a grown man–your olo’eyktan and father of your son–if he wants to air his grievances with you, that is no business of mine. Do not put the blame on me for his actions.” 

“The same way you aren’t blaming me? Because it certainly feels like there is no one else in the world you’d rather snap at than me. What bond can we have if it frays so easily? Son or not, there is no us. Both of you have made that plain to see. There is me and then there’s you and Tonowari. I regret that I spent so long thinking otherwise.”

Ronal tilts her head impatiently. “You don’t believe that.”

“No? Why shouldn’t I when all either of you has done for the past weeks is belittle and mock me for something you would never begrudge another woman? Tonowari acts as though I am stupid for not knowing what he won’t say and doing as I please. And now you’re here to tell me I’m wrong, too. I don’t want to hear it anymore, so, please, leave. Leave so we can move on from this. You are still tsahìk. I will always respect you as such but right now I’m not certain my heart can take being so close to you.” 

Ronal looks as though you’ve struck her across the face, green eyes growing wider with each passing word. For a moment you expect her to stand and storm out, to go back to her home and her family and be done with you as you’ve requested. Instead she sits in silence. Her face is guarded as you try to read her thoughts through the subtle shifting of her muscles. The firelight doesn’t help as it throws shifting shadows over the shape of her face, hollowing her cheeks one moment and darkening her eyes the next. When at last she speaks her voice is doleful,

“We’ve hurt you. It was never our intention and it pains my heart to know your hurt was done by my own hand.” She won’t cry, she’s too resolute for that, but the upset is evident in her voice. “But, you’ve hurt us, too.” Perhaps you have caused them grief lashing out the way you have but it doesn’t absolve them of anything. Biting the hand that stabbed you doesn’t heal your own wounds. 

“We’ve become clouded so let me say this and clear the air; Tonowari and I have given our souls to each other as mates. Before Eywa, tsaheylu was made. This is known.” You nod, unsure of what she’s trying to say. 

“A mating bond is made by choice. A choice you have decided to never make. We know this. But it is not the only way to be bound to someone. There are vows and oaths, bonds made through words and actions. And you made that bond when you didn’t estrange Tonowari from his son, when you allowed me to raise Ketsräno with you. A fertility match is usually forgotten when one partner finds a mate, but you felt no such need to shun us or hide yourself away. You stayed by our side from the moment you were matched.” Her hand brushes the edge of your shoulder as she reaches behind you to draw your tswin forward. Her fingers are gentle as they trace the weave of your hair wrapped tight around the sensitive nerves within. 

“Your first tsaheylu is with your mother.” She’s suddenly quieter, eyes distant as she winds your thick braid between careful fingers. “I remember when Ketsräno was born. You were tired but you smiled brighter than I’d ever seen as you held your son and made the first bond, and you didn’t rest until you’d seen Tonowari and I bond with him, as well. I thought from that moment on we all acknowledged our place in each others’ hearts.” 

The day is one you will remember for the rest of your life. Ketsräno had come early in the day, just as the sun was beginning to peak over the horizon. Most of the night had been spent warring against the pain in the shallows, squeezing tight to Tonowari’s hands as he held you and Ronal tended to what he couldn’t. It had been only the three of you and your spirit sister until you were far enough to call the clan to witness the birth of a new life. Your cheeks were sticky with tears by the time Ketsräno came at last into the pink light of dawn, legs kicking to the surface as he made easy work of his First Breath. There was the usual whooping and cheering but you didn’t truly hear any of it, far too enamored with your little son. 

It was a moment meant to be shared with the clan but all that mattered to you was the family gathered around you. There was exhaustion and blinding happiness filling your head and then the gentle thrum of Ketsräno’s vitra as you made the first tsaheylu. There hadn’t been a thought in your mind in regards to what allowing Tonowari and Ronal to bond with Ketsräno would mean, and now you are dealing with the consequences of your addled decisions so many years later. In that moment you had treated the olo’eyktan and tsahìk as your mates and continued every moment after. You don’t regret it, not for a moment, but you loathe your own ignorance. Tears begin to burn anew in your eyes as you recognize your mistake. 

“I’m sorry.” Over one misunderstanding you had nearly burned your world to the ground. “I’m sorry, Ronal.”

“Hear me now, paskalin. Listen well because I don’t want to have to repeat this ever again.” Her tone is strict but not without her own stern sort of affection. “Oel ngati kameie. Nga yawne lu oer. I will say this once and you will carry it in your heart for the rest of your life; we are yours, and you are ours.” You know it. A hidden piece of your heart has always known that even if you never found a mate you would be content with your life with Ronal and Tonowari. But they’re mated with each other. Of course you never considered you could fit in a place where two halves already made a whole. 

“Tonowari has been in love with you from the moment he was set to be your fertility match. His love for you was easy. I didn’t earn his affections so easily, you remember.” You do. Being olo’eyktan or tsahìk is a heavy burden to bear and while Ronal always did so with grace it was plain to your eyes as someone close to both of them that their love took some time to blossom. They were awkward with each other, stepping lightly to avoid any upset before finding their standing as a mated couple. Ao’nung and the rest followed soon after. So strange that two arrangements had such different results. Or perhaps not seeing as the three of you managed to tie your hearts together in the end. Though you never considered your place in their lives to be valued in the same way they regarded each other. Clearly you’d been wrong all these years. 

She leans in close to rest her forehead against yours and heat builds in the space between your lips as you breathe against each other. It’s a familiar sort of closeness that you’ve neglected to think could ever mean more than a close bond of friendship and parenthood. The tip of her nose draws across your flushed skin, brushing through your drying tears as she nuzzles against you. Her breath is warm against your cheeks as she takes in the scent of your skin, kissing the ripples of your pil until her lips find yours. They’re soft and warm and she tastes of sweet juice. The kiss is fleeting and precious. 

“Oel ngati kameie.” The words are whispered against her lips as she kisses you again. How long have you spent saying such words when you hadn’t truly seen what was right before your eyes. So many years wasted considering yourself an accessory to their bond when, in their minds, you had always been included. How much you have missed trying to live freely and save your heart the ache of abandonment when everything you could ever want was already within reach. Your fingers trace over the tattoo etched around the shape of her and curling high on her cheekbone. She hums quietly, eyes falling shut as she pulls you as close as her stomach will allow. The torch she lit is still burning but it gives you light to see her by as she falls asleep beneath your gentle touches. You resolve to speak with Tonowari when you wake, to try to mend the hole you’ve torn in your lives. 

It’s easier said than done, though, because when the sun rises and Ronal with it you find yourself hesitant to approach Tonowari. Dawn turns to day and you find your hands busy in places the olo’eyktan would have no reason to be. By the time the sun has reached its peak in the sky you’re busying yourself in Tsireya’s shadow, assisting her in teaching the children. She seems grateful for the added guidance you can offer, never asking what possessed you to suddenly want to stay so close to the village when midday usually finds you far beyond the terraces, hunting or frolicking on some lesser traveled islands. Weaving is easier work than hunting, not as strenuous of a task, as you teach the younglings the different types of braids and knots that make their homes and clothing. When the sun begins to set the children scatter home and you realize the day has been wasted without you speaking a single word to Tonowari. Tsireya keeps up a pleasant conversation as the two of you straighten up the marui used for teaching, collecting dropped beads and setting aside the childrens’ weavings. 

“Txa’ro shows a lot of promise, I think.” She hums happily. “She learned the arrowhead pattern quite quickly.” You nod, though your mind is far off. If any student showed any outstanding capability today you hardly noticed it. The whole day has passed in a haze like fog has settled before your eyes. Last night was like a dream, a short breath before the waves crashed over you once more. If your daughter is bothered by your uncharacteristic silence she doesn’t mention it, simply carrying the conversation herself as you follow her absently through the village only to stop once a familiar marui comes into view. It feels as though your feet are caught in mud, sucking you into the bouncing path as Tsireya continues on, happily chatting until she realizes you’re no longer beside her. 

“Ma Sa’nok?” She reaches towards you, expecting that you’ll move to take her hand, and her face falls when you don’t. Both of you stand watching each other until finally Tsireya nods and says good night, finishing the trek home by herself. It pains you to see your daughter upset and distant but you can’t bring yourself to face her father. Not yet. Instead you go in the opposite direction with no destination in mind. You walk until you run out of woven paths and the air no longer carries the scent of dinners being made, until you reach the fringes of the village where the beach is deserted. 

This isn’t how the day was meant to end but it ends all the same as you sit and watch Naranawm’s shadow swallow the sun. Soon the eclipse will break into deep night and you’ll return home without having shared a single word with Tonowari. So strange that is. There were once days when the two of you could be parted for only a few hours, for as long as chores demanded it and not a moment more. But that was when the children were young and needy for their parents’ attention. Now they’re old enough to deal with things on their own without your guidance. The sand is soft as you lay back to stare at the sky until it goes dark as your eyes drift shut. They don’t open again until you feel the sand shift beside you. It’s different than a rising tide swelling around you and you turn your head towards the disturbance. 

Tonowari sits beside you, lit in deep shades of blue beneath the night sky. He isn’t looking at you yet. Instead his eyes are fixed in the far distance, on the dark silhouette of the seawall where the terrace pools are lit with rippling syuratan. When he finally looks at you his eyes are filled with a foreign sort of longing. It’s a strange expression to see on his face. Tonowari has never been known to put his desires before anything else, if anything his wants and needs can be forgotten and buried if it means peace and prosperity for the clan. His role as olo’eyktan is put before everything in his life. Every clan needs a leader and Tonowari and Ronal both uphold their roles with the utmost care, never straying from the path Eywa has set for them. Seeing him look so lost within himself would be mystifying if you didn’t know the cause of his clouded mind. It’s in the reflection of his blue eyes, the pattern of your glowing freckles appearing like aysnatanhì in his forlorn gaze. You’re the reason for this and it feels like a knife to your heart and you desperately want to heal the wounds you’ve caused. 

“I’m sorry.” It isn’t enough but you say it anyway. Sorry is for stepping on someone’s tail or being too rough during training. It’s for small disagreements. Not something like this. Still you want to cling to the idea that what’s broken can be fixed with enough patience and attention. Tonowari seems to share the sentiment as he brushes the sand from your hair as you sit up, fingers tracing down your arm until he can bring your hand to his lips. It isn’t a kiss. Not truly. He presses his lips against your knuckles like he’s trying to see if you’re truly here before him. He seems soothed when you don’t turn to smoke before his eyes. 

“Don’t.” He says before you can further embarrass yourself with meager words of atonement. “Don’t apologize.” Your heart sinks like a stone in your chest. Apologies are all you have to give. If he won’t accept them then perhaps this distance can never be bridged again. 

“May I speak plainly?” You’ve never asked his permission to speak as bluntly as you do, but Tonowari is always considerate, even when it is undeserving. He takes a while to speak after you nod your acquiescence as if he’s weighing his words to see which will sit heaviest on your heart. Even in his anger he can find a moment to be kind. 

“You’re the most difficult woman I’ve ever met.” He says at last. It doesn’t sting as much as you’d expect it to. It’s a sentiment you’ve heard your entire life. Too brash, too harsh, too willful. Of course people will find you difficult but it’s the first time Tonowari has said it so plainly. 

“Ronal may not mind having to fight with you and wrangle you like an untamed beast, but I do. I only want to love you but you make it so hard for me. If I get too close you pull away. It feels like I am fighting to keep you by my side. And then you say–” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “You say you want another child and you don’t come to me for this. You flaunt yourself around the village as if I cannot give you what you’ve asked for. I can. I will. You just have to let me. That is all I want.” 

“I didn’t know.” It’s hardly an excuse but it is the truth. Tonowari stiffens beside you, lips pressing into a firm line.

“Didn’t know?” He glowers, ears pulling back before he calms himself. “Then let me tell you so that you know. From today onward, paskalin, let there be no more confusion. I love you. As a husband loves his wife, I love you. I know you do not wish to be mated. I understand your heart. But you are my mate even still. You belong to me and I belong to you. Just as I belong to Ronal. Just as you belong to her. And if you want children I will give them to you. No one else.” He bares his teeth though there’s no one but you to see his show of possessive aggression. 

It’s so strange to hear him want something so desperately. Tonowari has always done what is expected of him. For the good of the People he has always thought of the clan before himself. To hear him almost begging for this allowance to be selfish, it lights a fire inside you. 

“I don’t care about them. Tayku and the rest,” Tonowari scowls at the sound of the boy’s name, “I never wanted them.”

“Then what do you want?” You’re reminded that beyond his duties as a leader, Tonowari is a warrior. He pulls you into his lap with great strength, one hand keeping your eyes on his as the other holds your waist. 

“I want this.” You whisper. “I want you.” 

His lips burn as they meet yours in a deep kiss, searing the promise you’ve made into your memory. The night air is warm but you shiver as Tonowari’s hands trace across your skin. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close with him and it overwhelms you as he pulls you tight against him and whispers sweet promises over your parted lips. You whine as his fangs nip over your neck, tongue tracing the shape of your tattoos until he finally settles against your chest. He noses at the delicate shells of your draping top, breath puffing against your heated skin. His blunt nails drag down your exposed back to your hips, pulling you harder against him. His intentions are clear and you’re more than happy to comply as he toys with the knots keeping you covered. You’re far enough from the village that no one will stumble upon the two of you as he lays you bare beneath the stars.

The hardest part passes with the rising of the sun but there is still work to be done before things can truly be as they should between the three of you. Hunting is strenuous but there is always more to do after the beast is slain and prayers are said in its honor. There is cleaning, skinning, cutting, cooking, and preserving even after that. The hunt is not over until even the bones of the animal are put to some use. The renewed and deepened intimacy with the olo’eyktan and tsahìk is hardly enough to heal the pain amassed over many years. A wound needs to be tended not ignored lest it bleed you dry. It was nearing that point, would’ve surely reached it had you gone through with letting another man father your newest child. The strained bond would’ve been shattered to splinters beyond salvaging but as it stands you can manage to slowly place the pieces back together. 

It is a slow walk to where you want to be, but each step brings all of you closer. At first it’s only small things; Ronal stealing kisses in secluded places and Tonowari lingering near you far more than necessary. They’re more protective now as if they’re worried someone will come along to trample on your budding affections. It’s all new to you, this deeper sort of courtship as you’ve never allowed anyone to go beyond the point of flattery and gifts. The fierce loyalty is to be expected. In truth you’ve never been loyal to anyone besides them. Even before your confessions and admissions of love you never bothered to be closer than friends with anyone. To be doted on so openly soothes the bruised piece of your heart still agonizing over being left behind if they grow tired of you. In so many years their feelings have remained unflinching for each other, and for you. It’s a nagging feeling you wish to starve out of your mind. Eywa has graced you with two people you adore and who love you with equal fervor in return. Tsaheylu or not the three of you have been mated since you laid with Tonowari beneath the night sky. 

Things have finally fallen back into place. Ronal still bites back at every curt remark you make and Tonowari still worries anytime you’re too far from home. But there is no more edge of awkwardness as you hesitate to kiss Tonowari or lean against Ronal. Bashfulness is unneeded when they revel in your tentative touches. Their affections manifest differently, Ronal being more subtle as Tonowari is more boastful, but you learn to balance yourself between the two of them. Ronal won’t ask for a kiss. She will simply stare at your lips until you offer one. Tonowari acts instinctually, wrapping you in his arms the moment the desire rises. It swirls new rumors of the clan leaders’ mate though many simply laugh over how long it’s taken you to accept the title they all called you in secret. It dizzies your head to know that it had been only you standing in the way of your happiness, clawing and hissing when no one meant to harm you. How foolish you’d been to run from your feelings when they were so plainly reciprocated. All that pain suffered and inflicted with no reason for it. The thought weighs heavy on your heart, ears lowering as you mull over your work. 

“Enough.” Ronal says just as quickly as the regret begins to creep in. The energy of the air has surely shifted as your soul sinks into a dark place and your tsahìk is quick to catch it. She’s irritable in the last months of her own pregnancy, more easily disturbed by small things. 

“Come here.” She makes room on the hammock she’s sitting in expecting that you’ll join her without protest. Of course you do, dropping what you’d been doing to sit beside her. The squid can wait. You’ve harvested enough of their ink for the moment though the one in your hand clings defiantly, little tentacles winding around your fingers as you try to drop into the bowl with the others. Ronal makes a face as she watches you gently peel the creature from your hand. Despite their necessity for the tradition of tattooing, she’s always found squids to be unpleasant. Something about their wriggling legs unsettling her. It’s an amusing distaste she has considering how many times you’ve reminded her their legs are more similar to the sinuous nerves of a kuru, but she won’t have it. You press a kiss to her temple as you sit to offer penance for bringing the creatures near her. 

She hums and goes back to her sewing, stitching delicate beads into the intricate weaving of a new top. Idly you flex your leg, gently rocking the hammock as you bury your foot in the sand. The day has gone by with a harmonious sort of stillness as the clan spent the heat of the day on menial tasks. Despite the more secluded area you find yourself in you can still hear the soft din of voices; work songs and gossip and children shrieking happily as they splash in the waves. You rest a hand on your stomach. Enough time has passed for you to be showing. Tonowari has been pleased since Ronal first confirmed the news, hands constantly brushing over your stomach even when you looked no larger than you had before. Now he’s weak with anticipation for their first stirring. You can already hear the words on his tongue as the olo’eyktan appears down the beach, smiling happily at the sight of his mates cocooned together. 

“Oh.” Before he can ask there’s a sudden fluttering in your stomach, light and quick like the feeling of a fish swimming past you. 

“Oh?” Ronal asks, setting aside her sewing. Your hand presses lightly against the place you felt the burst of movement. 

“Are they moving?” Tonowari asks excitedly, already kneeling before you. His hand trails up your calf to settle on your knee, blue eyes imploring as you stare blankly in wait for another flutter. It comes again and you laugh at the strangely ticklish feelings, pulling his hand from your knee to press against your stomach. 

“Did you feel it?” You ask when the baby moves again. Your child is strong, moving with great vigor. It isn’t always a pleasant feeling as you remember the bouts of sickness Ketsräno raised while he twisted and kicked inside you, but this is the first of the new baby’s movements and they’re hardly enough to disturb you. Tonowari nods though his eyes stay trained on your belly. Ronal’s hand pushes in beside her husband’s, fingers overlapping with your own as you guide Tonowari’s hand to where the kicks are strongest. She’s shared in your toiling of carrying a child, knows that it won’t always be this easy, but for the moment neither of you mention it. Instead she presses a kiss to your cheek, your nose, landing one on your lips when you turn towards her amorous mouth. Tonowari catches your lips soon after, hand still pressed against your stomach. He doesn’t go far as he pulls away. 

Instead he wraps his hands around your waist, lifting you from your seat to twirl you in a circle. There are no words for what he’s feeling because all that falls from his lips are sounds of pure elation. Laughter, as deep and rolling as the ocean fills the alcove as he dances with you. Ronal watches the two of you for a moment before smiling herself and standing to join. Your heart swells near to bursting as you realize this is what you would’ve missed had the storm of distance and anger never torn through your life. You’ve made something better of what remained when the rain gave way to sunlight. This is what you tried to deprive yourself of with your rash overthinking. You’ll never be so presumptuous again. Not when Tonowari and Ronal renew their vows to you with each passing breath. Paskalin, tìyawn, muntxate. They don’t let you forget their love for even a moment and you’ll dedicate your life to returning it a thousand times over. 

ɴᴀ’ᴠɪ ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs

Lorpaytsyal – chandelier fish

Syuratan – bioluminescence

Txampaysye – gill mantle

Tanhì – bioluminescent freckles, star

Parultsyìp – little miracle, term of endearment for a child

Sempul – father

Hì’ikran – dorado verde, small ikran (speculative)

Nawmtu – great person (honorific)

Pil – facial stripes, skin stripes

Naranawm – Polyphemus, the planet Pandora orbits

Skxawng – moron

Oìsss – angry snarl, watch it!

Paskalin – sweet berry (term of endearment)

Tswin, Kuru – neural braid

First Breath – Metkayina birth ritual

Vitra – soul

Nga yawne lu oer – I love you

Aysnatanhì – constellations

Tìyawn – love (term of endearment)

Muntxate – wife, female mate

[moongumi]

⁀➷ ∵  ❝ the feeling of hatred ❞

⟶ neteyam x fem!na'vi!reader

⟶ cw. drabble of sorts ⭒ enemies⭒secret romance⭒ slight nsfw ⭒ cursing ⭒ pining

⟶ note. not proofread sorry!! written outta pure indulgence. i labelled it 18+ just incase and it includes slight nsfw!

⭒ hate is a strong word. neteyam has never felt hatred before, it is a feeling that is easy to confuse with another–another many want to feel, to believe in

⭒ its the faces he makes when he sees you, the feeling in his chest–it tightens and burns. his eyes sharp and piercing as if it could cut through you.

⭒ you giggle and laugh, your coral blue and wide eyes, the skin of your face folds as your laughter echoes through his skin. hair as wild as the outer reef, flowing in the rough winds. all of that, changes into a twisted arrogance.

⭒ you didn't do anything when ao'nung and his friends went up to kiri. merely a bystander. you'd roll your eyes and kick the sand, hoping it was over quickly to get on with your day.

⭒ lo'ak couldn't help it, he had to stand up for her. and that made neteyam step in.

"back off," neteyam's fingers press into ao'nung's chest, "now."

ao'nung makes a move to back off, trying to get his friends to go with. neteyam's eyes catch a glimpse of you, scoffing and rolling your eyes again. lips between your teeth, your eyes staring at him with a cocky expression–you wiggled your brows, mocking him–holding up a finger mouthing his words.

⭒ lo'ak showed ao'nung the cool thing his fingers could do, it ends in a brawl that neteyam had to join. he wasn't going to standby and watch his baby bro get beaten by a group of bullies.

⭒ you stand by kiri, watching boys beat eachother up–yanking tails and ears.

"you should do something." kiri says, shrugging her shoulders. her face couldn't hide the fact that she was enjoying it.

you sighed, "yea, probably."

you were older than a lot of them. the same age as neteyam and ao'nung, therefore bigger than most too. you stepped into the fight pulling off ao'nungs friends from lo'ak before your eyes fell onto neteyam on top of rotxo, completely wrecking him.

grunting you jump onto his back, tackling him over his head onto the ground. grabbing his wrists you attempt to pin him to the ground but of course, he's also strong. "get off me."

"no."

his head hits your lip, busting it open as you fell back–you could feel blood trailing off your face. you touch your lip, and curse, "fuck you." a fist in your hand, neteyam tries to stand but gets a heavy punch into the side of his face.

you jump into him, throwing another punch completely knocking the wind out of him. he drops to the ground on his back, his hands grabbing onto your wrists as your body falls atop of his–straddling him.

his eyes widened at the blood, smeared over your top lip and the crack, the plumped bruised split skin.

your hands grabbed at his necklace, the collar like leather–pulling him closer. "don't start a fight, you cannot finish, forest boy." with that, you shoved him back with a fuming look, leaving him in shock.

⭒ he didn't mean to hurt you obviously, somehow he felt really bad about it. as his father scolds lo'ak and practically is proud of him for leaving ao'nung and you much worse than him–physically. neteyam is much bigger than the both of you, it was a given.

⭒ it's the way during the first meal of the day he sees you, walking by him with your lip cut–blood dried but still bruised and swollen. his heart pumps seeing you, for whatever reason.

⭒ you were always estranged, cold since they came here. only really speaking to kiri, or tsireya–even with ao'nung you only seemed to follow him around. maybe you were dating or something.

⭒ he sneers at the thought of that.

⭒ it was when you came back on your ilu, over your back fish tied together as you've just been hunting with your usual friends. he makes a point to run into you, just to say something–anything.

"ouch," you hissed, glaring at him as he basically runs into you as if he was blind. "there is a lot of ground, why must you walk so close to me." you flinch from him as if you didn't want him to even graze you.

neteyam couldn't help but look away trying to hold back his grin. it was the way you walked with a heavy step, angrily, annoyed with his presence but still, seemed so cute and harmless. what is he thinking?

"sorry, look i just wanted to apologize for, uhm–your face."

you shrugged, not even meeting his eyes, "okay, sure." you're blunt. you don't even attempt to apologize for the bruises on his face, they're large and noticeable, the skin of his cheek raw and his neck had burn marks from how hard you pulled on his necklace.

⭒ why is it that he is always around, these couple days you've probably seen him way too many times. it was definitely not a coincidence anymore.

"what are you doing?"

he jumps, comes out form behind the coconut tree as ao'nung look over at the commotion and laughs seeing neteyam step out. he whispers things to his friends, you can't even overhear it.

"nothing."

you roll your eyes, looking back at ao'nung, "i'm going, got things to do. i'll see you later." walking past the stiffened forest boy your tail taps him on the way past. his head snaps towards you, noticing how you looked back at him ever so slightly as if giving him a hint.

⭒ he didn't realise there was a place this pretty, into the forest. it looks close to home, lakes and rivers run through–the trees were much shorter but the density of the forest gave him that warm feeling.

⭒ he should've really seen what you were doing, your eyes taking peaks at him. he can't see your expression, was it playful or mischievous. were you planning on taking him to his death?

⭒ night falls, the bioluminescence shines. his skin and yours freckled with bright lights.

his breathing gets heavier. you turn to him, hand out and all. he's reluctant, you can tell. "i'm not going to kill you, that would be a waste."

he didn't completely understand what you meant of course, but places his much larger hands in yours. the warmth of it embracing your own as you tightened your grip, pushing through the vegetation revealing a quiet pool of spring water.

you look back at him, your eyes. neteyam has never seen such a look, something different shifted in your eyes. you let him go, dropping towards the edge of the pool, before stepping in–the water reaches over your breast bone, covering half your chest.

your eyebrows quirked, motioning for him. neteyam chuckles, jumping in rather quickly, his hips are submerged in the water–mostly. he's much taller than you, much taller.

you swallowed, taking your bottom lip between your lips. "neteyam–"

"why do you hate me?"

your gaze softens, "i don't, i thought our rival was mutual, merely fun. am i wrong?"

he lets out an amused breath, closing the distance between you. getting comfortable you rest, dropping to your knees into the clear water as it reflects the beauty of the night sky, nature and him.

he was no doubt the prettiest boy you've ever seen.

"fun, you think this is fun?" his voice, deepens.

you hum, "i do, doesn't it feel fun, neteyam?"

as close as you got now, your breathing is heavy. his nose brushes against your own. his eyes are sharp, unwavering glued to yours. his fingers trickle upwards, feeling the soft skin on your arms, shoulder and neck. he takes your cheek in his hand, grasping the back of your neck with his fingers as he pulls you even closer, "–it is fun."

you gasp, lips pry apart, heart beating out of your chest. your palms rest on his chest, feeling the same soft vibrations in his chest, confirming your feelings were mutual.

"sorry about your cheek and neck," you spoke, eyes darting towards the marks.

neteyam gulps, eyes looking at the cut on your lip. he nods as the colours in his eyes darken, his lips part closing in the gap, "would this hurt?"

"i don't know–" you whispered, "we can find out." a breath was taken before it was stolen. his lips press boldly against your own. moulding and pressing roughly into you. his hands touch whatever skin he could find, resting on your hip pulling them against his own.

you crane your neck to deepen the kiss. it never started slow, it was hungry, lusting--devouring. you managed to only pull away for one breath before he takes you again, mercilessly. it's wet, you could feel the soreness on your lips but you didn't care. his taste was intoxicating, a sweet nectar that you were prohibited to have but manage to steal. a dirty secret, maybe that's why it felt so good.

his tail flicks under the water, wrapping itself around your leg. he finally pulls away, eyes heavy-lidded as your own. he sees your lip, the cut opened up–he winces slightly as he touches it gently, "sorry, i didn't mean to–"

"i like it–" you interrupt, pressing another kiss to his lips, "we should do it again, sometimes."

© moongumi 2023. all rights reserved, do not copy and publish my writing anywhere else.

[inkykeiji]

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, drugging, noncon, blood, messy rough sex (slapping + biting), hint of mikey at the end, fem!reader words: 650

i literally, genuinely cannot express how badly i want to get absolutely fucked up with bonten rindou + ran. like i am talking super sloppy fucked up, can barely fucking walk fucked up, slurring words in a single continuous stream only interrupted by little bubbles of giggles fucked up.  

it’s become a voracious, all-consuming, downright intoxicating need.

you need them chuckling softly as they hoist you up between the two of them and drag you out to their sleek, souped up mercedes, sharing devious looks over your drooping head, so heavy and full of whatever the hell they’ve stuffed down your throat and shoved up your nose and shot into your veins that your pretty little neck just can’t seem to hold it up. 

you need them shoving you in the backseat, a mess of limbs and sparkles, hem of your slutty little dress already bunched up around your hips and fraying stilettos, now ruined and bloody from being scraped against the concrete, slicing into their leather seats. 

you need them cooing and pouting and spitting in your face because you’re so fucking dumb, you’re so fucking cute, you’re going to be so much fucking fun, aren’t you? 

you need them fucking you raw for hours on end, until the sky turns from star-speckled onyx to strokes of lilac and corals, until their condo is smeared with the gold of the rising sun, as the world flips over then flops right side up again, more drugs tangling in your veins.

you need imprints of each of ran’s hands seared into your cheeks, all five fingers and both palms stinging and raised and etched into soft skin. you need all thirty-two of rindou’s teeth carved into the flesh of your ass, so deep they’ve left grotesque, purplish-grey gouges, so deep they’ve pierced through the skin and left the indents pooling with thick blood. 

you need them stuffing you full of so much cum that it’s drooling from the corners of your mouth and oozing from your abused little hole, dribbling all over your neck and collarbone and chest in stringy dollops infused with your saliva, slathered all over your inner thighs in fat strokes of cream. 

and then, when they’ve had their fun, when they’ve shattered you to bits and stained the shards with themselves, you need them to offer you to their boss, who takes a single look at you and considers just passing you off to his second-in-command, because christ she’s sloppy and you two really did a fucking number on her, who split her lip like that? 

still, mikey’s grateful the terror twins reincarnate will share their spoils with him—real generous of them, you know, they could’ve kept this little doll to themselves and, really, you gotta give her a go, she’s a lot sturdier than she looks, and we just shot her up with another two ounces, and she’s got the prettiest moans i ever heard, mikey, swear to god, cross my heart, and mikey reconsiders.

because then you’re opening your eyes, bleary and blissed out and shimmering so beautifully in the harsh white light of the warehouse, and you’re reaching out for him, cute little grabby hands that claw at nothing as melty murmurs seep from your lips, and oh, he thinks he gets it now. 

because then he’s jumping down from off his wooden crate and stalking toward you, rhythmic slaps of his flip-flops echoing throughout the dense space, and he’s taking your jaw between his thumb and his forefinger, squeezing hard enough to pucker your lips and elicit a sticky little squeal, and he’s leaning close, so close the stench of sugar stings your nose, mixed with something clean and brisk as his breath wafts across your face, and you wanna play with me, precious?

because precious things are meant to be used, after all, aren’t they? 

[xxetherealsweetheartxx]

Western Heat

Nsfw, MDNI. (1K words, intoxication, dub-con (both are drunk), breeding, gun-play)

How you hate him. How you hate this man. Him and his stupid cowboy hat and his stupid smirk and the way his black eyes sparkle. God, everytime you two fight he always has somehow to bring up that stupid night. It was one time. A man like him should let it go already. 

But you can’t deny the feeling in your lower stomach whenever you see him. After that night with him. You regretted going with him to that bar and then into that motel… He pretty much ruined you for other men. How? How did you let him that easily get to you? Oh right, outworld alcohol…

Talking about alcohol, you could really use a drink. Strutting down the streets of outworld, you stumble upon a small bar. You enter it and immediately make your way to the table at the corner.

After a few drinks you felt the effect of the alcohol hitting you. But that doesn't stop you from ordering more shots. Suddenly you can feel someone sit beside you. You look to your right and see the one and only Erron Black.

“Hey Sugar.” He greets, but you don’t take that lightly. “Don’t hey S.. Sugar me, asshole”

���Wow, no need to get aggressive, darlin’.” He smirks under that mask. You scoff. Suddenly he takes one of your shots, pulls his mask down and downs it. “Hey!” You blurted out. His shoulders just shake as he chuckles. 

“Y’know what this reminds me of?” God, you already know the answer. “The night where I made sure all of Outworld knew my name” You looked away as you felt your cheeks heat up. “Don’t play coy, that ain’t how you acted when you rode this cowboy-”

“Shut it.” Erron just laughed at your blushing. While continuing to  All of a sudden he just puts his arm around your shoulder. "Sweetheart, ya can deny as much as you want, but we both know what ya yearn for…”  

After you both went to the nearest hotel, Erron didn’t stop himself. He started kissing you with so much passion and lust. And the alcohol as well as the lack of breath makes you feel so lightheaded. 

All you can think about is his hands undressing you. With no care in the world he just cuts through your shirt and bra with the knife on his belt. You can see his stupid smug smile.

“Damn, I forgot how pretty these tits are” He comments.  His hands start playing with your breasts. The leather gloves made his touch feel a lot more rugged, which only resulted in more pleasure. You could only let small whimpers out as he touches your body so rough and with little care. But you like that about him. Such a wild man with a dangerous lifestyle. 

His touch (and the alcohol) makes you feel so intoxicated. You snap out of the trance when he pushed you on the bed.

Your mouth starts salivating when he starts undoing his belt. His semi-hard cock sprung out of his boxers. The color of his tip was a light coral red. From the slit drops of precum were dripping out and going down his long veiny dick. His hair down there was in fact a bit darker and there was a lot. But he trimmed it just enough, so it wouldn’t be in the way of the main event. No words can describe how perfect his dick is. 

He climbs onto the bed and pulls your jeans and panties all in one go. Putting both your thighs on his shoulder he starts licking long strides on your already soaking wet pussy.

“Well wouldn’t  ya know it, maybe we won’t need a lot of preparations. But I think you deserve it for being such a good slut.” His words only made you more turned on. You felt like a total bitch in heat. One that can only think about the cock of a certain cowboy.

A moan leaves your mouth as he puts his index finger inside your pussy. Suddenly he pulls completely away from you. You look at him confused “Erron..?” 

“Just a second, sweetie” He gets back to you. “Just enjoy it” You couldn’t argue with that and just closed your eyes. You moan as you feel him enter your cunt. Warm walls were basically milking him the second he entered you. 

Your eyes shot up when you felt something cold tap your clit. There was Erron, tapping the barrel of his gun on your pussy. “Shh… don’t be nervous, we both like the thrill of it..”

Your poor drunken state only nodded. You can only think about reaching your sweet orgasm. But Erron was right. The thrill of having a gun that near on your pussy only made you wetter. 

Erron puts his hands on your hips and slams into you with full strenght. Your breath got knocked out of your body as you feel your orgasm abroach.

A series of moans leave your mouth. His fingers stroke your cheek.

“I know, baby, I know… I’m close too..” He says before hitting that spot over and over again. Until the coil in your stomach snaps. You throw your head back and scream his name. His fingers on your hip held you so tight, it would probably leave crescent marks. His thick potent cum was deep in your stomach and when he pulled out, it started oozing from your poor abused pussy. Erron took a deep breath before stuffing his cum back with his fingers.

Erron was about to leave, but stopped himself when he saw your passed out form. He admired the way your body looked under those sheets. It wouldn’t hurt to stay. He lets out a sigh and goes to lay next to you. He must admit, he hadn’t felt such a vulnerable touch in such a long time. His eyes get heavier until he’s finally deep in slumber.

[decaying-words]

The Innocent

All chapters Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything AO3 • All my stories

"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"

The Innocent

Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires. 

Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin. 

Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.

Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.

Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.

My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course. 

I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.

My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.

I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares. 

A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings. 

As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.

She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.

There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.

Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.

Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point. 

The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose. 

The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem. 

Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.

My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.

I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.

It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.

Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .

It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.

I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.

She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.

My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue. 

I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.

As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.

I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.

She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…

Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate. 

She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.

Are you afraid, child?

She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life. 

Do you know who I am, child?

She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent. 

I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.

And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.

Father.

My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace. 

She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…

My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.

I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.

The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.

[thelazuliwitch]

life fanart thoughts idk

But like what if the winners, kept elements of last deathloop in their design? (I word this like this because of the fanon heacanon designs), But only once they become a winner? So Grian has to keep one element of every session and on ward. Scott only keeps designs for last life and on. Pearl Double life and on. Martyn Limited life and on, and Scar and now. So hypothetically drawing them, you like would draw Grian with pancho from 3rd, can't find any fanon elements from last life lmk if there is, but the eye bandages from double life stay onward, maybe like leather jacket or the black pants from limited, and from secret life I see alot of fanart where his clothes are torn and ragged. With Scott, he keeps the halo around his head from his winning season, and from double life I don't see many design changes from normal but like what if he had some explosion scars now (that Pearl can't stomach to see because she remembers) and like from limit life he keeps the coral on his body and the gills and scales. And from secret life he can't seem to loose the cherry blossoms in his hair. Pear won double life, and she never really was able to loose the red cloak. It sticks with her now, and from limited life she gains the feather antenna's in her hair, and from secret life the scars of the boogeyman curse still persist. And from Wild Life she will keep the red and blue heterochromia. Martyn won limited life and now his hair is a little longer and coral is wrapped around his fingers too. And from secret life he gained some features of a dog, he joins wild life more wolfish than before. Now Scar enters Wild Life after winning, and he still wears a floral cape of purple and red, but now that he's green again, the sunflowers are back and bright.

[threerattsinatrenchcoat]

Got into discussing headcanons on discord and realized it might be fun to put my part out here and see what others think? So...

Tiefling Headcanons

(specifically related to toddlers and babies)

Like this but with more kids hanging off a tail:

(don't take any parenting advice from this please) (no discussion of pregnancy/labor) (maybe not lore friendly but whatever)

Tiefling traits can appear anywhere from birth to puberty, leading to a wide range of experiences for parents (even between their first and second kids!), but all of them come out with tails

None have full horns on birth, but they may have nubs

Teething

Some tiefs grow fangs as toddlers, some only get them with adult teeth, some have a special extra layer of teeth that come in and some never get them!

Babies chew on the flats of their tails. Tiefs wrap the tips in cloth to protect them when they're teething. Sometimes you get an older parent who's like, "put some whiskey on it" and the younger ones are like, "we don't do that anymore"

Also, while blunt-teethed toddlers can use coral, wood, leather or even specialty fungal teethers from the Underdark, tiefling babies have to use well polished metal because other materials splinter or shred. If they decide to use leather, it has to be changed often

(an aside: IRL porous materials aren't recommended for teethers)

(A real teether, 1835-6)

Baby Wearing

Tieflings incorporate their tails into baby wearing (on their backs). They wear their babies a little lower than most people because of their wing spurs

There's a joke that you can tell who's a new parent, because they always wrap their tails around a worn toddler to be extra careful

There are also horn carriers that strap to the horn! But people usually don't use them once the child is rolling over

Baby/Toddler Gear

A joke gift for parents with multiple kids is a flask or small box of sweets that attaches to the horns (the only place the kids can't get to!)

A common gift is a small weighted and waxed blanket to hold the baby's tail down during a diaper change

Sometimes leather nipple guards are made for nursing, but generally these aren't needed—tiefling babies learn very quickly not to bite, and their first teeth are usually blunt

Unlike the parents of human babies, parents of tieflings don't bother with blackout curtains

Everyone knows not to hold a baby by the tail, but some parents swear by tail leashes for kids

Tails are also super helpful to help the kids learn to walk! Tiefling babies walk at the same time as human babies, but they go right into running and climbing in a matter of days

Another joke gift is to never congratulate a parent of a tiefling who's toddling for walking, you only apologize for the running.

In tiefling heavy places, tiefling parents are adept at catching toddlers sprinting around and they all work together to watch the kids

Baby Toys and Comfort

Baby tiefs have the grab reflex with their fingers and tails, leading to them grasping everything

Adult tieflings also have mobiles and other toys they hang from their own tails and horns

Tiefling dolls are so uncommon that gifting a tiefling baby a toy that looks like them is a big, exciting thing. Their toys often look like real people in the baby's life

Tieflings modify rattles and toys to go onto baby tails and horns

Bells are very popular tiefling toys

(as an aside I found this picture and this... Does not look comfortable)

Babies cuddle their tails like stuffed animals.

They cuddle their parents tails.

There are huge pillows (like tail-sized pregnancy pillows) that people without tails can use to give their tiefling kids the cuddle experience

These huge pillows are also used to help toddlers sleep alone. Newer generations of parents worry this is unsafe

Baby Clothes

For babies with claws, leather mittens are a must

Babies wear tail covers for chewing, to protect the tail or just because they're cute

Tail covers are often a "one size fits most" and parents use belts to help it stay. They also might use ribbon wrapped around the tail, but again, new generations of parents are wary about this practice

If a baby has wing spurs, the spurs are delicate. Tiefling parents often patch the back of a baby's shirt to protect their spurs

There are also little mini shirts people put under the clothes for protection, if they don't want to patch them

A lot of earth baby clothes have extra mitten fold downs/leg extensions. Tieflings add little buttonable vertical opening in the rear to allow for a tail hole that adjusts in height

Tieflings invented the wide baby neck to assist with taking baby clothes on and off

(the video the second image is from to help you visualize)

Preparing for Babies

Because so many tieflings might be the only tiefling in their villages, groups of dedicated people maintain reading resources and in-person classes for areas with large tiefling hubs.

They work closely with worshipers of Shialla, often housing them in exchange for information about who in their community might have the next tiefling child, and for assistance during labor

They also maintain a library of tiefling specific baby clothes and other tools to lend to parents. Sometimes they pair with a clergymember of Shialla to deliver supplies to new parents

When human parent has a tiefling, they're welcomed into these groups and rely heavily on them for at least a few months

These scholars often argue about old school parenting hacks vs new school. One big old vs new is whether to harden a child or not. The old way says children (especially tiefling children) need to be tough to survive in a cruel world. The new way says it's extra important for children to feel loved, so when the world is cruel they can fall back on that

"She cries when I burp her!" Tiefling parent, wincing, "You're hitting her wing spurs"

Even if their tails aren't perfectly prehensile, an extra limb with a baby is very useful. Part of baby prepping is adding tail friendly loops to doors and drawers, purchasing (or borrowing) jugs with enclosed handles, and investing in tail belts and hooked bags—belts with loops for hanging things off, to keep useful things close

Most of these additions aren't mainstream, so a growing tradition in places with large tiefling populations is to get together to make these items and prep the house

They also sing a lot at these parties, passing on lullabies and love songs for the new arrival. Most of them are about never letting the baby go or always loving them

Another part of baby prep is getting together to make clothes or tweak existing clothes. Tiefling hand-me-downs are invaluable

Another is the doll making, although usually that's around the tiefling's first birthday

Tiefling parenting resource guides always include patterns for knitting/crocheting hats with horn holes and tail covers for cold days

[sojuyae]

uhaw (tayong lahat)

summary: (And if his fingers graze at his lips in the quiet of the night as it twitches from the memory of today, then there’s no need for you to know.)

chuuya nakahara / reader

notes: suggestive themes, fluff, late ‘finally-free-from-the-uterus’ day gift for my chuuya, this fic was supposed 2 be yandere sob sob, not proofread

"Close your eyes, let me take care of it.” Chuuya huffs, his brows furrowed as sweat races on the side of his face. 

His fingers hold your jaw, thumb gently brushing over your cheekbone leaving a trail of warmth in their wake, seeping through his leather-clad hand. You feel an unwavering focus on your face as he traces its lovely shape, drinking in your appearance and committing it to his memory. 

He looks divine this way, you think. With the way the sunlight is seeping through the curtains, shining upon the once unseen dusts and veiling his form as though he descended from the heavens himself.

“Don’t move.“ he says, his hand abandons your jaw, now resting at the juncture that connects your shoulder and neck. His grip doesn’t loosen — rather, it tightens further. The mafioso then pushes you swiftly to the soft cushion of his swivel chair, the cotton upholstery tickling your skin as he leans closer to you, his form blocking the sunlight. 

So much for your birthday. 

His breath hits your face and —

“Chuuya...“ Your voice breaks the silence. His stomach easily filling with flutters as an outcome of the velvety and sweet sonant that leaves your tongue. 

"[Name]," He replies, and you're uncertain if it's truly your name; he draws on each vowel with a degree of familiarity and reverie that you wonder if he had mistakenly uttered a divine being's epithet rather than yours.

(He whispers your name late into the night like a prayer, every syllable that comes out of his lips keeping him grounded when his hair sticks to his forehead from sweat and his stained hand trembles upon the duvets.)

“Chuuya,“ You repeat, this time however, its hinted with a tone of seriousness. A fissure that pierces him out of his stupor.

“You don’t know how to put on a lipstick, do you?“ Chuuya’s face falls comically at the jab, face reddening as his hand that had been holding the cylinder tube freezes in the air — and you’re right, the lovely tubed pigment is still retracted.

“Did I not tell you to close your eyes?“ He grunts, before twisting the decorated bottom of the cosmetic, a soft ‘click’ reverberating in the silence of the room. A delicate and sweet scent permeating the stagnant air.

Smiling to himself as you let out a grunt before closing your eyes shut, curved lashes pressing against your skin. His hand returns to your cheek, the soft pads of his gloves pressing tenderly on the side of your face. Only now does he understand the time and patience women take when applying cosmetic to their faces. His eyes narrow when his hand abnormally starts to quiver as the colorette nears your lips. God, is it supposed to be this nerve-wracking? He can clearly hear his own heartbeat thumping against chest.

He gulps hard, watching as the tint melts on your lips, feeling the softness of them through the tubed pigment, letting out a shaky exhale. (He’s full aware that his own lips can’t pigment like one, and only now does he weigh the cons of buying a lipstick for your birthday — it’ll have more privilege in touching and feeling you than he ever will!) 

The lipstick he bought for your birthday slides effortlessly as he applies the exquisite color of coral, making sure to get every nook and cranny, watching as it flows similarly to that of a paint. Breath being stolen away from him as he worked, the supple of your mouth blooming with every swipe of his fingers, a rosy color shading them bewitchingly. He daubed them gently, his gaze following each stroke with unrelenting concentration.

You soon feel his warmth leave you as does the tubed cosmetic, the sunlight regaining it’s place in the room through the curtains as he leans back. You are to pull back your eyelids — when an all too familiar leather glove cups the top of your face, covering your field of sight.

It happens so fast, it is one of those days when Chuuya chooses his mind over matter — there is no line of thought that encompasses his head when he presses his lips against your tinted ones. The motion so tender and loving — a motion too human for him to act upon.

You can smell his perfume — a combination of vanilla, pine, and cinnamon components, the scent wafting in your head. The beat of his heart matching yours, a memory that won’t easily be forgotten.

He can feel the creamy texture of the lipstick, confident and sure that the matte finish of the cosmetic is now smeared and has unbalanced the subtle color of coral all over your lips. Chuuya makes an attempt to concentrate more on his most innocent fantasies, this kiss, is only the tip of the iceberg of his imagination. 

Suddenly, too sudden for your liking, he pulls away, warmth leaving you yet letting you regain your eyesight in the process. 

You stare at him, wide eyed and mouth agape as you watch him turn around, composing himself with his back facing the window as he coughs awkwardly in his fist.

“I-I, ahem, I had put too much lipstick on your bottom lip,“ He explains hastily, and had it not been you, his words would’ve come out as incomprehensible.

Finally, finally, his form faces you, yet his eyes avoid you actively —  darting back and forth at the floor and the earthly toned walls. ‘Has the floor ever been this shiny?’. God, he looks like a kid who got caught eating something they were forbidden to. “I wiped it away with my gloves, I hope you don’t mind.“ He says, and your eyes drift to his lips.

And you smile knowingly, eyeing an unnatural pigment in his lips.

Had he known more about cosmetic, particularly lipsticks, he would’ve known that there are transferable and non-transferable tints. 

And the lipstick he bought, belongs to the former.

---

“I did not know you also liked to put on lipstick, Nakahara-senpai.“ Higuchi hums to herself absentmindedly. “Is it a new style?” Fixing herself tea. “What brand is it?“ She probes further, unaware of the redness on her superior’s face.

“Get to work!“

[talshiargirlfriend]

Don’t mention it.

Here is an estrangement vignette that literally no one asked for.

Follows an Unnamed Disaster. Could be set between Home and Kir’Shara (or elsewhere per your imagination) Read it on ao3

Commander Tucker steps onto the bridge, the emergency lighting a glaring reminder of how much work remains to get the ship functional again. Travis Mayweather has a knitted cap pulled over his ears and a grim expression on his face as he sits in the center seat. He makes to stand, “Sir-”

Trip waves him off. “Just passing through, Travis. You hold onto the hot seat. So to speak,” he adds wryly.

Travis gives him a look. Damage across multiple systems has made maintaining any sort of climate control outside of Sickbay impossible for the time being. Engineering is hotter than the Forge while the bridge feels like Andorian spring.

“She in there?” Trip jerks his head toward the command centre.

“The Fortress of Solitude,” Travis nods with a show of his usual good humor, and Trip chuckles in appreciation.

T’Pol looks up from the array of damage and casualty reports, star charts, repair projections, and god only knows what else she’s poring over when he enters the room. Two mostly empty mugs lie neglected on one side of the table.

“Commander,” she greets him. The coral velour collar of her catsuit peeks out over the neck of her Starfleet jumpsuit. She also has a silver crew jacket layered over the top. Unlike most of the bridge crew she has chosen to forgo wearing a hat, leaving her flushed ear tips visible. The effect should be comical, but somehow she still looks compelling.

“Hey.”

“How is the captain?”

“Better,” Trip answers slowly. “Awake. And grumpy. I think Phlox might release him to quarters this afternoon just to get a bit of peace.”

They share an amused glance.

“How about you? When’s the last time you actually took a break?” He raises his eyebrows.

Her eyes dart away from his. “Ensign Sato brought me tea,” she deflects softly.

After a pause, T’Pol changes the subject, “It is warmer on this deck this morning.”

“Huh. Maybe a little.”

She looks at him sharply. “I wasn't aware Climate Control was back online.”

Trip laughs darkly, “Oh, it’s not… but I needed to vent some heat from the plasma relays on B Deck and gave it a little redirect. No sense in you freezing your ass- asses off up here. Win-win.”

T‘Pol stiffens, “I am perfectly capable of enduring–”

“I know that! I know. But it really was useful, and…” he sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Whatever we are - or aren't, I’m still gonna care about you. Maybe you shouldn't always have to endure things just because you can.”

She looks at him with those big sad eyes, and suddenly Trip is grateful for the space between them and the solid obstacle of the table to prevent him from doing something they might both regret. Or, possibly worse, might not regret.

He swallows and tries for a light tone, “Maybe it’s a human thing, but sometimes the best way to work out how to solve a problem is to think about something else for a while.”

T’Pol glances at the stacks of PADDS in front of her, then closes her eyes and nods, “I believe I understand.”

“Speaking of solving problems,” he says as he steps behind her to activate the wall screen. “I believe I've worked out how to get propulsion and sensors both back online ASAP.”

Trip talks her through his plan, having already anticipated most of her questions and objections. Arguing through all the details is second nature to them, the rhythm safe and familiar.

When she flicks back to a previous schematic, their fingers brush together.

Oxygen makes itself scarce.

Neither of them moves for a few heartbeats.

T’Pol recovers first and withdraws her hand to grasp its mate behind her back.

“Commander, this is incredibly impressive work.”

“‘Incredibly impressive’ eh? Careful, T’Pol, or people will start to think you like me,” Trip overshoots his teasing mark wildly, and it tastes like boot leather.

T’Pol wrings her hands - a gesture she has picked up from her human crewmates.

“Commander - Trip, everyone in this room already knows how I feel about you.” Her voice is as low as a whisper, weighed down by all she can’t say.

He clears his throat, but his voice still sounds hoarse, “Yeah.”

“I, uh - I should go get things moving.”

“Agreed.”

T’Pol removes her jacket and places it carefully on the back of her chair. “Trip … thank you.”

“Don't mention it.”

They don’t.

[theblueskyofthedawn]

Prompt: marriage.

The most important promises are not spoken aloud.

Dan Feng closed his eyes, tuning Preceptor Fenghuan’s droning out. Discreetly, he pressed a cherished bundle, hidden in his sleeve, closer to himself.

Today, he thought. Today, or never.

Leather lovingly bent under his fingers, gold dug into his arm, and corals he painstakingly gathered and covered in enchantments pulsed where it was trapped between his flesh.

An old tradition he had no plans of explaining to his beloved.

(Yet, he knew he would cave before his inquisitive eyes.)

///

– Yingxing.

– Yes?

– Give me your hand.

With no hesitation and a disarming grin, he did.

– Going to pretty me up, High Elder? – he teased.

“You can say so,” Dan Feng’s glance seemed to say, as he fastened the bracer on his beloved’s arm. His eyes flashed with power, tying the spell web to him.

– Dan Feng? – Yingxing’s grin softened, and his lavender eyes sparkled in curiosity, taking in the gift.

Hastening to explain, Dan Feng quickly spoke:

– It’s a pair, – he turned away, hiding his palms in his sleeves. – If anything happens to you, I’ll know, – he paused and then inclined his head. – And you – if anything happens to me.

– But I don’t feel anything right now, – it wasn’t a question. Ever observant, Yingxing tugged on his sleeve: – Allow me?

Dan Feng’s next exhale ended up shaky.

– Are you sure? – “Do you know what you’re asking for?”

– Of course I’m sure, – a familiar arrogant grin blinded, giving such needed strength.

– Go ahead, then, – he pressed a second bracer into his hands.

Reverent fingers danced over his skin, and neither of them could contain a gasp when the charms connected.

Yingxing’s warmth burned his skin – from today, and forevermore.

[sopheronipepperoni]

Chalant As Hell

[Summary: Davrin and Rook take the measure of each other during their first meeting in the Anderfels.

Assan's not the only one with ruffled feathers, here.]

Davrin’s blood is singing through his veins, his hunter’s focus locked into place.  There’s a certain trick to keeping far enough away from bands of darkspawn to train Assan on their scent, without risking battle and injury every time.  They’ve tracked this particular group over the better part of the day, winding farther up into the high canyons.  The band has kept well enough away from the trainers’ camp for the most part, but Davin’s started seeing more signs of darkspawn closer to where they started this morning.  One hand is close to the hilt of his sword as he scans the scene again, nostrils flaring as he inhales more of the metallic and sour scent of the taint.  Assan shuffles close to him, a soft curious sound in his throat as he looks around, too. Davrin absently places his hand on Assan’s downy head, gauntleted fingers lightly scratching through the griffon’s feathers.

Davrin kneels to study a print in the dirt, mind divided between tracking and trying to gauge how best to hone Assan’s instincts, when he hears footsteps and a scattering of stone chips sound along the small canyon that leads back to their camp.  Assan’s head shoots up, ears twitching and alert, and a small spear of pride shoots through Davrin even as he jumps to his feet, muscles tensed.  The constant hum of the Blight in his veins is too distant to be darkspawn, but he doesn’t recognize the two sets of treads coming closer.  Whoever they are, they aren’t Lancit and Remi.  Assan leaps to a rocky outcrop and begins prowling in the direction of the noise, a low sound in his throat.  With a curse, Davrin hurries to keep up with his charge, losing sight of Assan within a few moments thanks to the fact that Assan can fly, and Davrin has a distinct lack of wings. 

“Assan!”

He hears Assan let out his hunting shriek, and Davrin lopes up the last steep rise before laying eyes on the scene before him.

Assan’s crouched before a lithe elven woman, his head lowered and wings flared as he squawks again.  A small dwarven woman stands by the still-burning campfire. Neither stranger has weapons drawn; the elven woman’s hands are held placatingly in front of her.  He takes a few heartbeats to assess the situation, his keen hunter’s instincts buzzing. 

He certainly didn’t expect to return to a wrecked campsite after a morning of training with Assan.  There aren’t any signs of Lancit and Remi, best as he can tell, not even a blood splash.  It’s small comfort to Davrin, even as he smells the stench of the Blight.  Wherever his fellow Wardens and their charges are, it isn’t here.  He beckons Assan to his side with a murmured, “Easy, boy,” still ready for a fight if it comes to that.  His hard gaze falls on the elven woman in front of him. 

Davrin’s almost embarrassed at how seeing her nearly drowns out the Blight and worry running through him and instead sets another song singing in his blood.  For a second he feels as an untried young man again as he takes in the riotous mass of copper curls spilling across her shoulders, her valleslin and angular face, her tan and freckled skin—entirely too much of it, especially this close to darkspawn.  Her golden armor appears too ornamental to be practical, from the small golden breastplate fastened over bright blue cloth that drips nearly to the ground, to the golden armbands circling up to her biceps, to the woven leather sandals adorning her calves and feet.  However, a mage staff peeks over her shoulder, and a wicked-looking coral knife is buckled at her hip.  Ah. Teeth to her bright plumage.

He hasn’t had much opportunity to cross paths with a Lord of Fortune, but he’s heard tales of their deeds and rumored preening ostentatiousness.  What is one doing here, practically in the ass-end of the Anderfels? 

Where the elf shines like a fire in the afternoon light, the dwarf behind her paints a more tempered picture.  She is much more practically outfitted with what appears to be a serviceable scouting kit, not an ounce of skin exposed to potential threats.  A potions belt is slung across her hips, a bandolier securing a bow and quiver latched across her torso.  The dwarven woman’s auburn hair and bow are lined in gold from the dying sun. 

A wonder-filled smile breaks across the elven woman’s face.  “I’ll be damned…a griffon!”  Her voice is husky enough to weasel past Davrin’s defenses, and he scowls. Assan squawks at her, his wings flared and feathers ruffled. 

“Trouble is, he’s not sure what you are. Neither am I.”  His voice is hard, but the woman doesn’t seem phased. 

“Rook.  This is Harding.  Evka and Antoine sent us.  We’re looking for Davrin.” S he cocks an eyebrow at him, an openness to her face.  He knows what she’s doing, trying to defuse the tension radiating from him and Assan.  Put him at ease.  Mentioning his fellow trusted Wardens helps to quell his misgivings at them finding their hidden camp some, but not completely.

“You found him."  His reply is curt.  "Mind telling me why you smell like darkspawn? Griffons hunt darkspawn.”

There’s a wry tilt to Rook’s lips, and she jerks a thumb towards the tent erected against the cliff.  “We don’t smell that bad.  It’s the tent.  You’ve had company.”

Davrin scowls and inhales, holding out his arms.  “Blight?  Where are Lancit and Remi?”

“The camp was empty when we got here.”  Her voice is pitched to be calming, and Davrin takes a moment to admit to himself that he expected more brashness and arrogance from a Lord of Fortune.  Makes sense some of them would know how to speak honeyed words as well.  As far as he’s heard, anyone with a thirst for "gold and glory"—be it privateer, treasure hunter, explorer, the occasional scholar—is welcome in their ranks.  He’s not sure which category this Rook falls into, and decides then and there to keep his guard up with her until he does.

A sudden scream rips through the air, the cry of darkspawn grating on his nerves and setting a steady aching pulse behind his eyes.  He turns to Assan, signaling with his hand.  “Assan—to the trees!”

Rook is gazing at him, and he knows she’s taking his measure, too.  “We can help.”

He fights to keep down a scoff, even as he’s intrigued to see what Rook and Harding are capable of.  Besides, facing darkspawn alone has never been his favorite pastime, even without the threat of his fellow Wardens being in danger.  Still scowling, Davrin tilts up his chin in challenge, hands on his hips.  “Try to keep up.”

A sharp smile slashes across Rook’s face, and she gestures for him to lead the way.

Davrin is quickly forced to amend his very early—and very biased— first impressions of Rook after they encounter the first band of darkspawn.  She moves like a dervish across the battlefield, mage knife flashing out to rip through sinew and bone alike, lightning crackling around them in a protective field as more darkspawn leap down from the canyon walls, keeping them from getting overwhelmed. In the next heartbeat Rook slams her staff down and out, fire erupting in a wave before her.  Davrin slides his blade between the ribs of a darkspawn, before leaping to knock another aside with his shield, putting more distance between it and her.  He wants to say she’s reckless, the way she fights both at range and up close, what with her lack of protection.  But at the same time he is begrudgingly impressed. 

He pulls his blade from the last darkspawn, noting the proportion of scorched bodies around them compared to those with sword marks and protruding arrows.  He amends his thoughts further.  “Not bad, Rook…for a Lord of Fortune.”

There’s that look again, that almost smug tilt to her lips and eyes, that tells Davrin he’s not fooling anyone.  The word gorgeous flits through his mind, closely followed by dangerous.  He files them away for later, and brings more of his fierce Warden resolve to bear.  He can’t afford to get distracted now.  Not until he finds Remi and Lancit, and knows the other griffons are safe.

—Even if Rook appears to have stepped right out of his dreams, if he’s honest with himself.

He’s never seen anything quite like her.

-------------------------------------------------

“All right.  Come on, Assan.  Let’s get to know our new friends.” 

Davrin’s rich voice twists through her thoughts even after she’s helped Lucanis clean up after their evening meal.  Davrin and Assan had joined them briefly, long enough for Assan to receive many head scratches from Bellara and Harding, much to Davrin’s chagrin.  She could see that the Warden was still not quite sure what to make of their rag-tag bunch.  He had been friendly throughout dinner, going so far as to swap some quick hunting stories with Taash, but Rook read underlying tension in the way he held himself, an aloofness that she herself had tried to maintain at the start of this job.  Her heart gave a small twinge on his behalf when he excused himself and beckoned to Assan, saying he wanted to settle in to their assumed quarters more.  How hard it must be for him, losing two friends and comrades-in-arms, as well as the last bevy of living griffons in the whole of Thedas—all in one day.

She’s had jobs like that, she muses to herself now, as she paces through her room.  That sense of the ground dropping out from under her, that listless pit in her stomach; that��s how it had felt after her last Rivaini job went sideways and she had needed to go to ground for her own safety and keep her distance from the other Lords.  That’s how it felt when she and the others disrupted Solas’s ritual, and got them all in this crazy mess.  Life altered in an instant.  She’ll check in on Davrin tomorrow, but for tonight she’ll let him be.

That won’t stop her from replaying their first meeting in her head, though.  She brings her small strung elven bass to the plush chaise in her room, fingers running absently over the strings.  In her line of work, she’d had to learn how to hold a poker face when meeting new clients or prospective business partners.  Rook thought herself a fairly composed woman who was able to keep her expressions—not to mention hormones—in check.  Davrin had certainly given her a run for her money.

Isabela and her penchant for tall, dark, and handsome had nothing on the monster hunter.  Meeting his dark gaze as he stood on the rise above her, fading sunlight shining around him like he was some sort of avenging spirit, had nearly stolen her breath. His broad shoulders and chiseled jaw, full lips and toned chest and deep voice— he’s utterly bewitching.  Rook feels her cheeks heat even now, like she’s a blushing maiden again.  She plucks out a simple melody by heart, turning over her other impressions like river stones. The way he fought, fierce and determined, cutting a swath through the darkspawn.  And protective—she hadn’t missed the way he had angled himself towards the worst attacks and drew attention away from her and Harding, all on top of keeping an eye out for Assan. 


Rook knows she is competent at ferreting out artifacts and traversing ruins.  She is comfortable in her considerable strength as a mage. And still her heart thrills to think of the heroic knights protecting others, like she reads in the romance serials she secretly loves.  She is no damsel, but can’t help but swoon at Davrin’s actions all the same.  Rook herself is also no maiden; she’s flirted and bedded her way through enough people in her time as a Lord to know what she likes in a lover, and how to be a good lay in turn.  But something about Davrin makes her breath catch, her blood sing in her veins like lyrium.

She bets he’s considerate and chivalrous in bed as well as battle, fierce and confident.  The thought comes to her unbidden, and she nearly slaps herself.  You have just met him.  Have you no shame, Veryl Laidir?  Her fingers still on the strings of the bass.  Having these thoughts as the boss of this expedition won’t do her any good, not with what’s at stake.  But it also wouldn’t be the first time she’s mixed business with pleasure… 

Hmm.

She sets the instrument down across her lap, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks.  Maybe she will ask Varric if he’s ever experienced anything like this raw attraction on any of his previous jobs—she certainly hasn’t, at least not at this magnitude.  Then again, she would sooner burst into flame than discuss crushes with her assumed mentor.  And she’s only just met Davrin.  This doesn’t bode well for her.  At all.  Having a cute and equally fierce companion like Assan certainly doesn’t hurt his odds in her eyes, either.

Rook just hopes her facade of warm nonchalance won’t fail her now.  There’s a lot riding on her as leader of this growing outfit; she can’t afford to be distracted. Somehow, though, Rook hopes she won’t be able to help herself. 

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

[Notes:

I just actually can't with Davrin right now. I say I like him a Normal Amount (TM) and then go and churn this out. Is it just me or is he one of the best-looking companions in any of Bioware's games???

Also shout out to my friend's shirt that says "I'm chalant as hell: I care." This one's for you, sweaty.]

[gwaha]

five character associations — d'andala

tagged by @lilas ages ago sorry worstie 💕

emotions

vindication

amusement

pride

anticipation

enthusiasm

colors

pinks (in game: pastel, rose, coral)

yellows

white

pastel blue

light or warm browns

scents

freshly baked bread

ocean breeze; warm sand

citrus; oranges especially

sun warmed leather

paper; new books

objects

piles of well-loved books

teal and pink colored ribbons

boots, soles worn from use

daggers, hidden under her clothes

a perfectly tuned lute

body language

hand reaching towards another, palm open to the sky, a confident but welcoming smile on her face—a silent offer to dance with her

fingers tangled in her hair, absent-mindedly braiding as she comes up with a plan

foot tapping and tail swinging to a bard's song

tail intertwined with a loved one's, or curled around their side

catboy /joy 🙏

aesthetics

the horizon line over the ocean, heart tugging her toward it

fingertips stained with ink, a new story in the works

the sound of her laughter and mocking remarks in a battlefield as she avoids and dances around enemy attacks

lovingly decorated home-made meals, made to be shared

a field of dandelions, a patch still pressed into the ground as sole evidence of a catnap taken among them

tagging‼ @iryine @snapshoo-t @wystarrya @larkingame. Fully pressuring you💕

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

The Waves are Rising and Rising

|Beginning| |Previous|

Chapter 17 - Epilogue

It's the last chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who followed along while we were posting this, it's been so much fun reading all your comments and seeing you love reading this as much as we did writing it. If you aren't quite ready to let go of this universe yet you're in luck, because we weren't either when we finished it and so we've written some extras! They'll be posting in the near future so you should subscribe to the series on AO3 or keep an eye out on things here if you want to read those. There are also some clarifications in the end notes of this chapter on AO3 based on questions we saw cropping up in the comments, so check those out too. Anyway, enjoy the epilogue and thanks again for being here!

--//--

“XIAO-JIUJIU!!!”

Jin Guangyao spares a moment — just one — to press the tip of his index finger between his brows. It probably would have been a better idea to cover his ears, considering Jin Ling’s shriek could likely be used to shatter glass and he’d done it right next to him, but the boy has already detached from clinging to his leg to sprint full-tilt across the courtyard towards the uncle in question, so it’s a lost cause either way.

As much as A-Ling’s manners leave something to be desired, he can’t exactly begrudge the boy his excitement, and in the kindest, most loving way possible it’s a bit of a relief not to have a chatterbox toddler clinging to his skirts anymore, so he doesn’t call out a correction either. Jinlintai is abuzz with a general air of excitement and bustle which Jin Guangyao is, of course, in charge of maintaining and which Jiang Wanyin is still no better at pretending to enjoy even after years as Sect Leader, so he’ll likely be glad for the interruption of his nephew before any socialising begins.

Jin Guangyao dusts himself off and continues on his way with no more than a perfunctory nod to his sort-of-brother-in-law, who returns it with the same as Jin Ling begins talking his ear off where he’s perched on Jiang Wanyin’s hip.

There are only a few more details to oversee, thankfully, and by now Jinlintai runs like a well-oiled machine at the smallest hint of a hosting opportunity, so his presence is really more of a formality than a genuine need. Still, he knows that if one wants things done right one must oversee them oneself, so he directs servants with discreet gestures and nods of thanks or approval; he lets his path take him through the kitchens, where no one stops him in the midst of all their juggling of platters and things bubbling away on the stoves warming the room to nearly-unbearable temperatures. He’s happy not to stop and put out any metaphorical fires — the menu had been agreed upon months ago and the last of the ingredients delivered at first light this morning, there should be nothing to interrupt the well-choreographed dance of a major feast. He checks the gardens next, ensuring that the public areas have been pruned and arranged to their absolute best, and that the private gardens are full of comfortable benches and bowers from which to appreciate the oceans of peonies in bloom.

Jin Guangyao’s route ends in his quarters where he’s finally free to change into the best set of robes he owns — swathes of cream and coral silk, cloth-of-gold, and shining peonies embroidered along the edges of the sleeves and collars that are perfect miniatures of the real things growing just beyond his windows. He smiles to hear the door sliding open as he settles at his dressing table, and by now he doesn’t even have to look to know exactly what comes next. He unpins his everyday guan and unthreads it off his high ponytail, setting it down gently on its tray amongst its compatriots as broad, calloused hands start unwinding the leather tie at the base of the tail so it can be combed out and restyled.

“What are you thinking for today, A-Yao?” Nie Mingjue asks him, already resplendent in his best robes, almost as richly embroidered in silver as Jin Guangyao’s are in gold. Jin Guangyao hums as his eyes trace what he can see of the geometric designs in his polished bronze mirror, smiling when Nie Mingjue ducks down enough to meet his gaze in the reflection.

“I liked what you did for Wangji’s wedding in Gusu,” he decides, “though I don’t have the same ornaments with me here.”

“I’ll work with whatever you have, it’s not like you’re wanting for jewels,” Nie Mingjue shrugs. He stands straight again to section off Jin Guangyao’s thick hair and begin braiding with deft skill, a simple but flattering pattern that’ll keep his hair out of his face and off his neck as well as provide a decent anchor for his heaviest guan, once they’re all plaited together and wound around the rest of his hair on top of his head. Nie Mingjue takes care to weave in some of the various gold chains and ornaments that Jin Guangyao has acquired over the years as he goes; he doesn’t wear them all the time like his brothers tend to, but this is of course the perfect occasion to go a little overboard.

They work in companionable silence for a few minutes, Jin Guangyao letting his eyes slip shut to take a moment to rest and let Nie Mingjue take care of him. He still struggles with too much silence, though, so when Nie Mingjue finishes one braid and begins the next he cracks one eye open to look at him in the mirror again, though with Nie Mingjue standing straight again he can only see up to his throat.

“Did you meet with Wei Wuxian this morning?”

Nie Mingjue grunts in the affirmative and Jin Guangyao raises one brow, waiting pointedly for his partner to elaborate.

He doesn’t have to wait long before Nie Mingjue clears his throat and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “He’s happy with where I’m at, considering how much hunting I’ve had to do with that yao infestation at the border last month. I’ll just take it easy for a while to let the extra resentment clear out of Baxia and my meridians, then I’ll keep going from there with his latest cleansing regimen. It’s been working well enough to hold us over when I can’t see you or A-Huan.”

Jin Guangyao can’t help but smile, nothing more than a pleased softening at the corners of his mouth. “Chifeng-Zun agreeing to take it easy?” he teases. “What trick has Wei Wuxian discovered that er-ge and I have yet to stumble upon? Please forgive this humble one for failing in his marital duties-”

Nie Mingjue cuts him off with an irritated click of his teeth and a painless tug on the braid he’s weaving. “Shut up, you know I only agree when he suggests it because of you and A-Huan. Where is A-Huan, by the way?”

“Last I saw he and Wangji were practising their composition for the celebration. He should be here soon.”

“I’m here now,” Lan Xichen says from the door, sliding it shut behind himself with a gentle clack. “Am I needed?”

“Always,” Nie Mingjue replies a little distractedly; he’s currently attempting to thread a gold bead smaller than one of his fingernails onto the braid he’s working on, so Jin Guangyao thinks it’s fair. Jin Guangyao holds one hand out towards the door without moving his head, and his smile widens when Lan Xichen crosses the room in just a few strides to take his outstretched hand in both of his to bring it to his lips for a quick kiss to his fingertips.

“Everything looks lovely as ever, A-Yao. Jiang Yanli wished for me to tell you she requests your presence once you’re dressed. I believe she wants to talk to you before the guests start arriving.”

“Ah, of course.”

“A-Yao, pass me something to tie this all off with. I’m guessing you want your wedding guan?”

Jin Guangyao’s cheeks are starting to ache but he can’t bring himself to stop smiling. He passes Nie Mingjue a length of white silk that isn’t a Lan forehead ribbon (but it’s not not a Lan ribbon) while Lan Xichen picks up the guan in question and the pins that go with it.

With his hair finished and his robes lying perfectly, as judged by Lan Xichen’s discerning eye, Jin Guangyao spares enough time to kiss his partners and appreciate them in all their finery before he sweeps from their quarters again to find Jiang Yanli. She’s sitting where she has been all morning, surrounded on all sides by peonies and cushions and silk hangings to keep the sun from creeping into the gazebo nestled in the middle of the east garden. It’s a private space without keeping her hidden, and as Jin Guangyao steps off the main path to cross to her he nods at Luo Qingyang marching past him in the opposite direction.

“Lianfang-Zun,” she salutes, casual and friendly. She’s a good vice general, a sensible and skilled leader who’s quick to discipline anyone she feels needs a lesson. Between the two of them they manage things in Jinlintai quite well, he thinks; it’ll likely always be a viper’s nest, there are far too many power-hungry uncles and aunts and cousins for it not to be, but between their prowess on the battlefield and in the political arena, and Jin Zixuan’s refusal to entertain his more… eccentric relatives any more than strictly necessary, there’s a better buffer there than there has been in years.

“A-Yao, your timing is perfect as always,” Jiang Yanli calls with a smile, soft and warm.

“Sao-zi,” he greets, ducking through the gauzy hangings to settle on the bench beside her, mindful not to crush the delicate silk of her lilac overgown. “I trust your brothers have already paid their visit?”

“Naturally, and muqin as well. You may therefore expect peace and quiet,” she laughs, the infant in her arms cooing in the next moment as if on cue. Their next moves are just as smoothly choreographed as the servants setting the banquet hall, or the kitchens preparing the feast; Jin Guangyao holds his arms out and Jiang Yanli gently slides the bundle of warm silk and tiny baby into his arms. It isn’t the first time he’s held his new niece, of course, but the joy of it hits him just as hard as the first time, and he smiles down at her so widely his cheeks start aching again.

“Hello,” he murmurs as she blinks enormous, dark eyes up at him, tiny lips parted and one hand escaping her swaddling to reach for his ear to tug on in lieu of his hair, all gathered up safely out of her reach.

“A-Xuan tells me you’re going to take some time off after this,” Jiang Yanli says after a few minutes of resting her eyes while she doesn’t have to worry about holding her daughter.

“Yes, I have been dragooned into service in Cloud Recesses,” he tells little A-Lu, currently gumming at her fingers with single-minded effort in lieu of finding tempting locks of hair to pull. “They are using the rebuilding of the training grounds as an excuse to redesign them for their increasing discipleship, and it is time to fully catalogue the repaired contents of the library. Mingjue and I are offering our expertise while Lan-xiansheng will be occupied with the summer lectures.”

Jiang Yanli hums softly and settles more firmly into her pile of cushions. With some amusement, she asks, “And naturally an extended period of time with Zewu-Jun is completely secondary to your purely philanthropic offer?”

Jin Guangyao finally looks up from his niece to offer her his widest, most insincere smile and a bland, “As sao-zi says,” for the delight of startling her into sparkling laughter, loud enough to echo back off the pavilion across the garden. A-Lu shrieks and waves her spit-shiny fist in the air, so Jin Guangyao catches her tiny fingers to let her wrap them in a death-grip around his index finger.

“I trust that Chengmei and Yu-didi won’t be allowed to commit too much mischief in my absence,” he notes as he watches Jin Zixuan enter the garden, spot them, wave only-slightly-awkwardly, and then stop a polite distance away; it must not be urgent, then.

“I don’t believe that’s something anyone can guarantee without your clever distractions to occupy them, but if they cause too much of a fuss I’ll send for A-Xian to come rein them back in,” she replies, unconcerned. It’ll have to do, and he’ll only be gone for a few weeks anyway. While history has taught that Xue Yang is anything but predictable, of course, he is at least less volatile these days now that he’s allowed to swing a sword covered in experimental talismans at a practice dummy as much as he wants, with Mo Xuanyu always happy to stick a nose in and reel off a list of questions if it means escaping his more traditional studies. It’s a work in progress, as so many things still are, but that’s not always a bad thing.

Jin Zixuan turns to look over his shoulder and then steps aside, and something in the vicinity of Jin Guangyao’s heart melts as he sees his partners coming up the path, walking sedately shoulder-to-shoulder, heads bent together to chat. It must be time to begin greeting guests, they wouldn’t come to fetch him otherwise, but he doesn’t move for another few moments in favour of watching them pause to talk to Jin Zixuan.

“Married life suits you, A-Yao,” Jiang Yanli muses; she’s one of the few people in the know — even had he not invited her to participate in their Lanling tea ceremony, Meng Shi’s memorial tablet cradled carefully in her hands while Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue poured for her, she’s too astute not to have noticed it the day Lan Xichen started wearing his hair in a full up-do, his neat bun stuck through with a gold zanzi in quiet violation of the Lan rule against excessive ornamentation. From there it would have only been a short leap to understand Nie Mingjue’s abrupt preference for a new configuration of braids and ornaments, painstakingly taught to both Jin Guangyao and Lan Xichen by Nie Huaisang for their Qinghe ceremony. Though perhaps most telling of all are the white silk bands tied around his and Nie Mingjue’s wrists that are clear matches for the one around Lan Xichen’s forehead, tied on in a final ceremony in Gusu with Lan Qiren, Lan Wangji, and Wei Wuxian for witnesses. They’re as married as they can be, at least, and Jin Guangyao privately agrees with his sister-in-law — it suits him very well.

“Thank you, sao-zi. I believe my husbands have come to fetch me to return to my hosting duties, though. Will I pass xiao-Lu to Zixuan?”

Jiang Yanli smiles and shakes her head, holding her arms out for her daughter again. “I’m feeling quite well, I’ll keep holding her. We’ll be inside shortly to help you.”

Jin Guangyao passes the infant to Jiang Yanli and stands, shaking out his skirts and making sure he doesn’t get caught on anything on his way out of the little bower to cross the gardens again to meet his partners and his brother on the path.

“A-Yao,” Jin Zixuan greets with a nod. “I was just saying you’ve certainly earned your time away, you’ve outdone yourself. Truly.”

“You’re welcome, xiongzhang,” he replies with a little bow.

“I’m going to check on A-Li, I’ll see you all inside.” Jin Zixuan bows again, a little deeper, and beats a hasty retreat; his desire to know as little as possible about their relationship hasn’t changed one bit since they’d first discussed it, and Jin Guangyao can’t help but find it funny (Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue had poured him tea, as the closest thing to a family authority figure Jin Guangyao has. Jin Zixuan has personally married them and he still escapes their combined company whenever possible. It’s ridiculous). Jin Guangyao tamps down a wave of bemused affection in favour of looking up at his partners.

“Time to go?”

“Nearly. Wen-daifu just arrived, we thought you might like to say hello before the more official greetings begin. She’s in your receiving room.”

“She’s having tea with Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue adds and starts to usher them back down the path towards the more public areas with his hands pressed lightly to the smalls of their backs, “so I can only assume she’ll be looking for a rescue sooner rather than later.”

“Perhaps we can tell her that we want a second opinion on Wei Wuxian’s latest diagnosis,” Jin Guangyao muses. Not that he doesn’t trust Wei Wuxian’s assessment of Nie Mingjue’s progress, but well. It’s usually more fun to act like he doesn’t for the sake of winding up Wei Wuxian.

“...-ust saying, Qing-jiejie, I really think you’re onto something!” Jin Guangyao stops both his partners with a hand on their chests, Nie Mingjue’s fingertips freezing an inch away from the door to the receiving room in question. Lan Xichen raises an eyebrow at him but Jin Guangyao just shushes him with a finger to his lips and leans in closer, openly eavesdropping. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but even muffled through the door, Nie Huaisang is very clearly using his ‘I’m being a little shithead’ voice and Jin Guangyao is curious, there’s nothing wrong with that.

“I mean it! Da-ge is doing soooo much better, you really ought to publish your findings so others can try it!”

“Nie-gongzi we have seen nothing that proves Nie-zongzhu’s incredible progress isn’t simply a lucky break and I have disciples to train. I do not have the time to publish a manual on dual cultivation.”

“If you need more evidence we can work on that first! Listen, I’ve been experiencing some… rages-” Jin Guangyao has to clap a hand over his mouth to stop from snorting as Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen cover their eyes in unison, silently lamenting the clear suggestiveness in Nie Huaisang’s voice as he continues, “-you know, such awful imbalances in my qi, so if you happen to know any big strong cultivators looking for someone to rai-”

“I am not a matchmaker, Nie Huaisang!”

Jin Guangyao turns around and doubles over, biting the heel of his palm to try not to laugh and blow their cover. It’s pointless anyway — Nie Mingjue shoves the door open with a slam that rattles the wood in its frame and Nie Huaisang yelps a terrified, “Da-ge!!” nearly hidden under Nie Mingjue’s, “Come here you little shit!!”

“Wen-daifu,” Lan Xichen greets much more calmly, very much as if Nie Mingjue hasn’t wrestled Nie Huaisang to the floor to sit on him in punishment. Jin Guangyao disguises his laughter as a few coughs that convince nobody, he assumes, and steps into the room last to find Wen Qing trying hard to scowl around a reluctant smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

“Zewu-Jun, Lianfang-Zun. I trust I’m saved from Nie-gongzi’s hospitality?”

(“Get off me da-ge, it was a valid question!!!”

“I’m going to run you through so many drills you miserable little- don’t bite me!”)

“We were hoping you might be willing to check da-ge’s qi for us,” Jin Guangyao says and steps aside to gesture towards the open door behind him. “Nie-gongzi was just leaving.”

Nie Huaisang leaves in a flurry of fluttering silk sleeves and a closed fan pointed ‘threateningly’ at Nie Mingjue over his shoulder on his way out, and thankfully it doesn’t take the rest of them long at all to get settled in again at the table. Jin Guangyao pours tea for them all and settles in to sip at his with Lan Xichen, both of them watching carefully as Wen Qing presses two fingertips to the pulse-point in Nie Mingjue’s bare wrist.

She lingers for a few long moments, nothing more intense in her expression than concentration. When she opens her eyes again she reaches for her tea and Nie Mingjue tugs his sleeve back down, perfectly relaxed.

“I’m assuming Wei Wuxian already told you you’ve technically overextended recently?”

Nie Mingjue nods, but doesn’t look at all apologetic. Jin Guangyao wouldn’t expect him to, of course. “There was a nest of yao by the border with Qishan, had to be done. I’ll do some extra meditating in Gusu.”

Wen Qing raises an eyebrow but saves them all from some cutting remark about what else they’ll likely be doing plenty of in the privacy of the Hanshi.

“Extra check-ups then as well with myself or A-Ning, since you’ll be close by anyway. Wei Wuxian’s work with the saber spirits is helping almost as much as your triple cultivating; maybe he can solve the last few issues with it while you’re around.”

Nie Mingjue shrugs, but he can’t hide the relief softening the corners of his eyes or the hard edges of his perpetual frown.

“No better place to try than Cloud Recesses, I guess.”

“Wen-daifu,” Lan Xichen clears his throat delicately, “will you truly never publish your work with dual cultivation?”

Wen Qing sighs and looks at them all in turn before shaking her head, though it looks more like defeat than denial.

“Maybe one day I’ll be able to figure out what it is about your qi that makes this work so well, but you three are truly one-of-a-kind as far as I’m aware. I’ll consider it for a time when I have fewer things to do, and if you would like to write your own accounts of course that’s your business, though I would ask that I be consulted on any part where my research is referenced. But as for me… no, I’m not currently interested in writing a sex manual for cultivators, medical or otherwise.”

Nie Mingjue snorts tea out of his nose; Jin Guangyao passes him a handkerchief without a word. They’re saved from replying by a faint tapping at the door, and Jin Guangyao stands to open it to find Lan Wangji on the other side, looking down at him as coolly as ever.

“Laoling Qin and Baling Ouyang have arrived.”

“Ah.”

“We’ll join you shortly, A-Yao,” Lan Xichen promises with his ever-present gentle smile. Jin Guangyao nods to his partners and Wen Qing and leaves them behind, falling into step next to Lan Wangji as they approach the Fragrance Hall and, beyond it, the main staircase.

“I have your word that Wei Wuxian absolutely will not ruin this Hundred Day Celebration?” Jin Guangyao asks, but it’s hardly a question. Lan Wangji’s irritation feels like it should have some sort of barometric effect, a cooling of the atmosphere around him (actually that might be quite nice, hot as it is this time of year).

“Mn.”

“No plots, no dramatic or miraculous reveals, no political upheavals?”

“We will be retiring early.”

That’s hardly an answer but Jin Guangyao isn’t afraid to make Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji’s life a hell of petty revenge during his time in Cloud Recesses should they give him any reason at all; it’s always good for him to have a project, and archiving dry academic texts for the Lan can only hold his attention for so long.

Either way, they say nothing else as they wind their way through the few servants finishing up their final preparations and emerge into the sunshine again at the top of the stairs where, as promised, Laoling Qin is just arriving. Jin Guangyao settles into his usual spot to greet them, Lan Wangji standing just behind his shoulder as a frigid deterrent for anyone who might attempt to disrespect him in his own home.

It isn’t perfect of course — he’s long since had to accept that nothing is. But as he bows and greets and makes small talk with each sect that arrives; as he listens to his nephew’s happy shrieks from the garden nearby where he’s chasing little Wen Yuan in rambunctious circles right through the peonies; as Lan Wangji’s stony presence is replaced with Nie Mingjue’s sturdy one, and then Lan Xichen’s gentle warmth; as he heads inside to take his place at Jin Zixuan’s right hand for the celebration of his and Jiang Yanli’s second child, Jin Guangyao thinks — he hopes — that Meng Shi knows what he’s accomplished in this life, and finds it in her heart to be proud of the family he’s worked so hard to make.

|END|