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wren-kitchens · 3 days

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so shiver, but shiver with a friend

1034 words

the boat is creaking. that's not even remotely abnormal; the boat spends more time creaking than it does staying silent—gem built it so it would do that. sure, it took a lil' getting used to, but it didn’t take long for the rhythmic rocking and gentle creaking to become conducive to sleep, and now gem finds it far more difficult to sleep in silence. after all, silence means something is wrong—the engine rumbles if it's working, the waves splash against the sides of the boat if it's still afloat. a creaky boat means gem is still alive, and the boat is still running. but this isn’t your average ambient creaking. like she said, gem knows the noises of her little fishing boat like the back of her hand, and this is not a normal creak. this is a suspicious creak. and- sure, that might sound silly, but have you memorised every sound this boat can make? didn’t think so.

this fic exists for two reasons, which are stiff stiffyck's love for qpr elven duo (gem and scar) and also me overthinking scar's wheelchair worldbuilding in the hermitcraft world

this could be a lot better but alas I have been consumed by depression writers block, so honestly i'm just proud this ended up as a finished fic

btw this is one of my first times writing wheelchairs, and whilst it is fantasy so things are gonna be a little different, I would appreciate if someone could tell me if I did something wrong/insensitively!

the boat is creaking.

that's not even remotely abnormal; the boat spends more time creaking than it does staying silent—gem built it so it would do that. sure, it took a lil' getting used to, but it didn’t take long for the rhythmic rocking and gentle creaking to become conducive to sleep, and now gem finds it far more difficult to sleep in silence. after all, silence means something is wrong—the engine rumbles if it's working, the waves splash against the sides of the boat if it's still afloat. a creaky boat means gem is still alive, and the boat is still running.

but this isn’t your average ambient creaking. like she said, gem knows the noises of her little fishing boat like the back of her hand, and this is not a normal creak. this is a suspicious creak. and- sure, that might sound silly, but have you memorised every sound this boat can make? didn’t think so.

anyway, all of this to say that gem is pretty sure someone is on her boat at the middle of the night for what she deeply hopes are not nefarious reasons. although, she cannot think of any reason someone would be sneaking onto her boat at two in the morning—nefarious or otherwise. maybe it's grian trying to lag some things out of her chests? but why on earth he wouldn't do that in the day when she wasn't on board, gem has no clue.

there's a new noise now, one that suggests against the idea of nefarious deeds, but only confuses gem more: a kind of squeaking, like a rubber ring being taken off, or an air mattress being slept on. okay, that doesn’t rule anything out at all, and only serves to make everything far more complicated. who is bringing a rubber something onto her boat at 2am? what is happening here?

overtaken by an amounting curiosity to whatever the hell is actually going on, gem climbs out of bed and pads softly along the floorboards in her slippers to her door. she regrets not installing one of those peepholes, because now she actually has to engage with the something that's happening outside in order to investigate. gem is sure there isn’t anything especially dangerous that could be going on, but she pulls out her sword preemptively as she opens the door slowly to find-

to find..

well, she's not sure what she's found.

"gem!" says a cheery scar, who is. on her boat? how is he on her boat- he uses a wheelchair, and the boat is in the middle of the river.

except- no, hang on, his wheelchair seems to be completely lacking wheels, which gem would argue is the main point of a wheelchair. where the wheels should otherwise be, there are floatation devices—seemingly rubber, which explains the noises gem was hearing earlier—in patented hotguy colours, so she assumes that's intentional. okay, that's- that sure is something.

"you-" gem scrambles for any words to express how bizarre this situation is and fails miserably. "you’re on my boat." is all she manages. void, it is way too late (early?) to be trying to figure this out.

"I am on your boat!" scar says, looking rather proud of himself. it's kind of sweet, to be fair—even as it only adds to the crazy situation. "y’know, I didn't think i’d actually manage it. last time I tried, I sunk."

gem blinks, giving up on making sense of the situation now and letting herself just go with the bizarre. "yeah, I can imagine why scar." she gestures at the rubber wheels (they look a bit like wheels, anyway). "how did you get those?"

"cub helped me!" scar smiles, as if this was a normal conversation to be having. does he even realise how strange this situation is, or is this just normal for him now? "see- you know how my chair has an elytra mode?"

"uh huh."

"well, now it has a swimming mode!" scar says, and he clicks a button on the underside of the seat. within an instant, the floatation devices deflate, replaced swiftly by the regular wheels. "ta da!"

"that- I mean, that's very cool." gem says, and she means it, despite how unenthusiastic she knows she must sound. in her defence, it is the middle of the night. "I just- why are you here?"

something changes in scar's expression immediately, and gem panics a little until scar says meekly, "it- okay, well. now it sounds silly."

gem snorts. "because showing off your inflatable wheelchair at two in the morning is normal?" she tilts her head, and her voice is fond when she says, "you know you can tell me anything, right?"

a smile tugs at the corners of scar's lips, and gem feels something warm in her chest to see it. "I know, I know." he hesitates for a second, before giving a huff of exasperation. "I wanted a hug." scar admits, glancing at the floor.

"wh- scar." gem finds herself beginning to smile. "do you really think I would ever turn down a hug from you?"

scars grin is almost shy as he opens his arms, and gem practically falls into them, burying her face in his jacket. man, she has missed hugs from scar; she loves the way they fit together so well, like pieces of a puzzle, perfectly matched to one another. there are very few places where gem feels entirely at home—she's been pretty much everywhere, so she knows what home feels like—and scar is closer to home than any place has ever felt to her.

before she knows it, scar has scooted forward just enough to unbalance her, and she lands on top of him. gem scoffs playfully as scar laughs to himself, holding her closer.

"I can't hug you properly if you’re stood up, y’know." scar mumbles into her hair.

gem rolls her eyes, fond as anything. "well, i’m not complaining." she's quiet for a moment, letting herself appreciate the moment—breathing it all in. "I love you." gem murmurs.

scar squeezes her, and gem can almost hear his smile when he says, "I love you too."

#hermitfic #wren writes #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #geminitay #hermitcraft #please don't tag as ship <3 #elven duo #hermitblr #I can’t figure out any more tags tell me if I need something else GKDHS

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ajokeformur-ray · 5 months

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The breeze seems to whisper 'I love you' // Astarion x gn!reader / Tav

This is my first Astarion fic so I really hope I bring him justice; he deserves that and everything else which is good in life. It took me three days in total to fall head over heels for him, and this piece is dedicated to @ace-tarion for being such a sweetheart in this, as in everything. I love you, dude!❤️

I haven't played BG3, I know maybe 80% of the plot (tadpoles in brain = bad = travel to Baldur's Gate), I've watched a ton of Astarion clips, so apologies for any inaccuracies or inconsistencies. I'm just here for Astarion (though I'd love to play BG3, I don't have any technology capable of running it💔).

Content: You/Tav x Astarion (established relationship), canonical past for Astarion is hinted at and laced within narrative, cuddles, animals referred to as 'snacks' within mentions of Astarion (only a mention; no actual description of animal-feeding/mentions of anything pertaining to animals being fed on).

Summary: Night-time falls, your heart sinks into your stomach as surely as your body sinks into your bedroll, and you want cuddles from Astarion.

Word count: 1, 624.

I am accepting requests for Astarion ❤️ no smut and no pregnancy/birth/kids!!

You lay on the cold, hard ground. The earth is unforgiving, soaking up the day's sweat without offering any kind of reprieve. Stones and hard clumps of dirt dig into your back through the bedroll, the wind is slightly too cold and it penetrates your thin blanket, haphazardly thrown over you in an attempt to ward off the elements.

Everyone has a tent, except you, and you make it a point to lay as close to the fire as you can on the nights Astarion is out hunting; it wouldn't do to help yourself to his tent. He keeps his tent away from the others, though still adhering to the semi-circle layout chosen by the others around the campfire. He would not mind you letting yourself in to his tent, he would likely welcome returning to you there, and yet you cannot justify it even to yourself.

After two hundred years of shit, pure shit, he deserves every ounce of privacy and the security of knowing his tent is his own.

You sit up just enough to shuffle yourself closer to the fire, curling inwards as a shiver wracks your body. It isn't cold, necessarily, but your temperature is not conducive to a restful sleep. You lay on your back, gazing up at the stars which punctuate the sky, breaking up the inky black and blues with pinpricks of white, yellow, and some dull spots of grey from the stars which died many eons ago and are now fading from the sky.

You promise yourself you'll try to remember their placement in the sky.

Despite the best of intentions, you know that you won't.

Your vision goes blurry at the edges as you continue staring up at the night sky, looking for any constellations you recognise by way of finding yourself a bedtime story to recount as you try to fall asleep. The leaves on the trees sway gently in the breeze, and your mind wanders, as it so often does, to Astarion. Your sweet vampire, who simultaneously breaks your heart and put it back together in the same moment every time you uncover more of who he is, more of his past.

Oh, but you love him.

Of its own accord does your body take a long, deep breath in, your heart sinking into your stomach as surely as your body melts into the bedroll. All of your thoughts of Astarion and all of your feelings for him are safe inside yourself, and they serve you now in warming you from the inside out.

Your eyes slide closed, and if you press your forehead closer into your blanket, you can almost tell yourself that you can feel Astarion lying down beside you, you can smell bergamot and feel his silver hair tickle your cheeks, you can feel his fingers intertwined with yours, your legs tangled together, his crimson eyes upon your face so intently fixed like he's scared to blink in case you disappear before his eyes, leaving him clutching only the cold night air, his equally cold body pressed against every line of yours...

You smile to yourself and burrow deeper into your blanket, feeling sleepier, warmer and closer to your rest by the second. Thoughts of Astarion flood your mind and you curl up tighter, as if to keep all these thoughts right where they are. You know if you open your eyes that you'll be alone; you know not where Astarion is this night, but you know he is trying to sate his hunger with the snacks which live in the forest.

So you keep your eyes shut.

As you allow yourself to slip further into your threshold consciousness, you wonder what Astarion would say to you if he returned at this very moment...

"Hello, sweet. Gods, you are beautiful."

You smile again and squeeze your blanket ever tighter to you. Yes, he would probably say something like -

Wait.

Was that - ?

With great caution do you open your eyes, ready to slam them shut again once you see that Astarion isn't there, that he didn't just speak to you. But instead of the cold hard truth slamming into you, flowers bloom in your heart because Astarion is here, looming over you, his silver curls seeming to be glowing in the soft moonlight. His crimson eyes seem black, his charming smirk soft at the edges as he gazes down at you with obvious fondness, vulnerable such as it is.

Of all the stars above me, this one's the prettiest, you think to yourself, and you open your eyes wider to better enjoy the view.

Astarion's smirk melts until it becomes a smile as he kneels down beside you, one of his arms reaching out to brush a leaf away from your face. His fingers ghost across your skin, and you shiver. "Thank you, darling. I know I'm beautiful. Not enough people mention it." His joke fades into vulnerability, as it so often does around you.

But it is no matter. You always meet him where he is, and right now it is no exception.

You smile at Astarion, all of the love for him shining in your eyes until they look like molten galaxies, and he swears he feels his heart, which stopped working centuries ago, skip a beat. You are unguarded where you lay in your threshold consciousness, not embarrassed to have spoke aloud your thoughts, and Astarion wonders if the old saying, that love makes fools of people, is true. You lay at the foot of a vampire, at the foot of a predator, smiling at him, physically and emotionally vulnerable, completely unguarded. Most others at the camp are asleep, Astarion can hear, and yet here you are...

Wait. Why are you awake?

"Darling," Astarion's voice is a hush and you strain your ears to be able to hear him. He bends closer to you to accommodate, anticipating your needs before you fully register them yourself, "Why aren't you sleeping? No harm shall befall you when I'm here." Long ago, he had sought your protection, but now he wanted you both to be safe. If this is how the mighty fall, then Astarion must admit that he is happy he lost his balance. He quite likes the view from down here.

You shake your head and shuffle closer still, unable to get close enough to your most beloved vampire. "Can't sleep without you." I just want to be held.

Oh, help him, but this is devastating in its simplicity. His undead heart bleeds and words have brought Astarion to the point where they run dry. Instead, he stands, and reaches a hand out to you. The message is clear - he wants you to accompany him to his tent, he wants to carve a piece of heaven out with you amongst all the chaos unleashed, he wants to hold and to be held.

Astarion just wants you, and who are you to deny him?

One of your hands slips into his while the other pulls the blanket away from you and Astarion's smile widens as he effortlessly pulls you up to stand beside him. You bend to scoop up your bedroll, and follow Astarion into your tent. The door flap flutters in the wind as Astarion releases it, and it settles in place like a butterfly finding a flower.

You find yourselves easily, your bedroll dumped next to Astarion's, pushed up close until his bedroll becomes a double. It's a well established routine for the two of you, with you spending more nights here than you don't. You never enter his tent if he isn't here, and you certainly never come in without his permission. One day, Astarion will find the words to convey his appreciation for your concern, but until then, he will remind you at every chance he finds that you are always welcome. He finds it greatly ironic that you seek permission to enter space and he, a vampire, does not. He knows he is welcome, wanted, cherished, loved.

It took some work for the both of you to get here, but his months with you are the counterweight to the hell he escaped from.

He'll never be able to thank you enough, he has no idea what he is doing, but perhaps this is a start.

Somehow, through the fuzziness of denied sleep, you end up back in bed, your blanket around you and Astarion's still chest under your head. He lays beneath you like he is patiently waiting for you to make yourself comfortable, and you take the opportunity to wind both of your arms around his waist and squeeze, pulling yourself up just enough to be able to bury your face in his neck. One of your legs slips between his, anchoring the two of you together.

Slowly, like he's afraid to move too quickly in case you disappear within his grasp and leave Astarion holding nothing but the cold empty night air, his hands settle upon your back and a sigh which seems to come from deep within him spells peace for the both of you. "This is nice," Astarion's voice rumbles through your ear and you press yourself ever closer to him, unable to get close enough. Your arms constrict around him again and you feel yourself smile as all those sleepy dreams you were having earlier are now here, beneath you, wrapped around you. As you hold on tighter, so too does Astarion, until the two of you are so completely intertwined that the elements cannot reach you. He has no body temperature and yet you are the comfiest and the warmest you have ever been.

Safe.

This time, Astarion doesn't tell you that you accidentally spoke your thoughts aloud.

#astarion x reader #astarion #baldurs gate 3 astarion #baldurs gate 3 x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion comfort #astarion fluff #bg3 x reader #bg3

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teyamskxawng · 11 months

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Rite of Passage

Lo'ak Sully x Fem!Omatikaya!Reader

The rundown: You and Lo'ak mutually agree to paint each other for your coming of age ceremony. Although you're both growing older, some things never change.

Warnings: language, Reader and Lo'ak being painfully oblivious, Reader swearing up and down that she hates Lo’ak’s hands but she really loves them, just lots of fluff and stupidity, characters are aged up

WC: 5.5k

A/N: This was my attempt at writing a light-hearted lil fic that I don’t feel obligated to stretch out into a series. It's basically word vomit idrk how I feel about it, but anyways!! Another one for the Lo’ak lovers (me) lol <333

The highly anticipated season had finally come around once again—the annual, collective moment in which the entire Omaticaya clan came together to celebrate the time-honored induction of their youth into the world of adulthood. Over the course of several grueling months, the young Na'vi had been put through their paces, overcoming demanding rites of passage and thus earning their coveted standing within the tribe.

The lively and uproarious ceremony was more than just a celebration. It signified a crucial stepping stone in the journey toward becoming accomplished members of the Na'vi society. And this year, Lo’ak found himself among those transitioning from childhood into adulthood, moving one step closer to joining the ranks of his higher-ups.

He’d finally be treated like an adult, he’d finally get to exercise free will outside of his parents' strict and demanding orders. He’d get to celebrate with all of his warrior friends and probably consume way more drinks than he should, but that was all part of the adventure. He’d be a free man, and he couldn’t fucking wait.

But as thrilling as the entire experience was panning out to be, there was this nagging sensation at the back of his mind—something that clouded his thoughts like a veil of unease.

It was customary for each young Na’vi to be adorned with intricate body paint before attending the celebration—a powerful symbol that represented their transformation from childhood into adulthood. It was akin to casting off one’s previous life and stepping into a new, mature version of themselves.

Each unique design would act as a shroud, allowing the individual to leave behind their former innocence and emerge reborn, strong and prepared for all of life’s challenges.

While most of his peers had already secured mentors, close friends, or even lovers to skillfully adorn their bodies with intricately painted designs for the ceremony weeks before its commencement, Lo’ak had nothing. Despite all his accomplishments thus far, he’d yet to find someone to help him present himself in a manner conducive to the age-old tradition. Which was a big problem.

Lo’ak had been struggling with the idea of asking you to paint him for the upcoming ceremony for weeks on end. It was something that weighed heavily on his mind, but he just couldn’t figure out how to approach such a delicate yet meaningful conversation with you. Embarrassingly, he found himself losing sleep over it all, tossing and turning in his hammock, replaying scenarios in his head, trying to find the right words that didn't seem to exist.

You and Lo’ak shared practically every experience and milestone throughout your lives together. You went through the same rites of passage as Lo’ak to be welcomed into the tribe as warriors. Given your close bond, it was natural that Lo’ak would want to be the one to paint you for the ceremony as well. Unfortunately, just as with asking you, he stumbled when it came to bringing up the actual topic. It was going beyond the casual interaction of friends—this was a formal event, steeped in tradition and significance. The whole situation left him feeling overwhelmed with stress and anxiety.

But still, Lo’ak understood the weight of the tradition: it was all about deep connections and honoring those who had played an essential role in your life. Last year, he recalled watching Kiri as she painted Neteyam for his coming-of-age ceremony. As per tradition, this year Neteyam painted Kiri, a symbol of their familial bond and reciprocal support. It made sense, but at the same time, there went two of his potential options. Tuk was way too young to know what she was doing, and it’d just be straight-up embarrassing to have to ask either of his parents to do it for him. That would defeat the purpose of the entire ceremony; he was supposed to be an adult now, no longer reliant on his parents.

There was no doubt in Lo’ak’s mind that you’d be the perfect partner for the adornment process. You weren’t just a passing acquaintance; you were one of Lo’ak’s closest friends. Your friendship was strong enough to withstand the toughest storms. But still, Lo'ak couldn't shake the feeling that asking to paint each other would somehow cross a line between friendship and something much more intimate. It’d be embarrassing. And what if you had chosen someone else already? What if it was some other guy? Lo’ak’s stomach dropped at the thought.

And now, as the day of the ceremony had arrived, Lo’ak found that he still hadn’t mustered up the courage to ask you about the painting ritual. His anxiety mounted as time slipped through his fingers like sand. He was so screwed.

As you approached the Sully family’s tent, the faint sound of metal slicing through the air caught your attention. A knot of unease tightened in your chest as you hesitantly pulled back the tent’s entrance, revealing Lo’ak sitting alone in the dimly lit space. He was cross-legged on the ground, wholly engrossed in spinning his dagger in circles on the floor, his quick fingers directing its every move. As used to his stupidly reckless behavior as you were from years of friendship, your eyes still narrowed at the sight. You swore he was two seconds away from slicing his finger off and bleeding out right there in front of you before the ceremony even began.

So much for his adulthood.

Lo’ak’s ears twitched, and his trance-like concentration suddenly broke as he sensed your presence, his focused expression softening as he turned his gaze to meet yours. Momentarily distracted from his dagger, he rose to greet you, meeting your eyes with a look of genuine confusion.

Lo’ak eyed you up and down before stating matter-of-factly, “You’re not painted for the ceremony yet?” He didn’t phrase it like a question—more like an observation. And that was a little unfair, because it wasn’t like he was dressed in his body paint either.

Feeling a tad defensive, you retorted, “Neither are you,” as you made your way deeper into the heart of the tent. As much as his words had sparked annoyance in you, a secret wave of relief washed over you as you realized that Lo’ak wasn’t ready for the ceremony either. That could mean good news: maybe he hadn’t found a partner for the painting ritual yet.

There was still hope.

For days, you’d been meaning to ask Lo’ak about the whole rite of passage painting thing, but every time an opportunity presented itself, you’d back out like a little bitch. You honestly didn’t even know why you hesitated. It shouldn’t have been difficult to approach him about it. Lo’ak had always been your closest friend—you’d trained together, learned to tame your ikran together, and even completed your Uniltaron one after the other. There was no doubt in your mind that he’d agree to be your partner for the significant culmination of everything you’d accomplished together. It was just that the entire ordeal of getting someone—a good friend or otherwise—to meticulously rub paint all over your body felt so… affectionate. You and Lo’ak weren’t affectionate. Just thinking about it made you feel like there was a cascade of woodsprites flurrying around in your stomach.

You shook your head, trying to get rid of those persistent thoughts, when Lo’ak’s voice invaded your musings.

“Yeah, I don’t know who’s gonna paint me. Haven’t had time to ask anyone yet,” he said nonchalantly while reaching down to retrieve and re-stow his dagger.

He was avoiding eye contact, his yellow eyes aimlessly darting around the tent. You found it hard not to roll your eyes at him because it was so obvious he was lying about being too busy. You’d literally just caught him goofing around with an entire weapon moments ago. However, it didn’t really come as a shock that Lo’ak hadn’t approached anyone about it yet. Social graces weren’t his strong suit, and mustering up the courage to ask anyone to play such a role in his rite of passage couldn’t have been easy for him.

But still. Either way, you made up your mind; it was clear that things needed to move forward somehow. Regardless of the situation and awkward challenges it presented, you couldn’t sit idly by anymore; both of you were running out of time, and it’d be stupid to continue dancing around the matter at hand.

Resolutely, you decided it was best just to be upfront about it and get the whole thing settled once and for all—for both of your sakes and for the sake of friendship. Maybe it wouldn’t be as awkward as it seemed.

“Okay. I’ll do you, and then you can do me,” you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips without any real finesse. It was as if the sooner you could get those words out, the sooner you could escape the oncoming wave of embarrassment threatening to wash over you.

However, Lo’ak’s reaction caught you off guard.

His eyes widened in surprise and his eyebrows shot upward as he averted his gaze from yours. He couldn’t seem to look at you, his attention inexplicably drawn to an unremarkable spot on the ground near your feet. You scrunched your face up in confusion as you tried to make sense of his bizarre reaction. It wasn’t until you gave yourself a moment to process and then reprocess the words that had spilled from your lips, that you realized how they might have sounded to Lo’ak’s stupid teenage boy brain.

Trying to push away your own mortification and distract the both of you from the burning color that you were sure was spreading across your face, you acted on instinct, reaching over and smacking Lo’ak upside the back of his head. It was a necessary move to kill the dreadful silence that engulfed the tent.

“Ow! The fuck?” Lo’ak screeched, nursing the spot where you struck him as if he had genuinely been injured. He had always been overly dramatic.

“Just sit down,” you told him, trying your best to maintain a casual demeanor.

Despite the twinge of awkwardness still lingering in the air between both of you, you firmly gripped Lo’ak’s arm and pulled him back down into a sitting position on the floor. With Lo’ak seated and somewhat calmer now—even if he was still rubbing at the supposed wound on his head—you made your way deeper into the tent to rummage for the supplies needed for the body paint.

Jake and Neytiri were always well-prepared, making sure they had an ample supply of materials for when the time came to don their traditional war paint. Thanks to the countless hours you spent with the Sully children, navigating their tent was like second nature to you, and locating the necessary items was a breeze.

With a mortar and pestle full of bright white pigment in one hand and a bowl of water in the other, you re-approached Lo’ak, who was sitting patiently, waiting for your return. As you stood there, you studied Lo’ak’s face and allowed your gaze to wander down his frame, trying to visualize the patterns and symbols that’d complement his warrior spirit. Eventually, feeling inspired, you took your place in front of him.

Making yourself comfortable, you positioned yourself on your knees, making use of the extra bit of height, before you reached for the mortar and pestle and meticulously ground the white pigment into a fine powder. You drizzled in a small amount of water to create a smooth paste that would soon adorn Lo’ak’s face and body.

As you mixed the paste, your thoughts began to wander. Despite your focus on the task at hand, you couldn’t ignore Lo’ak’s piercing gaze. It seemed to bore right through you.

It still baffled you just how much Lo’ak had grown in such a short amount of time—it seemed almost sudden. For as long as you could remember, you and Lo’ak had been virtually the same height. There was even a brief period during your early childhood when you stood a bit taller than him, and you never let him forget it, teasing him about it every chance you got. But now? Things were so different.

It was like Lo’ak had shot up overnight. Not only was he growing taller by the day, but he was growing stronger as well. There was no denying the obvious changes in his physique. And it wasn’t like you were trying to notice the changes. It was impossible not to see the way his arms had filled out, the way his shoulders had broadened, the way in which even the slightest movement would cause the muscles in his stomach to ripple.

Just like they were at that very moment, as Lo’ak nervously shifted under your intense scrutiny, self-consciously crossing his arms over his chest.

Right, because you were definitely staring at him. You mentally chided yourself for letting your focus wander so far off course.

Swallowing hard, you turned your focus back to the task at hand. As you stirred the paint, pouring all your effort into getting the consistency just right, you tried to ignore the fact that the once-casual atmosphere between you and Lo’ak was now laced with an undeniable undercurrent of tension.

Out of nowhere, Lo’ak abruptly asked, “Is it gonna be cold?” His question caught your attention, and in a way, you were grateful for the sudden interruption. Your mind had been racing with thoughts of how you’d manage to paint any area below Lo’ak’s shoulders. But you decided to cross that bridge when you reached it.

“You tell me,” you quipped in response, placing the mortar filled with paint on the ground beside you. You dipped each of the fingers on your left hand into the paint, discovering that it was indeed really cold. You did the same with your right hand before lifting both sets of paint-covered fingers toward Lo’ak’s waiting face, wondering how the hell you were supposed to begin.

Truthfully, you hadn’t come up with any elaborate painting patterns or designs in preparation for the moment, which was somewhat concerning. The entire ceremony was meant to be personal and special, something that required contemplation and reflection for at least a few days before actually starting the painting process. Yet there you were, just 30 minutes away from the start of the ceremony, and not a single thought in your brain.

Despite your lack of planning, Lo’ak was calmly sitting right in front of you with his full trust placed squarely in your hands. So, without any further hesitation or delay, you decided to just dive in and let inspiration (and the trust of Eywa) guide your hands.

Taking a deep breath, you gently pressed your fingers to the edges of Lo’ak’s eyebrows before slowly trailing them across his forehead and then swooping them down along the bridge of his nose. You tried very hard not to laugh at the way Lo’ak flinched from the sensation of the cold paint touching his skin.

Momentarily, you took a step back to assess your progress and decided that it didn’t look half bad. The realization fueled your enthusiasm enough to continue painting. Coating your fingers in the paint once more, you continued to glide them confidently over the smooth contours of Lo’ak’s cheeks in swift strokes.

As you neared completion, you observed that all that remained unpainted on his face were his lips. They looked strangely bare. You weren’t really sure whether they were supposed to be painted or not. But the idea of touching Lo’ak’s lips, even just with your fingers, caused your heart to pound erratically within your chest. It was so bad that you were contemplating just backing out and moving on to the next part.

But just when you were about to give up and move on, unintentionally, your eyes met Lo’ak’s. It seemed as though he was reading your mind; he knew exactly what you were thinking as he studied you intently. There was no turning back; he had already noticed your hesitation.

Trying to maintain focus on the art and not let yourself become overwhelmed by how close you were seated across from Lo’ak proved challenging. You could practically feel the soft warmth of his exhaled breaths as they caressed your face. It made your spine tingle and caused goosebumps to rise across your arms.

“Close your mouth,” you ordered firmly, hoping to alleviate some of the tension in the air. He obeyed, immediately pressing his lips together with exaggerated swiftness. With a soft smile, you slowly raised both of your hands to his mouth. You gently placed two painted fingers on his mouth and traced them down his lips. From there, your fingers continued their journey along the curve of his jawline.

Taking another dip in the paint, you allowed your gaze to wander across the entirety of Lo’ak’s unpainted body. With your internal pep talk in place, you decided to just dive in. Maybe if you did it casually enough, everything would be fine. You softly nudged Lo’ak’s crossed arms apart with the backs of your hands. Your fingertips began their descent from the sides of his neck and moved deliberately across the broad expanse of his shoulders.

Silently reassuring yourself that it was nothing more than your overactive imagination when Lo’ak ever-so-slightly shivered under your touch, you diligently tried to make things move along as quickly as possible. Dipping your fingers into the paint once more, you adorned his shoulders with bold, white swirls that seemed to dance and move on their own.

Gradually moving further along his muscular form, you traced delicate lines that wrapped around each sculpted bulge of his biceps and along the contours of his forearms.

As your focus moved even lower, you took note of your favorite part of his body: Lo’ak’s uniquely impressive four-fingered hands. Upon reaching each digit one at a time, you spread long white lines down their length with seemingly natural precision. You let your instincts take over as you continued to create patterns and shapes on his skin, fully immersed in the fluidity of your motions.

You decided to save his chest for the very end, knowing just how awkward that part of the process was going to be—and truth be told, you really wanted to delay the moment for as long as possible. The silence within the tent was almost deafening, and you couldn’t help but send a silent prayer to Eywa, hoping with all your might that your hands would remain steady and not betray your mounting anxiety.

Dipping your fingers into the paint once more, you hesitantly approached Lo’ak’s chest. You were doing everything in your power to avoid making eye contact and ignore how tense his entire body was. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to steady your nerves, you quickly drew a series of intricate loops across each of his pectorals and then traced symmetrical lines down the center of his chest. Those lines continued, gracefully curving around the sides of his ribcage.

With every passing moment, it felt like the two of you were collectively holding your breath, neither wanting to break the fragile bubble of silence that had formed around you.

Concerned for both your well-being and your sanity, you decided it’d be best to wrap up that part of the painting process as quickly as possible. It wasn’t until then that you finally allowed yourself to exhale. You exchanged an awkward glance with Lo’ak, silently affirming the palpable tension surrounding you.

“Okay. I’m done,” you announced, gently sliding the container of paint toward Lo’ak. You dipped your fingers into the nearby bowl of water, absentmindedly scrubbing away traces of the drying paint, which turned the water a cloudy shade of white. Your words acted like an instant wake-up call, abruptly jolting Lo’ak back to reality from his trance.

His focus had been so intense while you painted patterns across his chest that he inadvertently stopped breathing altogether. The sudden, sharp inhale that followed the sound of your voice served as evidence of that fact. That realization was enough to make you lose your own composure—just a tad.

You made a half-assed attempt at suppressing the grin that threatened to break past your lips, so you weren’t really surprised when Lo’ak extended his arm and slowly began to tug the bowl of paint toward him with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The seemingly innocent yet still very suspicious act instantly put you on high alert. All you could do was watch in horror as Lo’ak suddenly immersed his entire hand into the paint. Your eyes widened in fear as he slowly lifted his paint-covered hand and began to edge closer to you, moving the dripping monstrosity in the direction of your face.

“Wait. Lo’ak, wait!” you warned, frantically shaking your head in an attempt to dissuade him from what you already knew would be an outrageously idiotic plan.

A glob of paint dripped from his saturated hand onto the floor between the two of you. You warily watched its continued pooling descent, leaving a bright splatter of paint on the ground that Neytiri would definitely kill you both for making.

“Just trust me, y/n,” Lo’ak insisted, the stupid grin on his face somehow both charming and alarming at the same time. It was more of the latter. You absolutely didn’t trust him.

“Lo’ak. Don’t you dare...” you began, your voice wavering and your ears flattening against your skull in weary anticipation.

But Lo’ak was undeterred by your protests. They only motivated him further. Barely giving you enough time to shut your eyes and mouth, he guided his entire paint-coated hand onto your face. The combination of the cold paint and the warmth from his hand sent shivers down your spine. Instinctively, you pressed your hands on the ground beside you, every fiber of your being screaming for you to get up and run. Far, far away from him.

However, Lo’ak wasn’t about to let that happen so easily. Somehow anticipating your attempt to recoil away from him, he brought up his other hand to secure the back of your head, making sure that you weren’t going anywhere. You sputtered loudly at the sensation of being literally smothered, and of course, nothing on Pandora could’ve stopped Lo’ak from laughing uproariously at your suffering.

“Stop moving! You’re gonna ruin it,” Lo’ak tried to sternly warn you while unsuccessfully stifling his laughter. He clearly found it all very amusing.

You couldn’t fucking breathe. You tried to communicate as much to Lo’ak, but you were sure your words sounded like nothing more than a strangled garble of sounds.

Eventually, Lo’ak seemed to take pity on you and lifted his paint-covered hand away from your face. You instantly gasped for air, finally unencumbered by his prolonged attempt at suffocating you to death. However, your relief was short-lived as you tasted the bitter, acrid flavor of paint on your tongue.

“You got it in my mouth, dumbass!” You complained with a groan, making sure not to swallow anything. Your disdainful tone only seemed to delight Lo’ak further.

“No one told you to eat it,” Lo’ak retorted with a dismissive snort. He was walking that thin line between playful banter and genuine ire. You could seriously kill him.

You narrowed your eyes at the little shit in front of you and desperately tried to rid yourself of the unpleasant taste by frantically licking at your arm. You probably looked completely unhinged, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. Lo’ak made a face at your display, crinkling his nose in disgust.

Left with no other option, you did what any sane person who was minutes away from being welcomed into adulthood would do—stick your now paint-covered and saliva-slicked arm out toward Lo’ak’s incredulous face. His shock and horror at the development were priceless.

Lo’ak barely had time to react as you swiftly thrust your arm toward him, but his lightning-fast reflexes won out in the end. Always one step ahead, Lo’ak knew you and all of your little tricks too well. It was like he could read your mind. In the blink of an eye, he was already crossing half of the tent in a mad dash. He backed away from you with his hands raised defensively in front of him, like someone facing an untamed beast.

“Chill…we don’t have to do this,” Lo’ak cautiously pleaded with a slow shake of his head, his tone dripping in a mix of seriousness and amusement.

But you were undeterred. “Yes we do,” you deadpanned determinedly and slowly continued advancing on Lo’ak, coercing him to move toward the back of the tent. Your eyes never left his, maintaining a fierce stare as the situation continued to escalate.

Without warning, you lunged at him like a predator going for its prey, stretching your arm out in eager anticipation. It was so close—just inches away from Lo’ak’s face—but he was quick to react once more. He grabbed hold of your biceps with an iron grip, effectively stopping you in your tracks. You couldn’t help but hiss at him in frustration, feeling utterly defeated by the massive strength disparity between the two of you.

Lo’ak’s eyes locked onto yours for a split second before focusing on another target: your mouth. His expression changed from one of caution to sheer amusement as he caught sight of something peculiar—and apparently hilarious—about the sight.

His grin stretched ear to ear, nearly swallowing his entire face, as he blurted out, “Oh shit. Your entire tongue is white!”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks, and your eyes immediately widened with alarm. Because it definitely couldn’t be safe to consume paint. There could’ve been poison coursing through your veins at that very moment, making every passing second one closer to your tragic demise, all thanks to Lo’ak and his stupid hand.

But despite your mounting panic, Lo'ak remained utterly unfazed. He obviously found the situation amusing, as evidenced by the way he wasn’t even trying to suppress his unbridled laughter.

“One night,” you vowed through gritted teeth, “I swear I’m going to sneak into your tent and cut every single braid off of your head in your sleep.” The more you thought about it, the more serious the idea became in your mind.

Lo’ak merely tilted his head, and an annoyingly attractive grin stretched across his face. “Oh, yeah?” He taunted, vehemently nodding his head along with what he knew was just another one of your faux threats. “And then what are you gonna do?”

As he spoke, Lo’ak tightened his grip on your arms—a bittersweet reminder that he was well aware you weren’t going to do shit to him in his sleep.

You eyed the unpainted underside of Lo’ak’s forearm, which rested directly in front of your face, and a childishly impulsive urge overwhelmed you. Without giving it much thought, you leaned in and licked a long, wet, white stripe along the length of his arm. The unexpected action elicited a shrieked “Bro!” from Lo’ak, who could only blink at the sight of your tongue, still pressed to his now-slobbery arm, in disbelief. You reveled in his reaction to your sudden move, despite how immature it might’ve been. He deserved it, and you had no regrets.

However, as fate would have it, the impromptu moment coincided precisely with the return of the entire Sully family to their home as they prepared for the upcoming ceremony. Jake and Neytiri led the way in, followed closely by Neteyam, Kiri, and Tuk. All of them. The five family members entered the tent one by one, each grinding to a halt as they caught sight of you and Lo’ak’s odd exchange in the far corner.

A few beats passed as everyone’s eyes darted back and forth between you two. The silence was palpable, and the tension continued to rise like an invisible fog that filled every corner of the tent. It finally dawned on you that it'd probably be a good idea to remove your tongue from Lo’ak’s arm.

Taking matters into your own hands—or, more accurately, your tongue—you gingerly began to distance yourself from Lo’ak. You took a cautious step sideways, followed by another one, making sure there was a healthy amount of space between you both. You hoped that would somewhat defuse the situation while also giving off the impression that nothing out of the ordinary had transpired—though it was clear you weren’t fooling anyone present.

The awkwardness still hung heavily in the air as each second felt like an eternity passing by. You could only imagine what thoughts and judgments must be running through everyone’s minds.

The silence in the tent was so profound that you could probably make out the gentle sound of a leaf falling from a tree outside if you really tried. The quiet was unsettling. It made your fingers itch. You found yourself tucking your hair behind your ears, trying to find some purpose for your idle hands instead of having them dangle awkwardly at your sides.

Opposite you, Kiri tried to conceal her knowing grin behind one of her hands. As to what she knew that you didn’t, you were utterly clueless. Regardless, you couldn’t help but feel unnerved by her expression. Similarly, Neteyam chewing on the inside of his cheek in an uncharacteristic effort to maintain his composure did little to alleviate your discomfort.

It wasn’t long before Tuk broke the silence with a question, curiosity twinkling in her eyes. “Is that a handprint on your face?” she innocently asked, pointing a tiny finger at what was definitely a handprint on your face.

Five sets of curious yellow eyes darted back and forth between your face, Lo’ak’s conspicuously stained white hand, and the matching white handprint wrapped entirely around your arm. Feeling their collective gaze upon you, you decided that you weren’t even going to try to talk your way out of the situation. “Yeah. It is.”

Without missing a beat, Neytiri swiftly turned her attention towards her youngest son as she hissed out his name: “Lo’ak.”

And thank Eywa for that. At least somebody had your back.

Lo’ak’s voice tended to reach an almost comical high-pitched tone whenever he was aware that he had done something wrong, and this occasion proved to be no exception. He glanced over at you with equal parts guilt and defensiveness in his wide eyes.

“It looks cool, though!” He insisted, trying to justify his actions. He waved his hand close to your face, as if the gesture held the power to magnify his point and erase any doubt you might have had. You squinted at the offending white hand hovering in front of your face before hastily swatting it away as if it were an annoying little bug.

Lo’ak grinned in delight at your visibly pissed-off demeanor, which only seemed to fuel his determination to get under your skin. He appeared to forget all about the looming presence of his entire family as he defiantly stuck his hand back in front of your face. And you were not about to let that happen again. You were probably going to have nightmares about his hand. Pivoting toward Lo’ak, you shoved him away from you, probably a little harder than necessary, judging by the way he stumbled a few steps to the side from the force of it all. But he was laughing as he re-straightened, not at all deterred by your outward hostility.

It was mostly feigned, anyway.

Neytiri watched the exchange between you two with amused exasperation, her eyes twinkling despite her best efforts to remain stern. She let out a soft ‘tsk’ as she shook her head, unable to fully suppress the tiny smile that crept onto her face. She reached down to gently grasp Tuk’s hand before leading the child further into the tent.

“Jesus,” Jake muttered as he pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly struggling to maintain what little patience he had left. Jake would always throw that foreign word around whenever you and Lo’ak were together, but you still had no idea what it actually meant. “Just—finish up, alright?” He threw an exasperated look toward you and Lo’ak. “No more shenanigans. We’re leaving in ten.”

“Yes sir,” Lo’ak mumbled, his expression a mixture of mischief and feigned seriousness. He waited until Jake and the rest of his family were out of earshot before turning back to you.

“It looks cool,” he said again, his face breaking into a genuine, broad smile as he stepped back to take in the masterpiece he had just created. He couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the intricate design of his handprint that adorned your face. Giving himself a little nod of satisfaction, he crouched down to pick up the paint once more, eager to continue where he had left off.

You couldn’t see your own face, of course. But secretly, you had to agree that it probably did look kind of cool. You’d never openly admit that to him, though. There was no need to inflate his ego any further. Still, deep down, you knew you'd be proudly sporting your best friend's four-fingered handprint at the coming-of-age ceremony that evening. To you, it symbolized the unbreakable bond you both shared.

From his seated position on the floor, Lo’ak’s eyes rose to your face, a single brow raising in amused confusion at your idle form. Dismissing his reaction with a shake of your head, you couldn't prevent the warm smile from stretching across your lips as you settled back down in front of Lo'ak.

end

#teyamskxawng #teyamskxawng’s fics #lo'ak x reader #lo’ak x reader #lo’ak fluff #lo'ak fluff #avatar the way of water #avatar #avatar 2022 #atwow #lo'ak x y/n #lo’ak x y/n #lo'ak sully #lo’ak #lo'ak fanfiction #avatar fanfiction #james cameron avatar

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ae-neon · 11 months

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Nesta Vs ACOSF, a rambling rant

TW: mentions of sexual assault and abuse

Besides the "love" story that read like a quiet descent into domestic horror, ACOSF has one element that keeps me from being able to pick it up even just to sift through for Nesta gems: sex.

Here me out, I'm not a prude and I think we could have gotten a smutty romance but...

At her core, Nesta has always been a proud and modest person.

To be clear, with pride, I mean that her sense of self - her famous steel spine - has kept her together and unbroken even during harrowing circumstances. It's vital to her. It's so ingrained in her that - given we have no other explanation - we can assume it's what shields her mind from literal magic. However, like any trait, her pride can also be a thing that comes off as negative in the wrong situations.

With modesty, she was raised to keep a certain ideology that based her value on sex, beauty, marriage etc but it's important to understand that Nesta applied those standards inwards, at herself. (Eg In acotar, she brings up Feyre and Isaac in defence of her and Tomas, in acomaf, she is mostly upset about not hearing from Feyre or being notified that Feyre has switched courts - not about Feyre sleeping with Tamlin and then Rhys)

Now, I don't think Nesta's modesty makes her better than Feyre, in fact I was happy to get the representation of two different types of views on sex

But what I didn't consider at the time was that SJM was painting this out to be a negative trait.

In retrospect it seems obvious even though Nesta has defied her narrative destiny and become a sort of icon, at the end of the day she was still supposed to be written in a negative contrast to Feyre.

It seems funny but imagine you consumed the book the way Sarah intended, the way so many in the fandom have. The old Sarah Says rule, for my long time mutuals.

For example:

The dinner in acomaf - it's obvious Nesta is upset that she hasn't heard from Feyre only to have her come through not only as a whole Fae but bringing others and endangering their entire family.

But imagine it as a one dimensional reading and suddenly the "I fuck" dialogue is a girlboss moment of feminism giving a fuck you to the strict patriarchy of the "mortal lands" let's ignore how the Fae are actually more patriarchal and the Illyrians even more so than that

So understand that Nesta's modesty is being directly contrasted with Feyre's sexual freedom. The reader - at least from sjm's perspective - is supposed to agree with Feyre and disagree with Nesta in a sort of win/lose, yes/no, black/white dichotomy.

And because sjm is consistent and boring and a self-inset author, this dynamic doesn't change even when the protagonist does.

Only now sjm and her feminism has changed from fuck-whoever-I-want girlboss to kinky-but-only-with-my-husband tradwife

So Nesta can't be prudish and cut off because 1) it's not as conducive to the breakdown of self and buildup of a dependent and abusive relationship and 2) it's not in direct contrast with Feyre's current monogamous, traditional family values character.

So Nesta starts drinking and sleeping around and it's not because we're going to explore the unraveling of the pride and modesty at the core of the character as part of her transformation or as a result of her trauma

But because it's supposed to be a bad look, degrading, it shows she's failed, it makes her a loser

All of that is already insane. And even more so when taken with the context of her assault by Tomas and the sex centred relationship she has with Cassian

Now add to that the fact that in the book, Nesta is an object of desire for 2 villains and undergoes assault and drowning AGAIN

Sjm literally gives less than 2 fucks about SA, that much is obvious even from the way she inflicts and then disregards the experience of both Feyre and Rhysand respectively. It's a tool for her, a quirky story element

But to have Nesta experience such a similar thing - especially when the experience of being Made can be read as a sort of rape allegory on its own - and all for the sake of "romance" fantasy??

Even Nesta's reading habits are sexualised, to be clear I don't think there's anything wrong with reading smut, but the scope of her intellect and reading is narrowed down when we're suddenly made to believe most of the books she reads are smut.

This is someone who likely taught herself economics and investment within months in order to not just pay off the debt, upgrade her whole family's way of life but also rebuild the family fortune. Someone who, having stopped schooling at around 14/15, did the math needed to calculate the feasibility of the evacuation of a small country.

Someone who's verbally stated life goal was to see what a woman could make of herself in the world.

Even her love of reading is used as a stepping stone for how horny she is, instead of it being a result of her deeply ingrained need for escapism

She reads smut because the only thing she has in common with Cassian and the IC is sex. Because sjm thought one of the core elements of a friendship between 2 SA survivors and a disabled woman from a culture that mutilated her for being born a woman would be their desire to fantasise about men.

All the while the male love interest treats her like garbage.

We could have had a smutty book filled with sex where each scene could have been the growth of Nesta's trust and love of Cassian through intimacy. It could have been a sexual relationship that involved and explored kink - which explored vulnerability and the negative impact of how Nesta's pride became a source of stress and strain.

It could have been an exploration about the complicated relationship with desire and oppressors that many survivors have. But it isn't.

It's hahaha horny, so RELATABLE

Even when it comes to the abusive situation Nesta grew up in, it's just hung up like decoration on the character. Not explored, let alone healed. I don't wanna hear that sjm explained or explored Nesta's abuse when we don't even get her mother or her grandmother's names

We don't get

The complexity of being a trapped and abused woman who came from a trapped and abused woman who came from a trapped and abused woman

Or the complexity of a dysfunctional family

Or even the journey of recovery from addiction and self-harming behaviour

Now, not every aspect of Nesta or any survivors lives have to boil down to how it relates to their experiences but SJM is praised for her "recovery" and so much of this book is about sex and abuse but has no depth

It could have been a less-deep, fun experience of sex and desire and kink. But no

Nesta has sex with many faceless men because sjm is condemning her as a failure. Sex is her punishment, it makes her dirty and unworthy and cheap.

Then, through her "healing", she becomes a sex doll for the right guy. Sex is her reward, it makes her hot and useful and appealing.

Sjm writes not just like a man but like a particularly talented misogynist so it's the way sex is used that really puts me off

Edit: ultimately I think the sex and romance should have interacted with and evolved her pride, modesty and past experiences, rather than those things being demolished to turn her into a sex doll

#anti acosf #anti nessian #anti sjm #acotar rant #nesta deserves better #sjm critical #nesta archeron

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kiwiana-writes · 2 months

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WIP Wednesday

Thanks and apologies to everyone who's tagged me in the last week or so—I've been both sick AND overseas, neither of which are particularly conducive to getting shit written. I did intend to write something new for the Big Secret @indestructibleheart Collab tonight, mostly to torture @rmd-writes who is desperately trying to figure out what the fuck it's all about, but unfortunately my brain is still fried and I haven't actually written anything in ages, so y'all get the chapter one opener instead which I don't think I've shared yet.

August 8th, 2024: 1710 Ecuador Time / 1810 Eastern Daylight Time Alex slides his carry-on into the overhead luggage compartment before sliding into the window seat, shoving his tablet and headphones into the back pocket of the seat in front of him while he waits for Cash to get himself settled. It’s been a long two days at the conference—and he’s grateful for the opportunity, even as he’s fully aware that first-year associates whose mothers aren’t the outgoing President don’t generally get the opportunity to attend Political Science and International Relations conferences on behalf of the firm in the first place—but he’s more than ready to be back in his own bed. God. Is this what maturing feels like? Admittedly, it’s a little weird being back on a commercial flight. Between his mom’s term wrapping up in a few months and Henry in the middle of the legal process to drop his title, it’s going to be their reality soon enough, though he’s hoping they might still be able to borrow one of the royal jets from time to time. The last time he flew commercial, he landed in the rain and drove to Kensington to scream at Henry through a window; it ended well, but he didn’t know it would when he was on the flight. This time, nearly four years on, he knows exactly what he’s returning to: the home they’ve built together, books and records intermingled on their shelves, David’s bed in a corner of their bedroom (usually neglected in favour of sleeping at the foot of their bed instead). The constant is Henry, but this time, Alex knows exactly what they are to each other—and what they will be soon enough, if the box he has hidden at the back of his nightstand has anything to say about it.

Tagging @agame-writes @affectionatelyrs @anchoredarchangel @anincompletelist @celaestis1 @celeritas2997 @cha-melodius @clottedcreamfudge @cricketnationrise @cultofsappho @daisymae-12 @dumbpeachjuice @everwitch-magiks @firenati0n @getmehighonmagic @happiness-of-the-pursuit @heybuddy-drabbles @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @indestructibleheart @indomitable-love @inexplicablymine @leaves-of-laurelin @littlemisskittentoes @lizzie-bennetdarcy @magicandarchery @matherines @myheartalivewrites @ninzied @nocoastposts @notspecialbabe @orchidscript @rmd-writes @sherryvalli @ships-to-sail @smc-27 @sparklepocalypse @ssmtskw @stereopticons @three-drink-amy @tintagel-or-cockleshells @welcometololaland @whimsymanaged and, as always, anyone who wants to play! (If you take the open tag please tag me so I can see!!)

#wip wednesday #kiwiana-writes #wip: rwylm

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gabessquishytum · 1 month

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When assassin!Hob is hired to kill the king of nightmares he doesn’t actually think much of it. He’s too much of a professional to consider the moral implications of it. He only cares about getting his gold at the end of the day and monarchs are usually easy to kill if you can just get around their guards.

So hob works his way into the palace as a serving wench to learn the lay of the land (he’s thinking of keeping the corset, it does great things for his tits). He barely sees more than a glimpse of the king but he does figure out where his rooms are and that’s all he needs.

Finally one night he sneaks into the king’s quarters, ready to slit his throat while he sleeps.

Except the king is ready for him. The minute hob lunges, the king snaps into action, disarming hob with a burst of magic and wrestling him down onto the mattress with surprising strength.

dream is surprised by how lovely his assassin is. He certainly can’t let him go. Hob would just run back to whoever hired him. Maybe he can convince him to try another line of work, as Dream’s pretty bedwarmer?

Ooh, spicy assassination attempts! Hob is kidding himself if he thinks he hasn't already caught the King's attention in that sexy little outfit.

Dream is rather impressed with how calm the assassin remains, despite being pinned down and caught in the act of treason. Hob just grins and shrugs, letting go of his knife and going limp against the mattress. He knows when he's beaten, and he has absolutely no moral investment in this whole job. He's hoping that he'll be carted off to the dungeons when the King calls the guards in, and after that he'll just escape and go on the run, as he has many times before.

But. Dream has an offer for him. A more comfortable, but no less well-paid job. And he can ever keep the corset. You see, the nightmare King finds it difficult to find lovers who can match him blow for blow in the bedroom. Many are scared of him, and that's just no fun. The fact that Hob obviously isn't scared makes him all the more attractive, and Dream wants him. Permanently.

Hob looks up at the gorgeous king and weighs up his options. He does like his freedom. But then again, he's getting older. It'll be nice to settle down. And finally get fucked as regularly as he desires. Being an assassin isn't really conducive to long term relationships, so Hob hasn't really been as well fucked as he would like to be for a long time now.

He'll have to spend the first few months in handcuffs, proving his loyalty... but Hob can think of worse ways to spend his time. Especially when he sees what the King of nightmares is hiding underneath his silky black robe...

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft

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aphroditelovesu · 1 year

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Yandere Morpheus/Dream of the Endless Headcanons (General)

‘‘Dream your dreams with me, my Consort.‘‘ - Morpheus/Sandman,

❝⌛— lady l: i couldn't hold myself together and i had to write this, before my ideas ran out, so i did lol. A Morpheus yandere is my new religion and I really liked the result and I hope you like it too! Feedbacks are always welcome and I'm sorry for any mistakes hihi. Good reading!!! <3

tw: yandere themes, obsessive and possessive behavior, uncontrolled jealousy, implied physical aggression (not to the reader), dub-con, mention of murder, threats, slight nsfw, unhealthy relationship, kidnapping, outbursts of rage and non-consensual somnophilia.

❝⌛ pairing: yandere!morpheus/dream of the endless x gender neutral!reader.

Dream can be many things and is given many nicknames that may be conducive to his natural behavior and it never bothered him. He was that way, and end of the story, but when things start to change and he becomes obsessed with a human, the situation spirals out of control. He's never felt like this before, he's never felt so attached, so obsessed with a human and he knows he wants more, he wants to feel more of it and he won't give up on his obsession. He won't give up on you.

Morpheus is thought of as arrogant and obnoxious and part of that is true, it's not like he's going to deny it, he is those things but he often acts like that out of his own carelessness, he's aloof from people and considers himself better than most which causes even more intrigue, but then again, he doesn't care. He is a powerful being, older than the gods themselves, so why should he care what people think of him? That's how he used to think, or he did, until he met you and he really wants to make a good impression on you.

He met you while you were dreaming, it shouldn't be anything important he supposed but he couldn't take his eyes off you. You looked so... Ethereal as you played in the sand in your dream, on a beautiful and lonely beach, but even so, you smiled and played like you didn't care about anything else and he was fascinated. It didn't happen that often and that rarely, but he took an interest in you, he did, and he didn't intend to let you go. You would be perfect, the Consort he longed for.

For a while, Morpheus was content to just watch you. He was always in your dreams, making sure you only have sweet dreams and no terrifying nightmares, your dreams must be perfect. You may have found it strange that your dreams were always so... Sweet, but you didn't complain, it was nice to not wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat anymore. But you felt that there was something wrong, you felt observed, which scared you, but you tried to convince yourself that it was nothing, just your mind playing tricks on you. Oh, how you wish you were right.

He only made himself present in your life after feeling threatened by someone or something. You see, Sandman is proud and from the moment you start spending more time awake than sleeping he will feel threatened, maybe it doesn't make sense, but he doesn't care. Once you were asleep, Morpheus would walk into your room, he would actually be there and watch you. He would ogle you, watching your figure with lust in his eyes, but he wouldn't touch you. He would never do that without your consent. When you woke up and found him sitting next to you in bed, you would be scared, but he just said goodnight and blew sand in your face. When you woke up again, you would be in The Dreaming.

Morpheus would try his best to make you feel comfortable around him, because you would never leave and he wants you to be happy with him. He is obsessive, a hallmark of the Lord of Dreams, Dream will always have his eyes on you, if not his then someone he trusts, like his crow, you will never really be alone. He knows he shouldn't do this but he doesn't care, he'll have you with him and that's it. And woe to anyone who tries to come between you, if he's feeling merciful, death will just be the easiest and quickest of all the things he could do.

Possessiveness is something that is present in your relationship and always will, Morpheus is completely possessive of you, you are his and he will never share you with anyone. He will threaten anyone who dares to look at you any longer than he deems necessary (and he's a big hypocrite about that) and he won't bother tormenting that person's dreams at night with the most terrible nightmares you can muster to imagine. He knows everything about people and he will use that against you if necessary, you are his, you must always remember that. Morpheus won't get violent with you about this, about his ridiculous jealousy, but he will be cooler with you and his anger directed at others.

He is extremely overprotective of you, combining with his possessiveness, he becomes intense and suffocating. Morpheus is very afraid of losing you, he made you immortal but you can still get hurt, you can be captured and he will never let the same thing that happened to him happen to you. And gods have mercy on those who dare to harm you, because Sandman will not. He is suffocating in the extreme, being glued to your side 24 hours a day, when you sleep and dream is when you are most at his mercy. You are cared for and protected by him and always will be, Dream will not allow any harm to happen to you while he exists.

Morpheus is a generous lover, he enjoys both giving and receiving. He takes his time before he finally gets to the end, he likes to finger your folds, lick your nipples and suck your lips like they're the tastiest thing he's tasted, and maybe that's true. Sandman will circle your clit with his tongue, enjoying your slick moans and he will shove two fingers into your pussy, content to hear your name come out of your sinful lips. He won't stop teasing you until you come in his mouth, letting him enjoy his natural juices. Dream will love to suck you, squeezing the glans of your cock and licking it like there's no tomorrow. He'll take you slow and sensual, torturing you until you beg him to fuck you, and as soon as he hears the dirty words fall from your lips, Morpheus will fuck you senseless and hard. He wouldn't stop until both of you were satisfied.

In a more platonic way, Sandman will be more lenient with you, say in terms of freedom, but don't get too carried away, he will never allow you to have a relationship with anyone. He will be even more protective, you are his precious and beloved baby and it is his duty to take care of you and he will. He will always be by your side when you go to sleep and in your dreams, there is never a moment when you have privacy. He always looks out for yours dreams, but if you piss him off, he might end up turning your sweet dreams into your biggest fear. He knows he will scare you, but even so, Morpheus wants you to learn your lesson, that he will not tolerate any form of disobedience from you.

Morpheus has had many romantic relationships in the past and they all ended abruptly and he doesn't handle breakups and rejection well. If you rejected him he wouldn't accept it, he would never accept that you don't want to be with him. He would feel insulted and hurt, as you, a human, had the courage and audacity to refuse him? He can give you anything you want: the universe, the sun, the moon, the stars, anything you want. Can't you see that? That you were made for each other? He will make you see it, he won't let you leave him, you were his the moment he laid eyes on you and from that moment on, you will always be his. He will try to be soft at first, trying to win you over through clumsy but loving affections, but once he realizes that none of that is working, he will go to extreme lengths and can and probably will kidnap you, Morpheus will bring you into his realm, a place you could never be away from him.

The Sandman is many things, he is obsessive, possessive, controlling, overprotective and cold and everything to you. He loves you, he really does, but if you hurt him in any way, the chances are he won't forgive you so easily, if he ever does, don't think wrong, he still won't let you go but he will be colder and spiteful in his approach. Morpheus learned to love you the moment he saw you, he fell hard and obsessively in love and there's no turning back, he won't go anywhere without you with him. It's gotten to the point where he can't do his job properly if he doesn't know you're happy and comfortable, he needs that reassurance, constantly. He sees you as superior to everyone else, he idolizes you and he wants you to be his Consort, he wants to rule The Dreaming with you at his side and he will and no one, not even you, will get in the way of that. He can be everything you dream of, but always remember, he is still one of the Endless and he is extremely dangerous with his obsession with you.

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familyabolisher · 4 months

Note

you don't need to answer this, but in your post (https://www.tumblr.com/familyabolisher/737777605781192705/ok-related-thought-is-i-think-we-can-develop-a) you mention how food service workers often reinforce 'class norms' in the restaurant setting; I was wondering what this meant exactly and if there was any example of this (for further elucidation because i was a bit unclear on the details while reading).

thank you, and I hope have a good day!

yeah, sure - so simply put, restaurant workers (to a varying degree depending on your actual position in the restaurant and contact with the guests, but all of us to some extent) need to cater to the customer, which requires enforcing the boundaries by which "customer" is defined in the first place. the customer is the individual who is going to generate profit for the business by spending money, and our job is to facilitate that process. obviously, the person who can spend money at the restaurant has to be a person with the means to do so, ie. money to spend - this is what i mean by the class norms of the restaurant. the class norms will vary based on factors like location, pricing, etc etc (eg. my work is the upscale end of casual dining in a relatively affluent area, so our guests are usually quite well-off, especially the regulars; the class character we are expected to reproduce is different to what you might expect from eg. a cheaper restaurant in the inner city), but the base principle is that we are expected to create an environment conducive to the spending of money and to limit or eliminate the factors that will inhibit people's doing so. this can mean removing homeless people from the restaurant, not letting them sleep outside, etc; challenging people who steal from the business, including collaborating with cops; preventing drug use on the premises; basically removing people who aren't going to spend money and who are regarded as 'antisocial,' offensive to the restaurant clientele, etc.

there are [arguably] more benign examples of this, like the kind of servitude we're expected to perform being one which simulates the presence of a servile class and thus maintains such a fantasy for the middle-class clientele; sweeping dead leaves up and binning them, which is horrible for the environment but expected of us because piles of leaves are an eyesore; the kind of work we have to do to create this sort of fantasy of servitude for the guests that extends beyond merely giving them a nice meal (again, this varies from place to place, and mine leans harder on it than many others).

obviously compliance with these expectations will vary lol but we as restaurant workers are, whilst obviously exploited, also complicit in systems of violence by which communities are constructed and outliers are expunged. i think this discourse which puts all the onus of exploitation or like 'harm' being done on the "customer" occludes the actual social processes taking place in the restaurant space.

#ask

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muzzlemouths · 1 year

Text

Returning the Favor

Moon has a habit of helping you to bed. It's only fair that you return the favor.

Moon centric // Wordcount: 5714 // AO3 Vers.

The first time you think about it is the day you catch him dozing.

It isn't unusual for Moon to be listless during a shift. Despite having a fair share of sporadic moments where his energy rivaled Sun's, it was more common to see him lazily milling about. Moseying along the ceiling beams, meandering through the vents, taking his sweet time to stroll or lounge about. Not that he had any reason to rush, it isn't like they paid him by the hour - or at all.

This was different. You passed him just outside the Daycare, sprawled carelessly across one of the unlit light fixtures and seemingly unaware (or indifferent to) the concept of you illuminating it just to be an ass.

And, well, you were an ass. You readied a smart remark at the tip of your tongue for his inevitable outburst and reach for the light switch—

But you hesitate.

On closer look, he isn’t just lounging for the sake of it. His chest rose and fell with a tempo slower than you were used to seeing, even at his laziest. No red glow met you — his arm draped idly over the eyes in a manner most akin to something very human.

He was sleeping.

At least, you can only assume that's what it was, because before you have a chance to investigate further he's shifting and pulling himself into a sit, eyes fixating on you without a word.

Your hand sheepishly retreats from the light switch. Had he been watching?

His arms lift above his head, angling into a stretch that cracks and pops the mechanic joints holding his spine together. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you it's rude to stare?"

"Were you sleeping?"

His eyes narrow, and he answers you with a heave, arms falling to his side, "Don't ignore my question," he says, "I asked first." His legs swing over the light fixture and hang casually there, where he seems content to stay.

"I asked second," you reply with a sneer, "and it's hard not to stare at someone taking a fat nap next to the ceiling."

He tsks, "Wasn't sleeping."

"No?" Your arms cross your chest, "What would you call it, then?"

"Resting the eyes."

"You don't need to do that — there's nothing about robots with sleepy eye syndrome in the mechanic’s handbook."

"Maybe you just missed it," says Moon, "don't need to, no. Doesn't mean I can't."

You roll your neck in an effort to relieve the pressure with how it's craned. Having a conversation like this isn't at all conducive to correct posture. "Well, don't let me stop you. I'll let you get back to 'resting your eyes'," then, with a smug look, "I know you need your beauty sleep more than anyone."

His eyes further squint, the red a thin line against his dark faceplate. Unlike his usual self, he says nothing to correct you, no clever retort or sass. Instead, he returns to the position on his back, arms tucking behind his head, and lets his 'breathing' even out again, evidently deciding the conversation is over.

Fine. You had work to do anyway.

The thought haunts you, still. Was he sleeping? And if so, what for, and how? You had certainly never watched Sun doze into slumber (and heaven knows he needed a nap the most out of everyone). That said, what was the point? Did they actually gain anything meaningful from it — or was it as Moon said, just a rest of the eyes?

You had to know more. -

The second time you bring it up is at the height of your shift, two weeks out from the last time you touched on the subject. An all-nighter the previous night meant that you were lagging on your duties a fair amount. Enough so that Moon took it upon himself to point it out.

“You should sleep,” he asserts, following at your heel as you do your routine on auto-pilot, “Nighty night. Beddy-Bye. Come on.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off dismissively and reach for the handle of the cart, “I’ll sleep once I’m home. I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Won’t get anything done like this.” He cuts off your path, ducking beneath your arm and coming to stand between you and the cart, “Nap first. Then you can work.”

“It’s the middle of my shift, Moon,” you tell him - albeit with a long, obvious yawn, “I can’t afford to do something like that. Besides, weren’t you nagging at me about falling asleep on the job just last week?”s

“Changed my mind,” He says, ignoring the narrow-eyed expression you serve him, “You’re stumbling into things, ignoring steps, you’ll hurt yourself like this.”

You shove a hand between his arm and hip, successfully finding purchase on the cart’s handle, “Awe, are you worried about me?” you coo at him, “I’ll be fine.”

“Worried you’ll make my job harder, yes,” he shoots back, “take a nap.” He reaches for your wrist, intent on prying you away from the cart by force.

Your free hand catches his before he has a chance and suddenly you’re trapped in a game of twister. “It’s not happening, earthshine. Let me work.”

He softens at the name — if only a little. You face off in complete silence with neither of you willing to change your mind. Then, when he pulls back from the cart and it looks like he’s finally going to relent, you breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s too soon.

He bends at the waist, and your feet leave the ground.

“Wh—HEY!” You’re up and over his shoulder before you fully process what just happened. There’s little to grab at from this angle, so it’s all you can do to slam your fists into the sturdy shell of his backplate and kick at his front, both assaults resulting in awful throbs after tasting metal. Your bones aren’t meant to compete with that.

“Nap time,” he repeats with a coo of his own, already parading you across the Daycare to god-knows-where.

“It absolutely is not nap time, you annoying little—oof—” You’re tossed haphazardly into the small section of daycare taken up by plush mats and vinyl coated foam shapes. It isn’t the worst place to take a nap, granted, but you didn’t want one to begin with.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says to your pout, “Stay here. I’ll find a blanket.”

“And if I get up?”

His faceplate turns a full 180 to meet you, “Don’t.” He reiterates, then turns back around to head towards the storage bins where the spare blankets are kept.

Full credit, you give it a minute of thought — which is generous, given your usual choice of ignoring everything he says — but his threats still aren’t enough to persuade you. Right now, you’re more worried about losing this job than your life.

…Yeesh. You’ll take a look at your priorities at a later point.

You peek over a foam triangle before making a break for it on tip-toes, and for a minute, after ducking behind one of the jungle gym corners, it looks like you might be home free. Unfortunately, he’s the master of hide and seek.

Your streak of defiance is short lived. When he’s caught up to you it’s with a rolled blanket in one hand and a pillow in the other, and he spends no time berating you, rather, he simply pulls you under his arm and — quite literally — drags you back to the foam mats.

You’re carried like a lap dog, and you find it too humiliating to put up much of a fight this time, deciding instead to spend the time sulking.

When he drops you onto the mats again it’s with less chariness. Evidently, your escape attempt has only proved to further sour his mood. The blanket is tossed beside you. The pillow makes a direct hit to your face.

You crossly take the pillow as it falls into your lap and take a minute to blow the hair out of your eyes. You’re not any happier with him than he is with you, but this time, you do stay put. “Why are you so insistent about this?”

“It’s my job.” He answers like it’s obvious.

“I thought that was security?”

“Also my job.” He takes the pillow from you and tosses it a foot behind. One hand cradles the back of your neck, the other presses to your chest, and together he lowers you onto your back with only a hint of fight on your end. The rest of your energy is spent trying to keep the heat off your face.

Regretfully, the set-up is comfy. The pillow is soft, the blanket warm as he tucks it around you (making a point to ignore your fussing about doing it yourself). It’s impossible to deny how snug you are like this, and before you know it, your eyes are drooping.

“There,” Moon tuts, voice soft now in stark comparison to the impatient tune it carried earlier. He brushes the hair from your eyes with a touch so careful, so featherlight, it’s barely there at all. His neck bends, faceplate turning to meet you—

He stops just short of you. A breath away. And he pulls back, apparently changing his mind.

A whine stirs in your throat. You make no attempt to hide your disappointment, imagining that the only thing left for him to do in that position was a kiss. Any other day you might have been shy about outright asking for something like that but to be teased, and then denied, was just plain cruel.

So you get bold. You get daring. “What’s wrong, earthshine~?” You prop yourself onto your wrists, eating up the look he gives you, “No goodnight kiss?”

“Would you like one?” His answer is prompt. It knocks the courage from your words in one fell swoop, immediately serving as a reminder for why you don’t tempt fate like this. Moon is a professional at returning the favor ten fold.

As though looking to prove your point, he lowers himself again to a level you can reach and purrs the most dreaded sentence to hit your ears, “You’ll have to ask politely.”

Ohhh, you wanted to deck him. “Remind me to leave a screw missing next time I fix you up,” you roll your eyes, stubborn scowl hiding the otherwise blatant evidence that the blush this time is too broad to hide.

He picks up on this. He must have. There’s no other reason for him to edge ever closer, close enough to lower you down to your elbows, and sit himself right where you wanted him. “Is that a no?” He hums, “you can ask nicely, can’t you? Just a please—”

“Can I please have a goodnight kiss.”

It isn’t a question so much as an appeal spat out in flustered haste. A show of adamant desperation. If you didn’t get it out in one mouthful you weren’t going to say it at all.

Your blush reaches your ears and shoulders, dipping into your chest with a warmth that makes you want to dive under the blanket and hide there forever.

He’s quiet, eyes blown wide.

“Well?”

“I didn’t—” he shifts, visibly processing, then the grin returns, “I didn’t think you really would,” he admits, “I would have just given it to you,” his voice is half a pitch off from laughter, and you’ve never felt more exposed, “I just wanted to see the face you made.”

You can’t possibly get any redder. Your cheeks are hot with embarrassment and fury, “That’s mean,” you whine, and you’re now contemplating getting under that blanket for real. It’s looking awfully inviting. “You can’t get someone riled up like that and then not even—”

His hand shifts, sliding against your chest and driving you back into the mats with a touch gentler than expected but still firm enough to cut you off. Your breath stills in your chest when his face connects with yours.

You feel the quietest tap to your forehead. Not quite a bonk, nothing clumsy like you might have expected, but a whisper of touch that felt akin to — if not exactly like — a kiss. Undeniably so.

His right arm props itself above your head so he isn't putting weight on you and, evidently, so he can take his sweet time. He remains pressed there until the sweetest of noises is drawn from you, and only then does he rise to the sight of you warm and dazed.

"Better?" He murmurs.

You nod — slowly at first, then with great ambition. You can’t bring yourself to words for fear that they’ll be a squeak or a whine or betray you in some other way. But he can tell, surely, by the blush crossing miles of your skin, just how easily he’d wooed you.

If you squint, looking past his stubborn, stoic exterior, you might even say the act had flustered him just as much. Not that he’d ever admit to it.

“Good. Time for that nap, now.”

Your voice is a good deal quieter when you find it again, a contented mumble, a pliant hum, “I guess that’s only fair.” It has him smiling down at you with an expression that makes you dizzy. “Will you stay?”

He was already on his way out. It’s here that he pauses, bent at the knees, halfway to his feet again, and contemplates. Then, nodding, he returns to a sit; criss-cross applesauce. “I’ll stay,” he agrees, “Keep the boogeyman away.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your throat. “Thanks, but I don’t think the boogeyman can get me here.”

“That’s because I’m keeping him away.” He bends forward enough that he can replace the blanket over you again, taking care to ensure it’s thoroughly tucked at your shoulders and sides.

“Right, right,” you wave your hand from beneath the blanket. “Are you really only going to sit there?”

His hand pauses where it’s at, “What had you been expecting?”

“Well…” you think back to a few weeks ago, when you’d caught him dozing on the lights, “I thought maybe you would want some sleep, too.”

“Don’t sleep,” Moon straightens his back, folding his hands into his lap, “remember?”

Another yawn escapes you, his eyes following it like a dog trained to hunt. “What about the other day, by the ceiling? Weren’t you sleeping then?”

“Just closing my eyes,” he repeats, “not actually sleeping.”

“What’s the difference?”

His hands bind together and casually flex over his head, resulting in another of those rigid pop-pop-pop sounds emitting from his spine — or where the spine ought to be. He releases the built tension with a low exhale. Only then does his gaze return, and still, he’s adamantly silent.

“Come on,” you ask ever so sweetly, “Humor me. Then I’ll sleep,” your pinky peaks out from under the blanket, “promise.”

He stares narrowly for a moment, thinking it over. You think maybe he’s deciding between playing along and just letting you tire yourself out so he doesn’t have to answer. But sure enough, he stretches a hand out and shakes your pinky in a gentle grip.

“Dozing off has nothing to do with the power supply,” he answers, “Don’t actually sleep. I can’t charge that way, and I don’t shut down. It’s more like…” he hesitates for a moment, fingers tapping together, grasping for the words to explain it in a way you can relate to, “...like daydreaming. Not asleep, not entirely alert, either.”

“Do you like it?” You’re not sure what possessed you to shoot for that as your first question. There were hundreds of others on your mind; did he do it just for kicks? Was it built in intentionally, or was the habit learned? How long had he been able to do it?

Did he dream?

“It’s comfortable,” he answers truthfully, “I didn’t use to do it, before…” pausing, his gaze slides to the left, evidently rethinking his wording, “I only sleep when Sun is out. When we charge. But I realized I could do this, and it’s kind of like sleeping. I like it enough.”

Your curiosity is the one thing keeping you from drifting to sleep yourself. You prop yourself onto one arm, only for him to reach out and promptly shove you back against the mat again. Fine. Point taken.

“What about real sleep, then?” You ask, “Can you only sleep when you aren’t ‘out’?”

“I don’t sleep any other way.”

“I know you don’t, but can you?”

He goes silent, head tilting to the side as if he’s trying to suss out what your intention is. “You’re awfully nosy tonight,” he mumbles.

“Well, I’m not going to sleep until you answer me, so—”

“Yes. I can sleep here.” Oh, that was easy, “But I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Always with the questions,” he growls, “aren’t you tired?”

“Nope!”

“Liar.” He stares sideways at you, and you stare back, stubborn to a fault. He breaks with a heavy sigh. “I don’t like the way it feels,” he avoids your eye, still, and fiddles with the hem of his pant leg instead, “I get antsy. Restless. Haven’t been able to since…” his fingers still, “...well, it’s been a while.”

You don’t need him to go into detail. You can figure the rest out.

Slowly, your body betrays you. He looks up just in time to see you yawn. “Bed time,” he says, spoken soft and just under his breath as though saying it any louder will shatter the moment you’re having.

You’re on borrowed time; warm in the bed he’s made for you, your eyes are heavy with sleep, struggling to remain open, and your mind has you convinced that the soundless lull pulling you deeper into unconsciousness has the best intentions.

“Mh, would you like to try it again?” You mumble around another yawn, “Sleeping out here, I mean.”

He reaches for you, palm gently colliding with your temple, cold fingers combing through your hair, “Maybe one day,” he murmurs, “Now sleep.”

You lack the energy to fight him on it any longer, so you don’t, and instead allow the sweet tug to pull you under. -

Another week passes, and you’ve already all but forgotten about the interaction and the many, many questions attached up until something jogs your memory; Moon, caught in the act of a yawn.

Not that you can blame him. Sun worked overtime in the Daycare that day, managing his usual hours along with two birthday parties and a sleepover. It was no surprise when he didn’t fight the changing lights, allowing Moon to take over without a hitch.

Unfortunately, sharing a body came with many cons, one of which being that the soreness didn’t leave when Sun did. That day’s events remained in the crevices of their joints and the low whir of a fan that’s been hard at work all day. Moon looked about ready to succumb to sleep himself when you arrived on the scene for your shift.

This time, you were determined to do something about it.

You knew he could sleep, just that he didn’t — not out here, anyway — the hard part was figuring out how to convince him that he needed more than some daydreaming before his body would find itself in functioning order again.

How unlucky for both of you, then, that he’s just as stubborn as you are.

You find him, initially, face down in the ballpit. The toys support his massive weight well enough and provide you with the image of him partially submerged, arms spread out in T-Pose position, seemingly unconscious among them.

He’s not, though. You know that by the steady rise and fall of his torso which moves faster than when he’s dozing. Which meant he was simply…laying there, fully conscious, taking in the sweet smell of plastic, children’s feet, and cleaner.

“You alive in there?” You make your way over and settle down on the edge, dipping your feet into the pit. He doesn’t answer. “Are there no better places around here to wipe out? I imagine that ballpit doesn’t smell the best.”

“It’s comfy here.” You can hardly understand him with his face pushed into the pit like that, “Go away.”

And that’s when you see it; the slight lift of his head as his fan whirs louder for a spare moment; a yawn - or something similar.

You hum, kick your feet a little, and reach beside you for the can of fizzyfaz. It opens with an audible click-shhh that has Moon’s head snapping upward, a number of balls scattering in the process.

“No open drinks in the Daycare,” he says without missing a beat, “you’ll get it everywhere. Or worse, get Sun’s attention.”

Another hum, this one more of a jeer, “Come and take it from me then.”

He squints, clearly not having the energy today to deal with your shenanigans. That is, until you outstretch your arm to hold the can above the ball pit and prop it in a way like you’re going to start pouring. He’s wading through the pit with haste, then, and you manage to just barely get up and out of said pit before he’s climbing after you.

This was simultaneously the best (and worst) part; the chase. Something about prompting a massive hunk of metal with a predator complex into pursuing you was, admittedly, a little thrilling, but only until the point where he caught you. Then came the collision, the bruises.

Luckily, your destination isn’t far. You manage to outrun him if only by a couple of steps and when you land, it’s into the plush, welcoming arms of foam mats. The same mats he’d tucked you into but a short time ago.

He’s practically on top of you and reaching for the can in your hand before you fully hit the mats — but he stops, freezing in place, arm outstretched and hand wrapped around aluminum — to the sight of a readied blanket and pillow set-up.

And he scowls at you with nothing short of exasperation.

“Look, I know you aren’t interested in getting some rest, but—”

He snatches the can from you and stands, turning immediately to leave.

“Wait!” You grab his wrist and hold him near, “I just think it’s a little uncanny that the bedtime robot won’t take a little nap every once in a while. Sun’s been running overtime this whole week which has obviously left you equally bent out of shape. Aren’t you tired?” He doesn’t answer, “You sure look tired. You look exhausted, actually, and that’s saying something coming from me.”

“Not interested,” he mumbles, “Let me go.”

“No.” You insist, attempting to make yourself sound firm this time, “Come on, is it really so bad?” Again, he responds with nothing. You decide to switch tactics. “You don’t actually have to sleep. You can just relax with me, lie down for a bit. That’s all.”

He glowers at you, full well knowing what you were doing, “Taking a page out of my own book, hm?” He muses, “That won’t work on me, starshine. I know those tactics by the back of my hand.”

“C’mon, Moon,” Your bottom lip sticks out, eyes pleading, “Ten minutes, that’s all I’m asking. You don’t have to sleep — I mean it, I won’t force you to — but I need you to try…please.”

“Can’t,” he repeats, looking strained about it, “I told you already. Too restless.”

You smile to yourself, having already thought this part through. “Well, let’s fix that, then! We’re going to make you un-restless.”

He finally sags with resignation, apparently tired of arguing, and allows you to drag him into the depths of foam blocks without any more of a fight — save for some grumbling under his breath.

The area isn’t as lavish as before. You found a couple of blankets, no pillows (where does he hide those?) and no plushies for him to snuggle with. But that’s okay. You were a plush enough replacement, if need be.

Retrieving your phone from its pocket, you spend a brief moment running through several playlists before selecting one made as recent as the night before. Moon watches over your shoulder, curious but silent.

That is, until the song begins to play.

It’s a music box — several of them making up an hour’s worth — and his reaction is immediate. First a glare, like he thinks you’re making fun of him. Then the expression softens into something…different. Something kinder.

You settle against one of the foam blocks and gently pat the spot beside you.

He stares it down like it’s enemy number one, refusing to budge.

“Come on, Moon,” you try again, “Isn’t this music relaxing? Doesn’t it make you want to snuggle under the covers and doze off?” You lift one side of the blanket pile temptingly, “I brought them all the way from the laundry room just for you.”

You’ve piqued his interest with that. There’s no reason to be anywhere near the laundry room when he had a perfectly good pile of blankets on-hand right here. Which could only mean…

Slowly, tentatively, he comes to your side. The adjustment is awkward at best; he shimmies into the spot beside you and tucks gangly legs up to his chest, hunching like an animal trying to go bipedal for the first time.

Pointedly, you stifle your laughter in your throat. As funny as it looked you knew he was making an effort here, and you weren’t about to sabotage that by making fun of him.

You try not to think about the before; how easy it was for him to settle down. How effortlessly he went about rest and relaxation, with the kids and himself alike. How naturally the calm came to him. Actually, now that you think about it, the lazy meandering you complained about so often was probably the closest thing to his natural state. He was clinging to it in the only way he knew how to anymore.

The thought makes your chest heavy, providing fuel to your fiery determination.

As soon as he’s within reach you pull the blankets over his lap and tuck them around his hips. It’d be more efficient were he laying down, but that’s a battle for later.

Moon’s body sags as he’s enveloped, going limp at the waist, “They’re…warm,” he murmurs, and you catch him burrowing further into the cloth, eyes drooping ever so faintly. Success.

“Mhm!” You try not to look so proud of yourself, “You’re always complaining about being cold. I don’t know if you were only joking, but you always feel cold, so I thought you might enjoy this. I left them in the dryer for a while before bringing them over here. They aren’t as warm as they were right out of the dryer, but—”

“They’re perfect.” His voice is a whisper. He brings the blanket to his cheek and nestles into it, eyes falling shut. For the very first time, before your eyes, he looks entirely comfortable. Not a restless bone — ahem, gear — in his body.

You wonder, briefly, if this is how he looked before. Content. Serene. At ease.

“How does that nap sound now?”

His gaze draws to you. The blanket moves through his fingers, then falls back to his lap with a soundless thump. “Why are you doing this?” He asks, and there isn’t a hint of his normal attitude remaining. No cheek behind his words.

You reach for him — hesitate — then your hand touches his arm and ambles down to his hand, “Well, this may come as a surprise, but I happen to care about you,” your smile is quiet, “and I hate seeing you stressed out like this,” his fingers curl around yours without a word. You squeeze them gently. “So…let me try to help. Please?”

He’s reluctant. That much is obvious. “I have security to do,” he states.

“Already took care of it. Called in a favor, security is doubled tonight.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay here, with you,” your voice soothes, “to keep the boogeyman away.”

He gives it some thought. But you’ve worn him down (or warmed him up, technically) and to your surprise, eventually he reciprocates with a nod, slow and shy. “I’ll try,” he croaks, “that’s all I can promise.”

“It’s enough,” you reassure him.

Another nod, and he goes to lie down where he’s at beside you, but you stop him halfway - an idea occurring. “Wait, not there,” you say.

He watches you with a quiet crooked eyebrow as you readjust your position against the blocks, then spread your arms wide, welcoming him right into your lap. You don’t have the courage to look him directly in the eye and choose to stare at his chest, instead, the invitation alone already taking all of your courage, so you can only hope he isn’t looking at you with disgust.

The lack of an immediate response makes you worry. He says nothing, does nothing for the longest time, and you do your best not to let your disappointment show.

Then it happens. From the corner of your eye you watch him shift into view and clamber with careful movements into the space before you, reclining clumsily into your lap. The only way he’ll fit is against your chest, his head positioned just below your chin. The fabric of his hat tickles your nose.

Your heartbeat quickens, and you feel no need to hide it. You know if his sensors don’t pick up on it, he feels it personally, back to your ribs. And mutually, you feel him.

The most vulnerable you’ve ever been.

The most vulnerable he’s ever been.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, something guttural and odd, and it takes you a minute to realize he’s pretending to snore. You playfully bat at the top of his head. He grins, eyes remaining shut. “Just trying to be helpful,” he supplies.

“No pretending,” you tuck your arms around him, peering down, “you’re supposed to be giving this whole sleeping thing a real chance, remember?”

“I am, I am.”

Silence fills the room. It’s welcomed. It’s comfortable. You work under its embrace to wrap the blankets around him fully, up to his shoulders. Then, moving slow, you reach for his hat.

Only then does he remember his voice.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, and your fingers still around the fabric, “I look silly without it.”

“Don’t worry, I think you look perfectly silly with it on, too,” you say, delighting in the halfhearted glare he sends your way, “just for today? I promise you can have it back when you wake up.”

“I won’t be able to sleep,” he reminds you, sighing, “but fine.”

You offer him another gentle squeeze in thanks and ease the hat from its place, carefully moving it off to the side for now. His faceplate beneath isn’t as shiny as you’d been expecting; not the sight of a bald man’s head, but rather, it was somewhat dented and scuffed — a result of never allowing the hat to be removed, even during maintenance, if you had to guess. You make a mental note to give it some extra love next time you manage you persuade him down to parts and services.

“What’s wrong?” He startles you from your thoughts, bringing you back to the present just on time to hear your own words cast back at you, “No goodnight kiss?”

Your cheeks flush completely. This time, you take pride in their warmth. You don’t keep him waiting.

“All you had to do was ask.”

Your hand fits beneath his chin and tilts it to face you, meeting your lips, pressed warmly, tenderly, against his forehead. His fan begins to whine. You feel him stiffen, then relax, going pliant in your arms.

Your hands begin to move. You gently encircle the joints and push carefully against the places where his lines met and pieces came together. His body, unlike yours, had no give to it, and there was no way of knowing whether this soothed him in the way it would a human, but you proceeded regardless, hopeful that it did. That this felt nice. That it felt good.

The breathy noises coming from him told you it did. If you listened close, you could hear the faint exhale of another fan somewhere deep within his inner system’s workings, exhaling stress with each deliberate touch of your fingers. You rubbed delicately, working him until the last of the tension finally gave way, and his shoulders slumped, and his body dipped heavier against you. He exhaled — a genuine, breathy sigh — only then did your hands fall again into a hug around him.

“Nighty night,” you whisper against his temple.

He smiles fondly, not bothering to hide it behind seven layers of gall, “Funny,” he murmurs, “Goodnight, starlight.”

You return his endearment, tucking him even closer, and resist the urge to rock from side to side. That might be overstepping. Instead you find yourself humming, adjacent to the music box that plays a foot away, and you spend some time staring up at the daycare ceiling where a thousand plastic stars illuminate the room.

At the ten minute mark you bow your head, and plant another small kiss to his, “Alright, Moon, a deal’s a deal. I’ve kept you long enough,” you mumble, “you’re relieved of naptime duties.”

He doesn’t respond.

Instead, his weight shifts atop you, legs tucking further into his chest, as if he’s tuned out your voice entirely. The fan in his chest moves in quiet, soothed rhythm, and it dawns on you.

He’s asleep.

Not dozing. Not daydreaming. Really, truly, asleep. His chest rises and falls with the barest motion, his body heavy against yours.

You don’t wake him. You would be crazy to, a waste of your efforts having actually paid off. Instead you relish in the breathy noises that stir in his chest — the occasional jolt in his frame which reveals he does, in fact, dream — and find a comfortable position to settle in for the next few hours.

“Sleep well, earthshine,” you whisper, forehead braced against his own, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

#drabbles #fnaf moon #moondrop #moon x reader #I had to run this through my allo beta to make sure it was as gushy as intended #so it's allo approved 👍

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iamthecomet · 1 year

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Hey hi I've been thinking about the ghouls (Rain most likely, and either Dew or Mountain) and sharing a shower just for platonic intimacy and taking care of each other 🥺

Here's everyone's daily dose of extra soft Dew/Rain. Because I love them.

It's become an after-show ritual. Rain refuses to shower at the venues. Citing a myriad of reasons starting with the water smells bad and ending with it makes my skin feel weird. And Dew does the same, only his reasons are more the water pressure sucks and why would I want to shower with all of you? Rain presses himself to Dew as soon as they're back on the bus. He smells like sweat and the venue, rubbery, plasticine in a way that makes Dew's nose twitch. Dew can't be much better. He can feel the film of sweat drying on his body, stiff and sticky. He can smell the cigarette and stale beer scene clinging to his jacket. Rain doesn't seem to care though, he just nuzzles closer, resting his head on Dew's boney shoulder, nuzzling his nose into Dew's hair and neck. "Clingy," Dew whispers as he tips his head to the side to rest his cheek against Rain's temple. Rain only hums in response.

Dew feels his exhaustion in his bones. The adrenaline of the show trickles from his body with every minute that passes. He's spent the last six weeks exhausted, it's nothing new. Touring is not conducive to being rested. He's surviving on too much caffeine and nicotine and a few hours of sleep in whatever lumpy hotel bed he's shoved toward. Dew wishes he was like Swiss, able to fall asleep anywhere. Even now, Swiss is curled up into the side of his seat, his head smushed up against the window, pillowed by the hood of his sweatshirt--asleep, mouth open, drool gathering in the corner. They've only been on the road for five minutes. Instead, Dew has trouble sleeping through the night in his own bed. Never mind hotel beds that are somehow always wrong. Too hard. Too soft. They all feel like they've been crafted out of rocks and feathers. He laces his fingers with Rain, pulls their joined hands onto his thigh, rubbing his calloused thumb over the space between Rain's thumb and forefinger. It's a short drive to the hotel. Dew untangles himself from Rain as soon as the bus stops moving, he shoulders his overnight bag and is the first one off of the bus. It's a sticky, humid, summer night. It makes his skin itch. He leads the way into the hotel and waits, impatiently by the elevator for Copia to get their keys. Copia has a system for how he rooms the ghouls together. Dew imagines that it's the product of some behavioral spreadsheet that Sister crafted up. It doesn't matter. It's rare that they actually follow it, hopping between rooms like musical chairs--treating their floor of the hotel the same way they do the Abbey. Doors open half of the night to the chagrin of any other unlucky hotel guests. Dew is always paired with Aether. Rain's always with Mountain. Swiss gets paired up with Cumulus. Sunshine with Cirrus. Each agent of chaos paired with someone who Sister thinks is supposed to keep them in line. It rarely works. Mountain and Dew trade keycards as soon as Copia hands them out. Rain seals himself back to Dew's side as soon as they get back in the elevator. Dew slides his hand up into the sweat-damp curls on the back of Rain's head. He scratches his nails against his scalp. "You smell," Dew says. "Better than you." Rain counters, digging his nose into the juncture between Dew's neck and shoulder and inhaling sharply. By the time they reach their floor, Dew's holding onto his human glamor with white knuckles. His skin feels too tight, his joints ache. He drops the glamor as soon as the door snicks shut behind them. Sighing bodily as the weight of it lifts off of him. Rain's already making a b-line for the shower, his own glamor fading. Tail uncoiling as he strips his jeans off. Dew follows him, pulling his shirt over his head, trying, and failing, to keep it from catching on his horns. Rain's already in the shower when Dew gets there. Steam filling the comedically small bathroom. Dew strips down the rest of the way and slips into the shower with Rain.

They're lucky they're both small. Mountain and Aether are definitely not going to fit in one of these showers together. As it is, when Dew turns to let the water spray on his back, he rubs up against Rain. Rain's already purring, back pressed against the cool tile, eyes closed as water that isn't quite hot enough for Dew rains down on them. Dew taps the knob up a few notches and Rain hisses at he temperature spike but doesn't complain. His tail curls around Dew's leg, the broad spade of it resting against the side of his knee. "Can I wash your hair?" Rain asks, hands already trailing up Dew's back. Dew nods. The hotel shampoo smells like chemicals. Whatever flowers it's meant to smell like don't actually exist in nature. Dew wrinkles his nose at it, but still groans when Rain sinks his fingers into the hair at the crown of Dew's head. Scratching, rubbing. Dew tips his head back just enough to keep soap from running into his eyes. He closes them. He feels every muscle in his body relax one by one as Rain shuffles him a little to rinse his hair. Rain works conditioner into the ends methodically. Dew doesn't let many people do this--they never get it right. But Rain has mastered the technique, and Dew is all too happy to let him. When it's Rain's turn, he has to crouch a little so Dew can reach. Digging his fingers into Rain's scalp until the water ghoul gasps and sighs and his knees go a little soft. Dew runs his fingers through Rain's curls as he rinses his hair, untangling small knots and rubbing slow circles over the base of his skull until Rain is knocking his hands away. "You're going to put me to sleep if you don't stop." "Good." "You really want to drag me to the bed?" Rain turns his head, raising a dark eyebrow at Dew. Dew shakes his head. "Who said anything about that? If you fall asleep here, you're staying here. I'm not going to complain about having the bed to myself." "Liar," Rain says, shifting them again so he can pull Dew's back flush to his front, pressing his face against Dew's hair. He kisses the side of one of his horns fondly. Dew doesn't argue. There's no point. Rain grabs the bar of soap and smoothes it over Dew's back, pressing his thumbs into Dew's constantly tense shoulder blades as he does. "You'd miss me," Rain presses. "Yeah," Dew agrees, "I would."

#comet writes #ficlet #request #platonic intimacy #Raindrop #Rain Ghoul #Dewdrop Ghoul #Ghost fan fic #ghost fanfiction #the band ghost fanfiction #unedited

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meiliarotten · 10 months

Text

Team Fortress 2 Kinktober Time

Day 22: Fulfillment (Breeding)

🔞MINORS DNI🔞

Pairings: Medic x Fem!Reader

Summary: It’s pretty self explanatory. Just know that I’ve wanted to write something like this ever since seeing the panel with Medic looking all paternal with the baby baboon.

Tags: Breeding kink, talk of pregnancy but no actual pregnancy (basically no pregnant, only breed), begging, references to the comics (the pregnancy pen and the baby baboon).

Word Count: 2k

The Masterlist

Starting a family was never something you had given much thought to. Honestly, with all of the chaos that went on from day to day in the base, you were pretty sure that it wouldn’t even be safe for children. You and Medic had each other, and that was all you ever needed. Or so you thought.

The day that you found Medic in his lab with a literal baby baboon in his arms, you should have known better than to ask questions. But you did anyway, and what followed was a tirade of information about uterus transplants, fertility hormones, and… pregnancy pens? Basically, by the time he was done you wished you had never inquired any further. But apparently now that everything had been explained to you, you were already in too deep.

Next thing you knew, you were the one enlisted to take care of the baby when Medic was otherwise occupied, and it sure as hell wasn’t easy. Honestly, it was probably more work than a human baby would be. After all, human babies didn’t attempt to climb multi shelf cabinets or have teeth that could probably remove a finger if you weren’t careful, but after a few days you managed to get the hang of this new pseudo parent role you found yourself in. You were quite surprised to find that you were actually content with the whole arrangement.

Not to mention Medic did his fair share of the work as well. He tended to take responsibility for the early and late feedings. These were the times when you would usually be sleeping. However, you often found yourself laying awake watching Medic interact with his little ‘experiment.’ It was a side of him you had never seen before, a side that was so paternal, and you could certainly get used to it.

Of course, you were still raising a wild animal. A wild animal that Medic had been meticulously feeding growth hormones and God knows what else for several weeks by now. It wasn’t so much a matter of if it would escape, but when . And escape it did. It happened so quickly, the shattering of a window in the middle of the night being the only indicator of its disappearance.

Medic was annoyed that his experiment got away, and deep down, while he tried to deny it, he had probably gotten attached. You had too. As much as you hated to admit it, the two of you had unironically been discussing names just a few days ago. It was as if the two of you had forgotten this was supposed to be an experiment to begin with. As for the havoc its escape would wreak on the desert ecosystem, well, both of you tried not to think about that too much.

The following days were strangely melancholic. Unbeknownst to you, Medic had also enjoyed seeing you play such a motherly role with his little experiment. You often spent time with the baby when he was out in battle, and on occasion he would arrive back at the base to find you half asleep, but still cradling the animal in a way that warmed his heart. Both of you missed the unconventional ‘family unit’ that you had created.

However, the baboon’s absence also allowed you to get back to something else you had been missing for much longer. Waking up for feedings multiple times in the night wasn’t exactly conducive with any kind of intimacy. As such, it wasn’t long before you and Medic were upon each other, kissing and touching as you tried to make up for lost time.

“Meine liebe,” Medic’s voice was heavy and heated as clothes were stripped and discarded beside the bed without a care. “Gott, how I’ve missed this.”

You tried to respond, but your thoughts were hazy. Medic’s lips were pressing against yours repeatedly, his tongue slipping past your lips, after which he would move on to tease the sensitive skin of your neck. You were effectively lost in a fog of arousal. So, you simply said the first thing that came to mind. It just so happened that it was something you hadn’t been planning to bring up so soon.

“I want a baby.” The words were out before you could even think, and your first reaction was panic, as you realized that mid-make out probably wasn’t the best time to bring something like that up. However, your panic ebbed away when you saw the look Medic was giving you. It wasn’t one of bewilderment, as you expected. Oh no, it was pure, unbridled lust.

“You do?” He asked, clutching your body tightly, almost possessively, praying that you were being genuine. You most certainly were.

“Yes,” your voice came out as a heavy whisper, and you wrapped your arms around Medic, pulling him closer to you. “Please.”

“Oh, mein liebling, I thought you would never ask.” The way his voice lowered made your heart skip a beat. Eagerly, you pressed your lips hard against his, overjoyed that you could finally fulfill this desire that you had been fostering over the course of weeks.

Medic was the first to pull away for breath, panting and looking down at you with heavy lidded eyes. “You’ve been thinking about this for a long time, haven’t you, darling?” He asked, chuckling softly.

“Yes,” you confessed, your blush growing even brighter.

“Perfekt,” Medic murmured, leaning down to kiss along your neck before whispering right in your ear. “Because I have too.”

Medic ran his hand over your stomach, and you shivered as he lingered there. He was gazing fondly at you, already imagining you heavy with child. He was painfully hard at this point, but he wanted to take the time to admire every inch of you. You basked under his gaze until your increasing arousal became too strong to ignore.

“Medic, please! I need you inside me,” you whimpered, snapping him out of his own thoughts. He looked somewhat embarrassed as he realized how long he had been simply staring at you.

“Ah, of course.” Medic regained his composure somewhat and that signature grin soon returned as he lined himself up. “So sorry to keep you waiting, darling.”

You whimpered softly as Medic entered you with a quick thrust, already so deep and so sudden. He didn’t move for a moment, stroking his hands down your sides and allowing you to adjust. You sighed in response to his touch, letting yourself be soothed as his hands traveled over your body.

“I’ve got you, meine liebe,” he said, his voice soft and reassuring. It wasn’t long before you were relaxed and ready. Medic’s hips twitched, betraying how eager he was to start. His cool and collected demeanor was beginning to crack.

“Medic…” The sound of his name moaned in such a desperate, lustful tone did nothing to quell how badly Medic wanted to start thrusting into you. However, it was what you said next that really had him shaking with need. “Medic, I want you to breed me.”

“Gott ja, liebling. I will.” He slammed his hips roughly into yours. While he usually started out gentle, there was little of that here. Any doubt you had about this faded away, buried by the ruthless pleasure you felt. You wanted this. You wanted this so badly, and your desire was only spurred on by the way Medic was whispering into your ear all the while.

“You’ll look so beautiful, so heavy with our child.” His voice was strained with the effort it took to talk while simultaneously fucking you into the mattress. “You will practically be glowing, meine liebe. I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you, not in that state.”

As if to make his point, one of his hands brushed over your breasts. His breath quickened as he imagined how they would swell while you were carrying. Oh, and how sensitive they would become, too. Meanwhile, you continued to beg from your position beneath the relentless doctor.

Medic simply continued his musings, as if he couldn’t even hear your desperate pleas for more. “I’m going to keep you nice and full. I’ll take you as many times as I can until you're filled to the brim, and then some.”

“Deeper,” you gasped. With that one word, your pleading seemed to finally catch Medic’s attention. He stammered for a moment, his hips stuttering as if he was about to come right then and there. He held back, intending to make you feel just as good as he was.

You yelped as he took hold of your hips, lifting them up as he fucked you. Had your mind not been completely delirious with pleasure and need, you would have swooned at the strength it must have taken to hold you steady like that. Your head spun as he bottomed out in you again and again.

“Gott im Himmel- I’m so close,” Medic groaned, desperately trying to keep his orgasm at bay a little longer. “You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

“Yes!” Your voice shook as you answered him. “Please, please!”

“Oh ja, I can feel you throbbing around me, so desperate for me to come deep inside you.” Medic delighted in the way you squirmed beneath him, so desperate to be taken and bred.

“Please, Medic! Please!” You kept on begging for him, repeating it like a mantra. You wrapped your legs around Medic, as if you could somehow pull him even further into you. Meanwhile, his hands began traveling again, dipping between your bodies and eventually reaching your clit with those deft fingertips.

“Such a good girl, taking me so nicely,” Medic said. It was clear that he was trying to keep his voice steady, trying to retain some sense of composure.

You weren’t going to last much longer either, crying out at the dual sensation of his fingers on your clit and his cock thrusting deep into you. You bucked your hips up against his, and yet you still begged for more.

“Fuck, Medic! Please, I want you to come inside me! I want it so badly-” Your words dissolved into unintelligible moans as you finally felt your orgasm overtake you. You grasped at the sheets, pulling at the thin fabric as your body convulsed and pleasure rippled up through you.

With a low, growl-like moan, Medic slammed his hips into yours, burying himself as deeply as possible. He groaned through clenched teeth in his native language. “Ich möchte dich füllen! Du wirst so schwer und schön sein, nur für mich!”

A few more stray words and what you assumed were soft curses began to waver, turning into a plethora of deep moans as he finally came inside you. Again, you tightened your legs around his hips. He thrust into you a few more times afterwards, over stimulating both of you before finally pulling out with a soft sigh, admiring the sight of your entrance leaking pearlescent white.

“Fuck,” you whispered. Your hand unconsciously rested on your stomach as you tried to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling heavily. “That was so good.”

“You were perfect, mein liebling. Ich liebe dich,” Medic said with a dreamy sigh. He collapsed to the side and his hand also came down to rest on your stomach, almost in a protective manner, as though you were already pregnant. You certainly didn’t mind it too much.

Besides, even if you weren’t pregnant yet, it was safe to say that Medic wasn’t kidding when he said he would take you as many times as he needed in order to make it happen. And as his hands dipped between your legs to tease your clit again, and you felt him regaining his erection, he whispered confirmation of your suspicions.

“I’m not planning on stopping until both of us are too exhausted to move, liebchen.”

You shivered as he pushed your thighs apart once again. One thing was for sure, it was going to be a long night, and you were going to be thoroughly bred by the end of it. Of course, you wouldn’t want it any other way.

#tf2 x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #merc x reader #minors dni #smut #tf2 smut #medic x reader #medic tf2 #team fortress 2 #medic team fortress 2 #medic #team fortress two #tf2 #team fortress 2 medic #tf2 fanfiction #cross posted on ao3

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