#the stew burbles
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Monster Mayhem: Lion's Pride [PART 2]
Gender Neutral Reader x Leona Kingscholar
Word Count: 4.3k
Summary: There is a Lion living in your chicken coop. This sounds like the setup for a really bad joke--you wish it was.
[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3]
There were wards carved into the wooden pillars of your small cottage that had existed long before you’d made your home here, and they had an ancient, cloying, sort of magic to them that always left you feeling swaddled in bubble-wrap comfort—safe and secure. Even against angry Skin Changers banging down your door.
“You won’t be able to cross the threshold unless you’re invited,” you called, hoping it might deter him from actually destroying your entire porch.
There was an irritated growl from the other side that sounded an awful lot like he was probably still going to wind up trying to put his claws through the paneling, so you pulled the door open once more and stepped aside with purpose.
“You are not welcome,” you said, cheerful, before gesturing for him to try and step inside.
The Lion Man sneered at you, his ears flattening pissilly atop his head as if such a fluffy show of irritation could ever be intimidating (even if he wasn’t drenched down the bone), and he moved to make his way into your home. But when his sandaled foot reached the threshold, he stopped. You watched as his brow furrowed and something darkly frustrated slithered across his handsome face. There was no great arcane barrier or explosion of magical prowess—just a gentle shudder you could see creep along his limbs as he tried to force himself to move and couldn’t.
“Was there something you needed?” you asked, after what was perhaps a too-long moment of watching him stew in a mucky mix of rainwater and his own burbling rage.
He scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning up against the well-beaten doorway like the slouch was supposed to be intentionally casual, and not because he literally couldn’t move anywhere else.
“I need your help,” he said—demanded. He stared down his nose at you like you were some sort of unpleasant looking bug crawling across the floor.
“Alright,” you shrugged. “And…?”
“And what?” he demanded.
You rolled your eyes towards the ceiling and mercifully gave him through a silent count-of-ten to try and figure his shit out. When all he did was curl his lip at you like a petulant noble in court, you sighed and turned back on him with a cheerful, customer-service, quality smile.
“Thank you for your inquiry,” you chirped. “But I’m afraid I’m all full up for the day. Good afternoon.” And closed the door in his face yet again, but this time with a polite, little, wiggle-wave of your fingers as you went.
The next morning arrived altogether uneventfully. The rain had stopped sometime during the evening, and the lingering moisture had left your little homestead shrouded in a lovely cloud of fine, glistening, mists. You headed out into the soft chill with a pleasant hum and armfuls of treats for all your critters.
And then you noticed that there was an extra animal making itself at home in your little farmyard—one that you’d assumed had eventually given up and stomped back whichever way he’d came.
The Lion Man was sleeping in your chicken coop—perfectly contentedly, too. Which you wouldn’t have expected from a near mythical creature dripping in precious gems and who spoke with all the haughty self-assuredness of someone who’d never been told ‘no’ in any way that mattered.
You glared at him for a moment or two, hoping the searing irritation in your frown would be enough to poke him awake. But the Lion Man just laid there, cozy as a clam in his bed of shredded hay.
“You’re scaring Penelope,” you huffed, loud, and tossed a handful of seed by his feet.
The birds squawked and hopped up to peck brainlessly at the treats—unbothered by the predator lounging in their nest. The rustling of their feathers and tap-tap-tap of their little beaks at least seemed to finally wake the lazy Lion Man, and he opened one glowing, emerald, eye to glare balefully at you.
“They don’t seem like they give a shit,” he rumbled at you, voice still thick and syrupy with sleep. And indeed they did not, bopping around without a care in the world. Your aforementioned Penelope had even shuffled herself into the Lion’s lap to reach some of the seed that had fallen into the folds of fabric pooling at his hips.
“Why are you in my chicken coop?” you asked, as polite as you could manage. It still sounded like you were giving yourself a root canal.
He stood with a languid stretch and your birds clucked at him irritably for a moment before settling into the warm spot he’d vacated.
“It was raining,” he complained. Like it was obvious.
You pinched the bridge of your nose and tried again. “Why are you still here?”
“I already told you, herbivore,” he yawned. His long, white, canines, glinted in the morning sunlight. “I need your help.”
You sighed a miserable sort of sigh and fought the urge to dig your thumbs into your eyes.
“Forgive me for not jumping at the opportunity to assist the person—or, sorry, whatever it is you are—who abandoned me to die in a hole,” you harumphed, turning pointedly to start trudging back to your cottage.
“You got out, didn’t you?” the Lion griped, slipping forward to dog at your heels.
“No thanks to you!” you accused, jabbing a finger in his direction. He rolled his eyes and you could practically feel the steam leaking from your ears. “I helped you once already,” you pointed out testily. “Twice, if you count all the rations you gobbled up. And you still left me behind without a second thought! Why should I bother doing anything else for you?”
His face twisted up into something sour. The grin he shot your way was all sharp teeth and vinegar.
“Ahh, that’s right. I should have remembered—humans are only willing to barter their aid if they’re going to be repaid in kind. So. Tell me. What do you want then, hmm?” He scoffed. “Wealth? Power? Protection?”
You stopped at the door to your home and spun on him, angry.
“This has nothing to do with being repaid,” you seethed. “This is about decency!”
He scoffed again and you fought the urge to just hurl the entire basket of seed into his smug face. Because you were clearly the adult in this situation and needed to act as such. Sure, Mister Lion Dude looked close enough to your age, and you knew well enough of Magic Beasts to understand he was probably decades your senior—if not entire generations—but clearly a wealth of time left no account for manners. So you were going to have to step up and be the mature one here, and not waste an entire week’s worth of grit on the petty urge to upend it all over his stupid head.
With a heavy sigh that was more a gust of incompressible cursing than anything else, you placed the basket aside and turned to him with a stubborn pout.
“Alright, then. A deal—as you’re so insistent that you know exactly what every one of us stupid humans wants. I’ll help you again. If—” you declared, “—you say you’re sorry.”
He frowned, that righteous loathing giving way to a heady mix of even more irritable confusion.
“I have nothing to apologize for,” he snipped, turning his nose up at you.
“Then I have nothing to help you with,” you smiled, barbed, and swiveled to retreat into the safety of your cottage. “Good afternoon, Mister Lion. And please don’t eat my chickens.”
The Lion did not, in fact, eat any of your chickens. Or your geese, or ducks, or even the little rabbits that lived in the walls. He’d passed out beneath one of the overburdened fruit trees that grew along the edge of the forest and slept there for the entire evening—sprawled out amidst the roots like the rough bark was as comfortable as any other luxurious bed. He was still there now, snoring softly beneath the gentle, yellow, warmth of the morning sun.
You watched him for a few quiet moments, throat catching on a curious little hum. You wondered how long he was planning to skulk about your little homestead. You wondered how he wasn’t cold and miserable every night. And surely he must have been ravenous by now. It’s not like you’d seen him eat anything.
So you raided your icebox for leftovers and heated them on the stove until your cottage was filled with the cozy smells of well-seasoned meats and sweet, berry, tarts. You packed up the meal into a neat, little, box, wrapped it all up in a tea towel to seal in the heat, and then dropped the thing in his lap hard enough to startle him awake.
The Lion glowered down at the mesh of checkered fabric in obvious distaste. But then the scent of what was tucked within said wrappings must have made its way to his nose, because some of that ire seemed to melt away and he sniffed curiously at the air.
“Thank you for not decimating my livestock population,” you said.
“You told me not to,” he snapped, tail whipping angrily at his rear. He reached out to pick at the folded edges of the parcel with a perplexed sort of expression twisting at his mouth.
“And you didn’t,” you responded with a shrug. “It’s appreciated.”
With that, you left to go about your daily business. Your garden needed tending, and one of the corners of the fence needed a new patch to keep it upright. You also hadn’t seen much of your foxes since Lord Lion had decided to make himself at home, and you wound up spending far too much time crawling around on your hands and knees—looking under bushes and into holes as you waved around a juicy chunk of roast beef in hopes of tempting them out.
There was the telltale crunch crunch of someone stepping through the dirt to stand at your side, and you glanced up to see the Lion Man looming over you with a heavy scowl—arms crossed loose over his chest.
“Is this what you do? Everyday?” he asked, sounded insultingly incredulous. His face was twisted up into a sneer that was entirely unimpressed. “Crawl through the muck like a worm?”
“Not every day,” you said after a moment of consideration. “And worms don’t have limbs. I’m more like a cockroach, maybe.”
He scoffed. “And you have the nerve to think that you’re too good to help me.”
“I never said that,” you frowned, sitting back on your heels and brushing some of the dust and grass from your pants. “I just said you needed to apologize first.”
“I’m not sorry for anything,” he said again, just as put out as before.
You waved a finger at him in a gentle tut-tut. “Ah, but we’re making progress. See, earlier you said there was nothing to apologize for at all. Now at least you’re recognizing that there is, in fact, an anything.”
You swayed your way back to your feet before he could launch into another rant about your mortal ridiculousness.
“A friend of mine hunted down a White Moor Stag last week,” you said, brushing the last of the grit from your knees. “It’s supposed to be delicious, and I’ve had some of the cuts marinating for a while now. You see, it’s this whole mess with orange zest, and molasses, and these little Red Eye chilies that I’ve been growing for ages now—”
The more you rambled, the more constipated he looked. So you cut yourself off and rubbed at the back of your neck, just toeing the wrong side of embarrassment.
“R-Right. Anyways. I’m going to be cooking some of it up tonight to try. So—Well,” you waved your hand awkwardly around your head in a gesture that even you weren’t entirely sure made any kind of sense. “If you apologize before then, you’re more than welcome to come in and have dinner.”
He scoffed. “That’s not exactly a worthwhile offer when we both know you’ll just end up bringing me some tomorrow either way.”
You sighed.
“Probably,” you admitted. “Well. See you in the morning then if you’re still around, I guess.”
“You’re terribly accommodating to unwanted guests,” he sneered after you as you climbed the set of stairs that made up your teeny porch, and you waved him off with a grumble.
What was so wrong with being civil, huh?! You liked to think that your little cottage was homey and welcoming. You took in weird guests all the time! And you liked being known as that awkward but friendly recluse who could offer a wandering adventurer a fresh set of laundered clothes and a good meal. It was how you’d met all your other friends. Odd as they all were. In fact, if you were being perfectly honest, in comparison to some of your other compatriots, Mister Lion really probably was the most societally acceptable definition of ‘normal’ out of the bunch. Which was—not to rag on your dear friends or anything—but that was certainly… Uh…
You spent the afternoon shuffling about your kitchen, and then a long evening searing the meat to perfection. It tasted absolutely divine—totally ‘making noises not meant for polite company’ and ‘curling your toes under the table’ levels of yummy. You happily set aside some portions for your friends whenever they inevitably stopped by (with an extra-large and prettily packaged one for your Hunter), and then packed a small box of leftovers to set at the front of the icebox. Just as the Lion had said you would. Because unlike him, you were nice. And kind. And really didn’t want him to get hungry enough to start eyeing your chickens in earnest.
The next morning when you ventured beyond your front door, you noticed something a bit odd.
Your brow scrunched and you shifted the little box of meats into one hand so you could use the other to poke around your very neat looking garden.
“I don’t remember weeding this yesterday…”
Nor had you had time to fix the fence amidst all your fox chasing. Or prune the berry bushes. And normally your trimming was not quite so, err, ugly, lopsided, like the work of a toddler with safety scissors imperfect. More of a scorching, really, than any kind of clipping. There was a soft dusting of glittering, arcane, sand scattered along their roots.
The Lion snorted and snatched the food from your hands with a scowl. It was a weird, tiny, twisty expression—and way more performative than he’d probably intended it to be.
“Then you must be even stupider than I thought.”
“Huh,” you mused, plopping yourself down on one of the low-cut stumps and resting your chin in your palm. You tried to hide the amused tick of your lips behind your fingers. “I hadn’t thought that would be possible. What’s lower than a base zero?”
“Negative numbers exist,” he sneered and sat cross-legged in the grass across from you to devour his plundered meal.
You hummed and rifled around in your pockets. You unearthed another wrapped treat and passed it his way.
“Thank you for cleaning up,” you said.
He scoffed and took a too-large chomp out of his food, eyes averted towards the ground. “Whatever.”
The Lion followed you around the rest of the day—always at a distance, and always with a perpetual cloud of scathing comments settled about him like a swarm of buzzing bees. You just hummed through the streams of pessimistic angst and continued your chores. Mostly he just watched you toil away. Occasionally you’d toss him a berry from a bush you were replanting, or share some bites of the granola you’d tucked into one of your pockets. He accepted each treat with an upturned nose and absolute indignity. But he ate each and every morsel, and you noticed him go back to swipe another berry when he thought you weren’t looking.
He still outright refused to apologize, so you took your dinners alone. But he did help you move some thorny branches, and didn’t even complain too much when Penelope the Chicken made herself a nice bed in his lap. You brought him one of your spare blankets—a big, old, fluffy thing that you’d once hoped would be a bit magical, as you’d spun it together from some enchanted wool. It was not, which was disappointing. But it was still warm and pretty, so that was fine.
The Lion scoffed at it, but you just left the folded-up mess of soft fluff by his side with a pointed pat-pat-pat before returning to your own cozy bed for the night.
When the sun rose the next day, you woke to a familiar, scraggly, redhead at your door. Ace smiled at you through a layer of grime thicker than the shirt on his back, and you immediately herded him out towards the backyard to dunk him in the pond.
“What did you even do?” you asked, upending another bucket of water over his head. “You look like someone tied you to the back of a horse and dragged you the entire way here.”
He shivered petulantly. “I didn’t do anything! I swear! And nothing happened!”
Splash went the next bucket.
“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” he corrected, and you handed him a towel as a reward for his vague attempt at honesty.
Eventually Ace managed to weasel his way out of the frigid pond and into a fresh set of clothes. He sighed, content, and set about lounging in the sun like a fat, lazy, tom cat. Which, speaking of lazy, lounging, cats…
You glanced around your little farm, but your new Lion companion wasn’t anywhere to be found. Huh. How strange. You retreated back into your home to collect some of your leftovers before returning to your friend. You carefully balanced one of the boxes atop the fence as you went, just in case the Lion did come around looking for a snack.
You handed the other to Ace, and his mouth nearly started watering at the sight.
“No Deuce this time?” you asked, peering back out towards the dirt road—half expecting to see the warrior sprawled out in a ditch or something just a few paces down the path.
“Nah,” Ace sighed, kicking up his feet and letting out a heaving sigh that sounded like it weighed more than the thick, traveler’s, pack usually strapped across his shoulders. “He stopped back in town to drop off a letter for his mom.”
Ace moved to dig into the food in earnest, and you lit up at his enthusiasm.
“This is from that Stag,” you beamed, and his face went a bit pale. “Remember? The one we could barely fit through the shed door even when we got all six of its antlers off? I finally got around to cooking it.”
“That Hunter brought this?” he asked, looking more and more uncomfortable by the second.
“I mean, who else could kill a White Moor Stag?” you laughed, and Ace’s expression was shifting into something that looked a bit too close to sea-sickness for someone sitting in a soft patch of grass in the heart of a landlocked prefecture.
You reached forward to pluck up a bit of one of the juicier steaks between your fingers and shoved it firmly into his mouth. The indignant spluttering that followed rapidly melted into near moaning, and whatever hesitance was brewing in that empty skull of his dissipated in the face of such a pure, culinary, masterpiece.
You leaned forward eagerly when he began to shovel the stuff into his mouth like a dying man inhaling his last meal. “How’s it taste? I tried using rinds this time in my marinade instead of just the orange pulp, and also tried whole ginger slices rather than the ground up kind, and—"
“Yeah, yeah,” Ace waved you off around a mouthful of half-chewed meat. “Food magic, and fancy things, and whatever. Can’t you just let me enjoy this stupid, terrifying, meal in peace—”
A clawed hand slammed down over the top of the makeshift lunch box with an echoing thwack, and the redhead lurched backwards with a startled squawk.
“If you’re not going to bother listening, you don’t deserve to eat it,” the Lion huffed, snatching the portion for himself and gracefully folding his unfairly lithe limbs to plop down at your side.
“You’re one to talk,” you blinked, taken aback at his sudden appearance. And blatant hypocrisy. Like. Come on, dude.
He was close—far closer than he was normally willing to get to you and your human cooties. Practically slotted up against you from hip to shoulder. His tail curled up and around your wrist and you could feel the tip of it twitching irritably against the soft skin at the heart of your palm. That aloof, emerald, glower of his was fixed on Ace with just a touch too much ire to really be considered indifferent, and his ears were pressed down into stiff, flat, lines atop his head. You blinked again, wide eyed and a bit confused. Huh. Maybe he just wasn’t a fan of strangers.
“When have I ever interrupted one of your ridiculous tangents?” the Lion snipped at you, pointedly popping the thickest, juiciest, slice of the bunch into his mouth. It shredded like tissue paper between his canines and Ace audibly gulped.
“You make faces at me,” you argued petulantly, and immediately felt like a toddler.
“But I always listen,” he shot back, equally as bitchy. And also… surprisingly earnest. Even if he was being as miserable about that sincerity as he was about everything else.
His green eyes flicked down to meet yours for a moment—two, three, four—before swiveling back towards Ace and narrowing all over again. And yeah, you’d assumed that the Lion had looked irritated with you plenty of times before, but the sneer he was giving Ace was all sorts of unpleasant. Rivaled only perhaps by that open, spiteful, hatred when he’d turned to bear his fangs at the metal spike trap twining around his legs and keeping him trapped in that pit.
His lip twitched up, almost like a snarl, before he continued, “Even an herbivore like you deserves that at least.”
Then the Lion reached around you to snatch the checkered tea towel wrapping from its place discarded at your friend’s feet, jostling you ridiculously all the while and practically bullying you into his lap with his flailing elbows in the process. He idly wiped the mess of sauces and drippings from his fingers before tossing the fabric back into the dirt—this time at his feet. You rolled your eyes at the petty theatrics and shot Ace one of your patented ‘man, what a day, am I right?’ looks, that he responded to with an expression that looked more like someone had just punched him in the nuts and threatened to wear his skin as a suit than it did any sort of real life, rational, human, emotion.
The Lion’s arm tightened from its place at your waist—where he’d lazily left it after that initial reach around. You settled back against him with a good natured, if exasperated, huff. At least he was warm. And honestly a much nicer seat than the damp ground.
“Uhm—” Ace choked. Cleared his throat. Tried again. Choked harder. “Who—Who’s this?”
“Oh,” you hummed, pensive. “Actually. That’s a very good question. I don’t really know.”
The Lion Man practically groaned into your neck. Ace looked like he wanted to put your head through a wall.
“This entire time,” the Lion hissed. You could feel the imprint of his canines bumping up against your skin as he grit his teeth. “You didn’t even know who I was?”
“No?” you frowned, confused. And then, rightfully indignant, “It’s not like you ever introduced yourself!”
He pulled himself back with a sigh that sounded like it was the only thing standing in between a gruesome murder and whatever fragile sanity he’d managed to wrangle together. He straightened—posture going rigid and regal. The claws at your waist flexed into the breezy fabric of your shirt and his tail tightened along your arm.
“I am Leona Kingscholar,” he declared, proud. “Second Son of the Sunset Savannas. Heir to the King's Roar.”
Ace started choking all over again, and let out what sounded vaguely like a strangled ‘holy fucking shit.’ You waited a moment, shifting through the catalogue of names and places in your head before drawing a complete blank. So you simply nodded as best as you could while squashed up so close against him and offered your own name politely in return.
Ace gawked at you. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You frowned. “What are you talking about? I was just being polite!”
“This is—He’s—!” your redheaded friend just barely managed to splutter out past his obvious terror. “Leona Kingscholar is a Warlord. He’s an ancient terror—He’s—He’s a General, and a monster, and the fucking Changeling Prince whose family rules over this entire goddamn continent, you absolute fucking halfwit!”
Your brain seemed to evacuate the premises all at once, and you were left gaping like a fish out of water. Mouth opening and closing as if of its own devices. Just. Not a thought passing behind those wide, horrified, eyes of yours. Eventually you managed to tilt your gaze up and up until the back of your head thunked against your guest’s shoulder. You stared at him in outright consternation and he simply arched a handsome brow, entirely unimpressed by your apparently lackluster deductive reasoning.
“…is that all true?” you asked haltingly. He rolled his eyes at you.
“More or less.”
“… and you’ve been sleeping in my chicken coop.”
Leona snorted. “I have.”
You turned back to Ace, a creeping sort of dread slithering through your gut and clawing up your spine.
“Oh no,” you said. With feeling.
“Oh fucking no indeed,” he wailed, and dropped his head into his hands.
.
.
.
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#twisted wonderland imagines#twisted wonderland#twst x reader#Monster Mayhem#My Writing#Twst Fantasy AU#Leona Kingscholar x Reader#Leona x Reader#Leona x Yuu#Skin-Changer Leona#Ace Trappola#Monster Mayhem Leona Part 2
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I want to give a girl a bellyache.
I want to be hungrily devoured along with some beer or other fizzy drinks, some of the greasiest foods known to man, and a whole bunch of candy that’ll definitely make her insides bubble like firecrackers.
I want her tummy to be firm and bloated beyond belief as she sits back and rubs over it, hoping she can get things in her system moving. That fat, rumbling tum demands attention. And because of me, it’s incredibly tight and rock hard… <3
I want those heavenly, sultry gurgles and burbling gasses from within her belly to be mixed with my muffled whimpers as I try so desperately to find wiggle room in that slimy sac full of half-digested food and warm, warm acids…
Eventually I'd probably get comfortable enough to sit still and digest, but it would definitely take awhile. My struggles from inside would be like sharp pangs of overindulgence to her, and I'd hear her cute little moans and groans echo all around me...
As I’d curl up in her belly, my goal would be to try and get her to burp ❤️ she’s already squeaking out some soft, muffled *urraps* because of all the sloshy foam and trapped gas that’s in there with me… but I wanna hear her belch 🫧🫧
Squirming desperately inside a woman’s painfully tight tum and eventually stewing away sounds like a dream right now… I love being feisty prey sometimes
And besides, when I do eventually churn into soft sludge… I can only imagine how euphoric it must feel for my pred, as she feels the pressure loosen inside her. Now her powerful gut can finally get to work digesting everything else…
#v.ore#v0re#soft vore#vore talk#nom’s thoughts#tummy kink#belly kink#female pred#f/f vore#fatal vore#digestion#vore digestion#willing prey#unwilling pred#vore writing#vore story#gurgle#vore kink#same size vore#minors dni
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"For the Long Haul"
(unwilling prey, digested with food, safe/non-gorey digestion)
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It felt there would be no end in sight. All his world had become this thick, crushing darkness, and smothering heat, his life reduced to a hunk of meat inside a damp chamber, intent on taking its time with him. He was in for the long haul now, surely.
He'd been struggling for hours now, surely. Fighting and kicking and struggling, to no avail. He came close once, upon a massive belch the pred released that he pushed through to get to the back of their throat. But only a hand managed to get far enough up to feel the cold air of the outside world, before the pred took another thick swallow, sending them back to the abyss.
He grunted as he was jostled around again, feeling nauseous and dizzy from all the jostling and pushing around. He couldn't tell where gravity was going anymore, sometimes feeling upright, sometimes feeling upside down. These slick walls squeezed and massaged into him constantly, keeping him in place enough not to leave, but not so in place that he wasn't slipping around every other minute. He felt so gross, covered in slime and whatever stuff the pred had eaten beforehand. An ominous groan in his ears alerted the fact that he was on his way to becoming the very stew he resided in.
That was only added to the fact that a bunch of mush started raining onto him. He spat and struggled, pushing against the walls to no avail. His pred was eating again, filling his already too tightly cramped personal chamber with more food. Liquid poured in, sloshing around and basting him in...what was that, root beer?
The filled organ burbled around him, squeezing tight around its prey, until an almighty belch forced its way out through the pred's mouth, echoing back into their stomach walls. The prey tried to squeeze himself up their throat, following the trail of expelled air, but he was unsuccessful, sliding back down into the pit he was trapped in. Surrounded by mush. Mush that he would soon enough become a part of. Whether he liked it or not.
The uncomfortable jostling and sloshing continued. Liquid was filling the chamber even quicker, stomach acid and sweet soft drinks mixing together with food bits into a frothy slop. It was too hot, the prey couldn't tell if they were just sweating or if they were starting to melt. It was getting hard to breathe in this pit. They tried to struggle again, finding themselves weak and dizzy. Their body was starting to lose its shape in the muck, becoming squishy and sticky.
They pushed against the walls, begging to be let out of this prison. They could hear the pred chuckling, saying something unintelligible. Were they actually listening to them!? The prey pressed their hands against the surface of their pred's belly...and were met with a painful *SQUISH!* against them, kneading and massaging their food, and compressing them deeper into the slew they were becoming.
All he could hear around him now was the sloshing and gurgling of a happy, full belly, enjoying him, digesting him, turning him into a nutrient goop. His form was sliding down into a near puddle now, mixed with all the other contents of the stomach he was destined to be the meal of. The most liquified parts of him were being slurped down further, deeper into the pred's intestines to be pumped through. He whimpered, feeling the last of his being starting to slip away from him. He was food. Mush. Nothing more than another meal for this beast to have.
Another loud groan rumbled through the full organ, and the rest of the pred's dinner funneled down into the rest of their system...
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The Maker’s Angel pt. 2
Din Djarin/Mando x female reader
18+ MDNI
Warnings: Sub to Dom Din, spitting, name calling, slapping, aggression/anger, cockwarming, domesticity/breeding kink
Info: Fluffy beginning, smutty ending, lots of Mando’a (translations at the end of post.)
Over the next three months Grogu continued his training, you moved your family of three into a small three bedroom home at the base of the mountain, and you found work in the form of selling produce from my garden behind your home.
Din had a bit of an adjustment period, trying to find a good balance between bounty hunting and home-life, but soon settled into a loose schedule of 2 weeks away on work, 1 week home and repeat.
On this day, Grogu was training at the Temple while you sold vegetables from your roadside stand. Din would be returning from his off-world hunt this afternoon, you and your wrinkly green son were anxiously awaiting his arrival.
After collecting Grogu from the Temple you returned home and set about preparing dinner while Grogu roamed the house and caused his usual mischief. Soon enough you heard the familiar clunk of Din’s boots on the stone porch and you rushed to meet him at the door, Grogu following behind at your heels.
Entering your modest dwelling adorned with various trinkets collected during your travels together, Grogu bounds towards Din, his tiny arms wrapping around his legs in welcome embrace. He burbles something unintelligible, and warmth radiates from him like a sunbeam that dispels any lingering fatigue from his long travel home.
Din!” You wrapped him in a hug, pressing your forehead against his beskar helmet while placing your palm against the engraved Manticore on his armored chest plate; something you’d made a habit of doing every time he returned from his hunts. “we’ve missed you.”
Returning the embrace, he wrapped his arms around your waist tightly, sucking in a deep breath to fill his lungs with your unique scent of flowers and earth —a heady concoction that always seems to calm him.
"Missed you too," He whispered back.
“Been good for mommy?"
He released you gently before picking up Grogu and walking to the couch, sitting down on the sofa with him.
“He’s always good.” You teased, poking Grogu’s little belly to hear him giggle.
“Let’s get you comfy.” You told Din softly.
He’d come to love this part of returning home so he had no qualms about setting Grogu next to him while you slipped off his boots.
He leaned back against the couch's soft fabric as you begin to remove his beskar with practiced ease, you unfasten the secured metal plate across his torso, bringing you one layer closer to the expanse of his muscular stomach beneath his flight suit.
After you removed all his armor and sat it aside in its designated leather basket, you sat on his knee for a moment. Leaning into his chest and kissing the crook of his neck, smelling the salty dried sweat and the scent that was so uniquely him.
A soft moan escapes his lips as your warm breath caresses the soft flesh of his neck, sending shivers down spine after every sweet kiss.
“Helmet now?” You asked, fingers poised to remove it if given permission.
"No, it's fine," He manage to mumble out, "You go ahead and finish preparing dinner."
He took Grogu, placing him on his shoulder and walking to the dinner table and setting him down on the table cloth.
“Here, set the table for us okay?” Din said calmly, gesturing to the silverware and dishes already stacked on the table.
Grogu babbled in response, flattening out his ears in annoyance, though he complied anyway. After all, his dad did ask nicely…
Din stood leaned against the doorway to the kitchen following your every move as you worked. He smiled to himself as he watched you placing three bowls of steaming hot stew on a tray—a hearty blend of root vegetables, wild mushrooms, and tender slices of venison meat simmered slowly in rich broth.
"Smells delicious," He compliment sincerely, "Thank you."
“You’re welcome.” You smiled. “I baked some fresh bread too, it should be done cooling now.”
“Grogu?” Din’s deep voice came through the vocoder as he spoke. “think you can handle the tray here?”
Grogu huffed as he stuck out both of his tiny arms and scrunched his eyes shut. Bringing the tray safely, albeit wobbly, to the center of the table via the Force.
“Good. You’re getting better.” Din praised him, a compassionate tone reserved only for the most special people in his life.
You take a seat across from Din, presenting freshly baked bread on wooden platter covered by crisp white linen. He can't help but observe your movements—each fluid motion an enchanting sight for his tired eyes.
"You know how good you look doing this?" He asked with a grin, slipping off his helmet and sitting it aside. "Cooking... baking... taking care of home?"
“Maybe.” You couldn’t help but blush as you sliced into the fresh loaf of bread.
His eyes happily taking in the sight of your rosy cheeks tinted pink with embarrassment. A soft chuckle escapes his lips before he spoke again.
"It suits you... this domestic side." He murmured teasingly, yet undertones laced within his words hint at respect for your work in and around the home.
His compliment stirred a swirling storm within your core, the blush in your cheeks spreading rapidly as you let your mind wander out of control. Finally you cleared your throat and tried your best to swallow down the lump of desire that had formed in your throat, slicing the loaf of bread for your clan of three to eat with the stew.
"So... how was your day?" He asked casually, "Anything interesting happen? Any troublemakers causing mayhem outside our cozy little nest?"
With a well-practiced motion, Din placed Grogu in his high chair and buckled him securely in place. He then set his bowl on the tray for him, forcibly but gently making Grogu hold a spoon rather than use his hands like he so desperately wanted to.
“My produce stand sold out in less than 2 hours.” You said proudly.
“So I got to come home and read for a bit before going to pick up this little booger.“ You laughed, watching their interaction while you spoke.
“And on our way home from the Temple Grogu and I stopped at the river to splash about a bit, didn’t we buddy?” Grogu nodded happily, a large chunk of venison in his mouth.
A smile tugs at corners of Din’s lips as he lifted his helmet and placed it on the far-side of the table, amusement glinting in his eyes as Grogu chomps down on chunky morsel dangling between fingers stained red from venison juice.
"That does sound like an enjoyable day," He agreed, "But I have a question for you."
He set down his utensils momentarily, leaning forward close enough for your breaths to mingle in temporary shared silence.
"I-I had too much time to think on this last hunt," He paused, searching for words with his lips locked tight against sudden surge of emotion threatening spill forth, "you’re still happy aren’t you? You’d tell me if you weren’t right?"
“Din, of course I’m happy… w-what made you think I wasn’t?” You asked in concerned impatience.
“Well I don’t think you’re unhappy, that’s not what I meant.” He grumbled, sitting back in his chair with his eyebrows furrowed.
“I- well, you…” He let out an annoyed puff of air. “I’m just afraid.”
“Afraid?” You asked in confusion.
“For the first time in a long time, I’m afraid and I don’t like it.” He said quietly. “I feel itchy, my throat hurts, my armor feels too heavy… I- I can’t… I mean-“
He inhaled sharply, punching down his feelings with a beskar fist. His fingers twitched as he contemplated putting his helmet back on, his armor was for physical protection just as much as it was for spiritual and emotional protection. He shook his head, deciding against it so that you could see his face while he spoke about something so important.
“I’m afraid I’ll come home and you won’t be here.” He said softly. “I know… realistically that won’t happen. I know that.”
“But, It’s scary to think that it could happen.”
“Oh C’mere you big softie.” You whispered, standing up and squeezing into his lap to hold him close. Kissing softly until you heard a soft whimper escape Din’s lips…
“You could be in a different galaxy, away for decades, and I would still be here waiting for you.” You assured him quietly as you stood up, caressing his cheek as you did.
“You are… you’re to good.” Squeezing your hand he whispered in a gruff tone. “You’re too perfect. Sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re real.”
You didn’t respond verbally, you just squeezed his hand back in return and scooted your chair around the small round table to be closer to him.
The rest of dinner was punctuated with giggles and stories from your weeks apart, Din sparing the gory details while still making sure to include as much detail as possible, knowing you enjoyed hearing about his work. However, he didn’t know you only requested for his most detailed descriptions just so you could hear him talk alittle longer.
“Go play.” Din said gruffly after cleaning off Grogu’s hands and face at the kitchen sink.
The little one hopped down from the countertop and waddled off to living room, dumping a basket of toys over and digging through them until he found what he was looking for, a game cube. His favorite thing to do, making the colors flash and match up in the correct sequences using his Force abilities. Not only was it fun, it was wonderful practice.
Din shook his head, it was still hard to grasp how something so little held such power. It never failed to impress him, make him proud.
He returned to the dining room table, and sat back in his chair, patting his knee for you to sit on. His arms wrap tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He squeezed you hard, forcing the air out of your lungs in a crushing hug. He held you like that for a moment before loosening his grip.
He looked down at your lips before leaning in to place a passionate open-mouthed kiss on each side of your neck. Goosebumps covered your arms as he left a wet trail up the column of his throat to lock your lips in a searing kiss.
It soon turned frenzied, a dance of tongues tangling together in a display of raw desire from long denied release.
"Cyarika.” A strangled moan escapes his throat, "I... I want you."
Shhh,” You broke the kiss, hand firm on his chest. “patience Din… wait for Grogu to go to bed.” You giggled at his eagerness.
Groaning softly, he reluctantly relented to your demands—raw yearning tempered by cool rationality as he pulled himself back to reality.
"Alright..." He murmur begrudgingly, "But once Grogu's asleep... nothing will hold me back."
“Good.” You leaned in, whispering seductively before nibbling on his ear.
You rose from his lap, gathering the dirty dishes from the table and placing them carefully in the sink. Purposefully walking with a sway to your hips, making your ass jiggle with every stride.
"I'll finish these." He mumbled softly, placing a comforting hand on your waist. "You should put Grogu down for bed... show him who the boss is around here."
Alright. I’ll be back.” You promised, picking up Grogu and taking him to his room to tuck him into bed with his favorite stuffed animals.
Once he was sound asleep you crept out of his bedroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.
You all but ran back to the kitchen to find Din who had nearly finished washing the dishes. As he turned around, hearing your steps, you reached behind your back and pulled at the string that held your bandeau top on. Untying the bow that kept it in place and allowing it to fall to the ground.
Startled by your sudden brazen display he nearly dropped the pot in hand; heart racing as his eyes devour your chest now exposed to his hungry gaze—nipples erect and pert, begging for attention.
"Cyare" He croaked, voice strained with desire, "You... you're gonna kill me."
Without waiting another moment, he let the pot clank on the countertop, not bothering to dry his wet hands before reaching out to grasp your waist, pulling you flush against his body. His hardened member pressing urgently against your lower abdomen. His lips crash hungrily against yours, tongue tangling in lustful need barely suppressed by mere clothing separating you from complete surrender to those primal urges that clawed at your insides.
“Sit on the couch. Hurry, c’mon baby I’m feeling needy.” You softly instructed him, following behind him as he rushed to obey you.
“Get your cock out for me baby.” You whispered, trying to seductively strip your pants and underwear as well.
Swiftly following suit, his hands moving dexterously on his pants; lowering them to his ankles and kicking them off impatiently along with his boxers revealing his thick length standing proudly awaiting your touch.
"Here..." He murmur hoarsely, "Take it... do whatever you want."
“Oh I plan on it.” You teased, licking and suckling slowly on the swollen tip of his cock.
His breath hitches in a sharp intake as your soft lips envelop the engorged tip—warm wetness swallowing him whole causing a strike of mind-numbing pleasure to surge through his cock like lightning striking the earth of Mandalore.
“Mesh'la… kar'taylir darasuum.” His voice husky and affectionate as he threaded his fingers through your hair.
You let your hands wander the expanse of his hairy thighs, pressing your nose into the curls at the base of his dick to breathe in his musky scent. The way he sounds… the way his lips move, the grit in his voice when he speaks Mando’a to you, makes you practically feral.
You couldn’t help yourself, immediately releasing his cock with a drooly ‘pop’ and standing up, straddling his legs and hovering over his waiting girth.
“Din,” You pleaded, “I can’t wait. I’ve been wet since the second you stepped foot into the house.”
An involuntary groan escapes his lips as he watched you position yourself over him; your pussy just out of reach, taunting him.
His rough hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into the soft flesh as desire grows unbearable, "Fuck me... please." He whined, trying to force you down onto his throbbing length.
“Y-yes.” Sliding your soaked pussy down his cock, releasing a high pitched whine at the burning stretch of his dick plunging deep into your cunt.
Pain and pleasure intertwine into a maelstrom of sensations— clenched teeth to stifle your moans; reverberating swallowed pleas echoing from his throat with urgency as you slowly impale yourself on him.
"M-maker.” He gasped out through clenched jaw, "Fuck... fuck me like I'm your bitch."
“You are my bitch.” You growled.
Your hand shooting out to grip his throat tightly and force his head back against the couch cushions.
“Open your mouth.” You whispered.
His eyes widen as your grip tightens, constricting the airflow to his brain addling his senses further.
"Y-Yes..." He managed to choke out between ragged breaths, "Whatever you want."
“Stick out your tongue out for me now baby.”You said sweetly. “There, that’s a good boy.”
You pushed your hips flush to crotch, grinding in circles on his thickness, feeling it throbbing in response to each pulsing clench of your pussy. Halting your movement completely, simply holding his cock captive and rendering him practically pussy drunk with need.
You leaned down to take his tongue between your lips, sucking on it and slurping loudly, feeling his hot breath fanning across your face lips as you did so. His hips involuntary bucking up into you at the sensation of being trapped inside your pussy and at your every whim.
Suddenly you pulled back from his face, making sure to squeeze his jaw to keep it pried open. Spitting harshly into his mouth before snapping his mouth shut with a click of his teeth.
Blinded by desire, he can't resist the storm surging through his veins wildfire-like, spreading and burning its way through him.
"Ni'duraa" He groaned deep and punctuated in his chest, "I love it.”
Arching his hips upwards in anticipation of climax fast approaching, closing in closer each powerful thrust buried him deep inside your pussy. His body trembling with needful want.
“Yeah?” Taunting him you released the hold on his neck to lace your hands together behind his head, using your thumbs to tip his chin up and expose his throat.
Ravaging his jaw and throat with long messy licks. Alternating between love bites and sucking harshly. Finally, after much whining on his part you relented as the sensation of your cunt rhythmically squeezing him as you cockwarmed him, paired with the brutality of your attention to his neck became too much for him.
You slowly resumed your movements on his cock, lightly rocking back and forth, just enough to make the tip brush against that sweet spot deep inside your wet heat. Sliding your hand down between your bodies to find your swollen and needy clit.
A moan escapes his throat as he watches you use him for your own pleasure.
"Y-Yes... Gods fucking yes," His voice cracking with need.
Both of his large hands grip your waist tightly as you tortured him with slow rhythmic thrusts—each deliberate movement driving him closer and closer to orgasm, his eyes welling up with tears of frustration as you refused to allow him to guide your hips at the pace he wanted.
“Get your fucking hands off me and put them behind you back.” You demanded, enjoying the sudden shock in his eyes.
“You don’t need your hands for this okay pretty boy?” You soothed his confusion of your un-characteristic harshness in a sweeter tone.
“Now, as long as you’re good… I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” You kissed his forehead, nose, lips, then his chin.
“So just sit back and let me do all the work, while I bounce on your cock…” You moaned accidentally, showing how easily he could break my character if he wanted too. “and make you cum over, and over, and over.”
“I’m gonna breed myself on your big fat dick okay?” You whined as his body immediately reacted to your words with a shudder, his eyes fluttering closed momentarily.
“Wait! No no no baby no d-don’t. Just w-wait let me.” He pleaded once his love drunk brain truly registered the meaning of your words; eyes opened wide with urgency.
“No, no c’mon sweet girl let me, let me make love to you. Please? Please just let me love on you while I fill you up, yeah?” He begged.
Lost in the haze of desire, his hands had a mind of their own, refusing to obediently follow your previous instruction—placing themselves behind back to rest idly on your hips.
His head rolls back against couch cushion, eyes closing tightly as he surrendered to your wishes.
“Yaihadla? Gods yes... that sounds perfect."
“Oh does it?” You cooed down at his pitiful face. “is that what you want? You want me to fuck myself on your cock until you get me good a pregnant?”
A gravely moan escapes his throat, hands gripping tightly to keep hold on reality slipping away as you continued your merciless tease.
"Yes!" He choked out through grit teeth, "Just... just fuck me for real already."
Your words, your continued denial of giving into his needs only fueled the firestorm in his veins—a primal urge clawing at the surface of his sanity.
“Say please for me.” You taunted. “You have manners, use them.”
Din felt a blush rise in his cheeks, submission tinged with embarrassment adding extra layer of vulnerability he hated to admit that he loved.
"P-Please..." He whimpered out desperately, "Fuck me... please fuck me now."
“Good boy,” You praised him, removing your fingers from your clit to lace both hands into his sweaty hair.
Immediately you bounced harder, faster… rolling your hips with every down stroke, getting a teasing bit of friction on your neglected clit.
He whined, pulling one of your hardened nipples into his mouth and suckling greedily.
“I love it when you let me use you like you’re just a little fuck toy.” You moaned, trying to rile him up.
With that said you bit down on the Adam’s apple of his throat and clapped one hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of him crying out in pain, his cock twitching proving he loved this display of dominance as much as you did.
"Gods-“ He managed to grunt, voice muffled by your hand, "you brat!"
Spasms ripple through his abdomen as his muscles tightened. He was close, and you couldn’t have that… not just yet.
“You call that an insult?” You laughed.
“You can do better than that can’t you? Hmm? Or are you too pussy-drunk from being my goddamn dildo to think?”
You rear back to slap him across the face hard, a sickening whack echoed through the room.
“There, that better? Give you some motivation to do better?”
Stunned by sudden blow, stars dance in his vision briefly before his focus snaps back to the present moment, anger burning brightly within his eyes.
"What the-?" He growled through clenched teeth, "You want a fucking insult? I’ll give it to you then you little bitch!"
With a primal roar, his muscular arms wrap around your waist and lift you off the ground; practically dragging you until he pinned you against wall, your dangling feet barely brushing the cool wood of the living room floor.
You smiled widely, a feral excitement in your glassy eyes; finally he was angry, finally he’d be as rough as you had been begging him to be for months now. You let out a low growling moan as if a wild animal was clawing it’s way out of your throat.
Intensity escalates rapidly his lustful anger threatening to consume all in its path.
"Fuck you..." He snarled viciously, "Fuck this... fuck those stupid bounties for keeping me away from you.”
With brute strength borne from years spent fighting for survival against odds insurmountable, he thrusted deep into your cunt.
“Vaii did ner cyare riduurok slanar?” He growled, eyebrows furrowed.
His already harsh thrusts became brutal plunges; your body slamming into wall with each powerful stroke meant to possess and claim.
“Ohhhhhh.” Your flesh pimples up In goosebumps.
Each thrust of his cock driving so far into your cunt that his tip slammed against my cervix painfully. Though it was worth every teeth gritting second all for that delicious push and pull of velvety skin against your raw and need clit.
“That’s it. This is what I wanted.” You praised, eyes filling with tears.
Breaths coming in ragged gasps, sweat coating his forehead in a light sheen.
"Y-Yeah... goddamn it..." He groaned lowly, "You fucking love this don't you? You want me to fucking claim you as mine?"
Teeth clash together in a violent snap; fury and desire merge into primal symphony of skin on skin, shared breath and unbidden pleasure.
“We’ve been married for almost a year!” You snapped as he dug his fingertips into the soft flesh of your ass. “And I’ve finally pushed you over the edge. Finally got you to be rough, to be mean.”
You arched your back with a high pitched squeal, bracing yourself with your hands gripping your forearms around his neck, holding on for dear life as he ravaged you.
“Of course I fucking love it you idiot!” You panted.
Though blinded by passion, he can't help but feel a pang of guilt in his chest.
"Gods... you fucking insane?" He managed to choke out hoarsely, "This... this is what you needed? This is what you’ve been begging for?”
His eyes lock onto yours filled with love and desire combined into single focus piercing through yours with a burning intensity.
“I’m finally getting what I want, either shut up or fuck me senseless god damnit!” Your voice although demanding, had hidden notes of pleading.
You were so close to orgasm you could practically taste it.
“Gods you’re so deep,” You groaned, pushing your hips forward to suck his length in farther. “C’mon fill me up, breed me like I know you want to.”
Din couldn’t help but let out a strangled laugh through gritted teeth.
"Gods..." He breathed, wrapping his arms around you tightly to press your bodies together, "You really have no idea how fucking right you are."
His forehead drops to rest on your shoulder as his lungs squeezed out a reedy whine. With a final surge of energy, he buries himself deeply between your folds, holding you still as he pumped you full of his hot cum. Each spurt brought out a shameless whimper from his full lips, his face now tucked in the crook of your neck.
“Udesiir, atiniir.” He mumbled against your soft skin.
As you felt him cum, warm and sticky ropes of wet coating your insides you cried out loudly. Eyebrows furrowed with your mouth open in a high-pitched whine, turning into babbled words.
“That’s it, that’s just what I needed. Feels so good, shit- I love it, I love you.”
He starts up his thrusts again, this time slow and sensual with the sounds of your messy cum coated cunt. He takes his time to fuck you through your orgasm, your body shakes uncontrollably as warm wet slick gushes from your pussy and leaks down my thighs.
"Gods... you're such a brat..." He managed to speak between ragged gasps for breath.
“Don’t act like you didn’t love every second of that.” You chided him, kissing his jaw gently.
“Bet you wish you’d given in a long time ago now don’t you? Hmm?” You teased.
With a loud bellowing laugh echoing through the room he agreed with you.
"Fuck off, you know damn well how much I enjoyed it." He retorted with a slight grin sneaking onto his lips despite best efforts.
"Next time... we do it in bed." Gently, his hands tenderly reach out and help you slide down from wall still trembling with aftermath, whispering softly into your ear, nipping lightly on the lobe before returning to his usual serious demeanor.
“Don’t expect that kind of rough treatment often,” He said sternly. “Although I don’t have any complaints about it; You’re precious to me, I want to take care of you, make love to you, not ravage you like an animal all the time.”
“You can make love to me nice and slow, all gentle like you love to tomorrow.” You kissed him softly, lovingly like you normally did.
A chuckle escapes his throat, unable to suppress the wide grin creeping onto his lips again.
Mando’a to English (in order of appearance I think)
Cyare- beloved
Mesh’la- beautiful
Cyarika- darling, sweetheart
‘Mesh’la kar'taylir darasuum.’- ‘Beautiful, I will hold you in my heart forever.’
Ni'duraa- disgusting/gross
‘Yaihadla?’- ‘pregnant?’
‘Vaii did ner cyare riduurok* slanar?’- ‘Where did my sweet love go?’
*Riduurok: used only for spouses
‘Udesiir, atiniir.’- ‘Relax, just take it.’
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With your tummy already full of milk and starting to cramp up the only thing to do is hel "soothe" it poking your lower belly roughly while it twist into knots. Placing both my hand on your tummy and just squeezing. "Ahh is that to much pressure on your cramps aching tummy?"
A response to this post, I think? Thank you for your patience. It sat in my inbox for a month or so. I don't want to make excuses, but as an explanation: 6-day work-week + home project = dead-on-my-feet. I've been trying to craft a proper response to this ask all month...but I literally got to the point of opening a word-processor and promptly falling asleep after squinting at the screen brightness.
Wet gurgles churn through the earpieces of the stethoscope. I lean back on my pillows, indulging in the noises. At a glance, one might think that I'm relaxing to some classical music of some sort—it's almost a trope in movies and TV at this point where some wealthy dude (sometimes the 'bad guy') sits back and turns up the volume on some classical piece like 'Ode to Joy' or something as they sit back after a job-well-done with a sniffer of brandy or whatever. We ain't as a boujee as that—no classical music screaming 'taste' or 'wealth', no expensive sound-system, and no brandy. What I've got is a stethoscope pressed almost painfully into the middle-left of my torso,the round metal nudging at my stomach-organ with every breath as I have the diaphragm trained directly over my duodenum.
The gurgles are audible even without the stethoscope, but with it I am getting a much more immersive experience. It picks up all of the little, quieter gurgles and the parts too quiet to escape to the realm of audibility. It's because of the earpieces that I don't hear it when you walk into my room, pausing at the door to take in the sight of me blissed out and indulging in my stomach. A glass that once contained milk sits on my night-table, telling you all that you need to know about what's going on.
You watch for a minute, watch as my blissed-out calm eventually begins to shift. It starts with a sharp gurgle, an irregular tensing of my abdominals, and a wince on my face as the painless part of the indulgence moves onto the main event. Enough milk has entered my intestines—enough to irritate the works. By the third wave of cramping, I'm moaning quietly, the stethoscope slipping as I begin to knead at my tummy as the cramps build to something painful—like the difference between calm waves and sky-scraper-sized waves out on the ocean. The cramps that were cute and manageable have grown, built themselves up to the point where it's painful. My intestines spasm irregularly, giving me that tell-tale 'in knots' feeling that I dread so very much.
“Ah!” I startle as I feel the bed dip and finally open my eyes, seeing your unexpected presence. A blush colors my features, unbidden, as I realize you caught me indulging alone. I thought you were working today and thought that I'd have the day off and the place to myself to indulge in a little stress-relief.
You don't even ask, reaching out with both hands to palpitate my belly. It's barely noticeable, but it's definitely rounder and tighter just a little bit more than it was an hour ago as the milk reacts negatively in my intestines, generating some painful gas inside of my constricting intestines.
I moan deeply as your probing hands press on some painful points on my tummy. On my right is a painful gas-pocket that's stuck in a loop of intestine—unable to be pushed to one or the other side of the loop because of restrictive cramps on either end of the twist. On my left, your thumb is nudging at the lower part of my duodenum, trying to act as a catalyst ensuring that all of the milk is in my intestines. My intestines rumble fiercely and my stomach burbles sickeningly. A gross, puff of sour, hot air pushes up and out of my stewing digestive tract in a pitiful excuse for a burp.
“Ahh...is that too much pressure on your cramping, aching tummy?” You tease, whispering in my ear as you relent the pressure and slide your hands over, only to press more firmly on other points on my belly. Your palms dig into the centre of my lower belly, just beneath my navel. The pressure is intense enough for me to moan and give some pained exclamations as the pressure in my cramping intestines ramps up from the pressure. I feel like a tied-off-balloon being squeezed from the bottom, your hands pinching off some much-needed space for the expansion of all the gas and nastiness being generated by the milk. The entire mess is expanding, and you just pinched off some prime real-estate. My intestines scream at the pressure, threatening to burst and aching fiercely.
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Dinner in Trost
ummmm sooooo,,, i wrote a pretty long drabble for l.evi a.ckerman,,, idc if i have an audience for him or not, i need to write about him and erwin smith or i might die,,, putting it under the stuffedronpa tag cause im pretty proud of this and want it to have attention, sorry y'all,,,
NO SPOILERS!!! I AM NOT DONE WITH THE SERIES!!! I WILL BLOCK YOU!!! THIS IS FIC IS MY OWN TAKE/VERSION!!!
IF YOU'RE NOT A KINK BLOG OR INTO THIS KINK, DO NOT INTERACT!
this fic contains: bloating, burps, hiccups, belly rubs, SFW content
ship: e.ruri ( l.evi X e.rwin -- AOT )
TLDR: l.evi and e.rwin are treated to a rare hearty meal. l.evi overindulges, and e.rwin is left to attend to him.
The evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the bustling town of Trost. Within the walls, the Survey Corps' headquarters stood as a beacon of strength and resilience. Tonight, however, it was not the threat of Titans that occupied the minds of Captain Levi Ackerman and Commander Erwin Smith. Instead, it was the promise of a delicious dinner that drew them together – just sharing a meal together in Erwin’s quarters.
The mess hall was abuzz with the clatter of cutlery and the hum of conversation as soldiers gathered for their evening meal. Levi and Erwin found a quiet corner (even though they wouldn’t stay long), away from the commotion. Erwin, with his trademark scruffy blond hair and a warm smile, observed Levi as he perused the menu with a scrutinizing eye. Tonight was a special occasion – the Corps had managed to secure a shipment of fresh ingredients, and the cooks had prepared a feast to lift the spirits of the weary soldiers.
Levi sighed, realizing that the menu was far more extensive than usual. "They're really going all out tonight," he muttered, glancing over the various options.
Erwin chuckled. "Well, after all the hard work everyone's been putting in, I think we deserve a treat. What do you feel like having?"
Levi's eyes narrowed as he scanned the choices, finally settling on a hearty meat stew. "This," he declared, pointing at the menu with conviction.
Erwin raised an eyebrow. "Stew? Are you sure you want something so… filling?"
Levi scowled at his lover. "What's that supposed to mean, Commander? I can eat whatever I want."
Erwin laughed as he held his calloused hands up, his deep voice resonating in the small space. "Alright, alright. Stew it is."
The stew, however, was just the beginning. Once they were able to order, the pair asked to sample various dishes from the feast – roasted meats, potatoes, bread, savory pies, and an array of desserts that tempted even Levi's complicated palate. And when that food arrived, they snuck out to Erwin’s quarters to enjoy their rare time alone. The pair settled in, the aroma of the freshly cooked food wafted through the air. The stew was steaming hot and filled with succulent chunks of meat and vegetables. Pies freshly baked, warm to the touch. Desserts creamy, filling. The sparkling wine burbled within its bottle. Levi's eyes widened at the sight.
"This looks… incredible," he admitted, a rare hint of excitement in his usually stoic demeanor.
Erwin grinned. "I told you. Now, dig in!"
The aroma of the food was tempting, and Levi’s stomach betrayed him with a low growl. So, he wasted no time, attacking his stew with gusto. Bite after bite, he savored the flavors, the warmth of the food filling him with a sense of contentment. Erwin watched with amusement, marveling at how the usually reserved captain seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. However, as the meal progressed, Levi found himself indulging more than he intended. The savory flavors and the sparkling wine were too tempting to resist. Erwin observed with amusement as Levi's usually stern expression softened with each bite.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Levi suddenly muttered between bites, blue eyes flickering upward to glare at Erwin. Erwin didn’t reply, but instead smiled sheepishly at his boyfriend.
Sooner or later, with their plates empty and their bellies pleasantly full, Levi leaned back with a satisfied sigh followed by a grunt. Erwin couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of his usually composed boyfriend looking slightly dazed from the wine and culinary onslaught. Levi's usually flat stomach had expanded into a not-so-subtle, noticeable roundness. Buttons from his uniform straining against the overtaxed organ. Crumbs serve as a testament to the delicious meal they had tonight. Erwin couldn't resist a smirk. "Looks like someone overindulged."
Levi shot him a glare, but it lacked its usual intensity. "Shut up, Smith. It's not like you didn't eat like a pig yourself… *Hic!*”
“Hmph,” the blonde grinned. "Come on, Levi. Sit down on the couch for a moment. I'll take care of that stuffed belly of yours."
Levi eyed him suspiciously, as the comment caught him off-guard, but he complied. Erwin chuckled before the two of them stood, and he guided Levi to the couch. As Levi stretched out on the sofa with a groan, Erwin approached, a mischievous glint in his eye. Levi returned Erwin’s look with a look of his own, nearly shooting daggers into the blonde. Before Erwin could even sit down, Levi let out an unexpectedly loud burp, surprising even himself. "Ugh, this is your fault - *Hlp!*" he accused through gritted teeth as he scowled, cheeks flushed.
Erwin smirked, sitting down next to Levi. "Well, if you're going to blame me, I might as well take care of you." Without warning, after unbuttoning the buttons of Levi’s uniform in order to free the groaning organ, he gently rubbed Levi's overfilled stomach in slow, soothing circles.
"What the hell are you doing?" Levi grumbled as his hand still feathered his now-protruding belly. The thick air against it was cold, but the warmth of Erwin's touch was… surprisingly comforting.
"Just helping you. Is that too much to ask?" Erwin teased with a wink, rubbing Levi’s bloated stomach a bit more vigorously.
Levi winced, feeling another burp rising. "Ugh, this is ridiculous," he muttered, his hand now over his mouth.
Erwin laughed, continuing the belly rub. His eyes flickered downward to study Levi’s tummy: round, bloated with gentle stretch marks and redness around the center. Each small movement the shorter male made was enough to make his belly wobble, earning a groan of unhappiness. "Seems like the surplus amount of food alcohol isn't agreeing with you, hm?"
Levi shot Erwin a glare but couldn't hold back the next burp. It escaped loudly, surprising both of them. "Damn it, Smith!"
Erwin's smirk widened, finding amusement in Levi's uncharacteristic vulnerability. "You know, you're kind of cute like this."
Levi continued to wince, feeling another bubble of discomfort in his stomach. Though his cheeks felt significantly hotter, becoming more flushed. "Ugh, damn it," he muttered, his hand pressed against his bloated belly. He could feel the contents shift underneath, sending a groan up his throat. Erwin continued his belly rub, applying a bit more pressure once again. "Maybe next time, you'll think twice before ordering so much food.”
All Levi could do was let out another burp, this one a bit softer than the previous ones. "I hate you," he grumbled, though the corners of his mouth twitched.
Erwin chuckled, undeterred. "I love you too, Levi." He paused, feeling Levi's tension gradually ease. "Is that a little better?"
Levi sighed, nodding slightly. "Yeah, whatever. *Bwwurrp!* J-Just don't expect this to happen again - *Hic!*"
Erwin grinned, leaning in for a quick kiss. "I won't. Now, let's get you to bed.”
#l.evi ackerman#e.rwin smith#e.ruri#hiccups#burps#fic#a.ot#a.ttack on titan#belly kink#bloated burps#bloating#if there's any attack on titan fans let me know what tags to use...#where are my levi ackerman lovers#stuffed ronpa#stuffedronpa#levi ackerman#erwin smith#erwin x levi#aot eruri
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Concept for your consideration:
being fed your favorite soup till you're nice and full, a bit more than is comfortable but not too much, just enough to feel a little sluggish and tight, the soup warming your cute rounded tummy from the inside out,,
then being fucked such that every thrust and bounce sloshes your full soupy tummy, tumbling the contents around inside, broth swirling and splashing at the walls of your stomach, veggies/etc being tossed every which way against your insides, everything broiling and bubbling in your poor bloated belly
all of the sloshing stewing up some gurgles and groans from both your belly and from you,,, so full,,,, partner digging their fingertips into the flesh of your full tummy to feel every swish of broth and splash of veggies/etc and attempted burble of digestion
maybe fucking you harder or prodding their fingers in just to slosh your belly more violently so they can feel and hear better,,, maybe you rock your hips and buck your waist extra just to make your belly slosh and gurgle more just for them because you know how much they love to feel and hear the activity in that belly ;; it all feels so good inside,,,
maybe they even grind on your full boiling belly a lil, just to feel all that bubbling and sloshing where it really feels good,,,
your soupy belly being bloated out even more than when you started by the time you finish from all that jostling, partner lovingly caressing and kissing the tight parts lower down, praising your belly for eating so good and being so noisy and sexy for them ;;
massaging with their thumbs to help your poor tight belly handle all the broth and veggies/etc and air bubbles, loosening more gurgles and grumbles and whimpers and purrs from your insides along the way,,, and some moans from your throat ;;
[ or a person undergoing this for you if you don't care for bottoming ;; ]
WOW HELLO THIS IS ABSOLUTELY AMAZING UMMMM🥴😫
i wanna know who wrote this LEMME TALK TO YOU
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Eivor has really started grow on me (honestly that boy is 🥵 - could I ask for a Eivor/reader where the reader misinterprets a moment between Eivor and Randvi and gets upset, thank you 😊
here you go! sorry it took so long. I'm finally getting caught up on everything. hope you like it! as always, @mrsragnarlodbrok helped develop the plot.
m!Eivor x fem!Reader
“DO YOU EVER miss Norway?” Ceolbert asks, untangling his fishing line. The young ætheling has been in Ravensthorpe for no less than a full moon’s cycle. He’s good company —eager to help and learn under your and Randvi’s tutelage. The River Nene burbles past the growing settlement, flowing out to the sea. A fish takes the bait, a piece of three-day-old bread, and you start hauling in the line. A small perch is on the hook, too small to worry with. You free the fish and let it back into the river, searching for a larger catch to add to the evening’s pot of stew.
“At times,” you answer —knowing you miss the snowcapped peaks, the winter lights dancing in the sky, and the pink-purple sunrises most of all. England is not so poor a substitute, with green rolling hills, pale sea cliffs, and the lonely ruins of a once-great civilization. “But all my friends and those who I love is here now” —you smile— “what more could I ask for than to be among them?” And for you, home will always be where they are, regardless of where in the world you may lay your head to sleep. Though, of late, Ravensthorpe has felt a little less like home with Sigurd and Eivor gone so often.
Ceolbert echoes your smile. He’s heard stories from Eivor and his brother about you, and now that he’s grown to know you, he realizes none of them held any embellishments. Despite only being a handful of years older than him, there is already a dignified shrewdness surrounding you, especially when compared to his compatriots. You’ve already taught him a great deal, and he’s eager to learn more. “Eivor often spoke of your wisdom,” he notes.
“So,” you muse, “he does listen.” The young ætheling laughs and starts pulling in a decent size brown trout to add to the basket. You often cursed Eivor for his stubbornness and how it seems he often disregards your counsel in favor of the more reckless options, but it does soothe your heart to know he remembers your words —even if he does not listen. There’s a tug on your line, and you begin to pull in the catch, a bullhead just the right size to join the evening pot.
A familiar squawk draws your attention to the sky —a raven circles above before diving down, eager to make off with a small fish or two from the basket. But you know the raven and his oil-slick colored feathers, and instead of making off with one of your daily catches, he settles on your shoulder and begins to preen his belly. “Hello, Sýnin,” you greet, offering one of the bait worms as a snack. Casting your line out into the river again, you wait for another fish to bite; knowing where Sýnin goes, Eivor will not be far behind. But until then, it feels like time has slowed.
You spot the sails emblazoned with the Raven Clan’s sigil coming around one of the river's bends, and Ceolbert notices how you seem to light up —and your smile when you first spot Eivor Wolfsmal standing at the prowl. The ætheling takes your fishing line and the basket holding the day’s catch and starts back toward the heart of the settlement as you make your way to the docks.
“Eivor!” He steps from the longship, not sparing a moment before engulfing you in his arms. You press your face into his scarred neck and breathe a long sigh —now Ravensthorpe feels like home again. Eivor’s lips brush against your temple before he parts, keeping you close at his side as the others unburden the longship with goods and supplies. “How did you get on in East Anglia?” This journey was not planned, but one made in haste after Rued’s Clan attacked in the night, an offense he could not let stand.
He drapes his arm over your shoulders. “The Raven Clan has new friends,” Eivor tells you. Oswald is an unlikely ally for sure, but one who will answer the call should it ever sound.
“That is good to hear” —you smile. “We must celebrate,” you tell him, knowing the people would want to hear of his tales, just as they had when he returned from treating with the Sons of Ragnar. The thought of readying a feast sets your mind racing with a long list of chores.
Eivor shakes his head and steps in front of you. He settles his hands on your cheeks, thumbs running over your cheekbones. It nigh stops your heart, and then he smiles. “Ah,” Eivor sighs, “seeing you once more is enough for me.” He steps closer and bends at the waist, pressing his lips —cracked and wind-chapped— to your forehead. And he’s home again.
RAVENSTHORPE FEASTS IN celebration. It is good to have new friends —new allies in what would be a hostile land. The evening passes with boisterous tales of battle, roast boar, and Tekla’s mead. It is good to have everyone, save Sigurd, present once more too. You sit back, leaning against one of the great wooden pillars of the longhouse, and let out a long and tired sigh, wondering how much longer it would be before you end up like Revna beside you —slumped over on the table and fast asleep.
Nigh everyone is far enough into their tankards and ale horns for the night that they will not notice Eivor’s absence. His gaze flits around the longhouse, finding you sitting at the far end with Sýnin perched on your shoulder. The raven croaks at his approach and ruffles his feathers. You look up at Eivor and smile —and his heart swells and flutters with the sight. Sýnin hops from your shoulder to Eivor’s then settles in the rafters above.
“Come with me,” he whispers at your ear, offering his hand. His fingers curl around yours when you place your hand into his, and you only hope the warmth rising to your cheeks can be blamed on the mead.
Eivor leads you to the waterfall just behind the longhouse. It’s one of your favorite spots to come in the settlement —the constant rush of the water is enough to soothe your heart and mind, and the rippling pool has served as a place you often frequent to reflect.
Tonight, a full moon turns the water silver. Eivor eases his hand from yours and reaches behind him, pulling out a small earthen vase with a piece of fabric stretched over the opening. He pulls back the fabric, and a dozen little insects take flight toward the water —lighting up with a yellow-green glow. “They’re called fireflies,” Eivor explains, extending his hand over the water’s edge. One of the sparking bugs lands in his palm, and he reaches for your hand, letting the firefly crawl from his hand to yours.
You watch the bright flashes of light —like tiny stars— and smile, yet another wonder of England. “How lovely,” you muse aloud, holding your hand out for the firefly to rejoin its brethren. They flutter around the waterfall, twinkling in the night. You sit, and Eivor sits next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours —it sets your heart aflutter, but you gather the courage and lean your head on his shoulder. Instinctively, Eivor wraps his arm around your waist, holding you close to his side. “Can I expect you to stay a while this time?” You ask, hoping he will not have to leave again so quickly.
He shifts and presses his cheek to the crown of your head. “Until Sigurd sends for me,” Eivor tells you, watching the fireflies flit around above.
IT’S ONLY TWO days after his return that you see Eivor and Randvi ride from Ravensthorpe in the early hours of the morn. Seeing him go without a word makes your heart fall. It isn’t like Eivor to go off without telling you, and given one of the late-night conversations you’d had with Randvi in Sigurd’s absence —well, you refuse to dwell on the thoughts. Ceolbert leaves the stables from helping Rowan when he sees you approach, crestfallen though you try to hide it. “Did they say where they’re going?” You ask, looking toward the east and the direction Eivor and Randvi had gone.
“Grantebridge,” Ceolbert answers, still unsure why they were going there unless Soma had sent a message —but you nor anyone else had mentioned receiving anything from the jarlskona. He looks between you and the morning sky and tries to think of something that might help cheer you up. “There’s an orchard to the north,” the ætheling supplements, hoping he can help remedy the crushing waves of despondency which have overtaken you so quickly. “Perhaps we could go?” He asks. “It’s only a short ride.”
You smile, and Ceolbert can see it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Very well,” you agree. Rowan helps saddle two horses —one speckled and one chestnut— and the two of you ride out before midday. It’s a slow and steady ride across the hills and rivers to the orchard just south of Ledecestre. A bramble of unkempt trees heavy with green-red apples too tart to eat raw but good for stewing and baking. It’s easy to fill two small sacks, just enough for Tarben to make a pie or two.
Ceolbert secures his sack of apples to his saddle and pulls himself back into the saddle as you do so, starting back to Ravensthorpe. The ætheling asks about a story from childhood that Eivor told him at the feast —he’d fallen from the roof of the longhouse in Fornburg and on his arse, right in front of you, only you’d been carrying a basket of deer offal.
The memory makes you smile and laugh, the first time you’ve genuinely done so today. You dropped the basket in surprise —it landed on Eivor, spilling guts and blood over him. It took several washes to clean the stench from his clothes and hair. Ceolbert glance at you and smiles too, and from the fondness in your voice, he thinks it’s obvious. “You love him, don’t you?”
Yes, but for some reason, you struggle to say it aloud, Regardless, Ceolbert can tell, and despite what you may think, he believes Eivor loves you too —if only you could both see it. You look ahead at the winding road, wishing to change the subject away from your feelings, away from Eivor. “They say Ivarr the Boneless was also your mentor.” You’ve heard stories of Ivarr Ragnarsson from other Northmen and Saxons alike, part of you envies Eivor and Sigurd for getting to meet the renowned Sons of Ragnar —let alone being able to call them friends. Ceolbert nods. “Will you tell me about him?” He nods and weaves a tale of his time with Ivarr, helping distract you from the woes of life.
The sun is close to setting when you and Ceolbert return to the stables of Ravensthorpe, passing off your horses to Rowan. “I’ll have Tarben make us a pie,” you tell the boy, collecting the small sacks of apples to take to the bakery. But hooves thud, fast approaching —Eivor and Randvi have returned. You do not stay to greet them, quickly slipping away.
“Ceolbert,” Eivor greets, leading his dark mount back into one of the stalls. “Where is…” his voice trails off as he turns to look for you, wondering where you’d gone.
“She was here a moment ago,” Ceolbert says, turning to look around the stables, but you’re already gone, and so is Eivor when he turns back.
EIVOR FINDS YOU sitting beneath one of the great trees near Valka’s hut —knees pulled up to your chest as your look over the ripping pool of water. He kneels in front of you and reaches out, rough fingertips brushing along your jaw to gently lift your chin and gaze. Tearstains are not the sight he wishes to see. Eivor frowns, brushing away the dampness under your eyes with his thumb. “Why are you crying?” You do not answer. “Has something happened?” He asks, unsure what could cause this bout —just last night, you and he were both laughing and drinking without care.
“I am not sure,” you admit. It's heartbreak and a tinge of betrayal. With his return, you had thought, had hoped, but it seems it’s only foolish and childish wishes. You meet his gaze, clear and blue like the sky, and feel a lump grow in your throat. Sýnin croaks from the branches above —the raven has refused to let you be alone since he first perched on your knee and dropped a smooth river pebble in your lap after finding you so distraught. The raven croaks again, and Eivor’s eyes flit up to see a pair of beady dark eyes staring down at him. Sýnin takes your side in whatever quarrel this may be.
His frown deepens. “You can tell me anything,” Eivor breathes. You’re his best friend —have been since the two of you were children all those years ago.
But I can’t, you think, not wanting to risk a lifelong friendship over a dream. You inhale shakily and shake your head, pushing his hands away. “I need a moment, is all.” It’s a trembling whisper, and Eivor does not want to leave you in this state, but he relents, knowing nothing good will come of forced words. You always gave him time and space when asked for it; the least he can do is offer the same. He sighs and stands, hesitant to leave —a look back, and he sees Sýnin swoop down and perch on your shoulder, offering a golden oak leaf.
Eivor goes to the longhouse and grabs an empty cup, filling it from the cask of ale before taking a seat at the table across from Ceolbert —picking at a hunk of bread and slab of pickled fish. “Do you know what’s upset her?” He asks the ætheling, thinking the boy might know given the time he’s spent under your guidance.
“I” —Ceolbert looks down into his cup of ale. He didn’t think it would be difficult for Eivor to figure out. Almost all of Ravensthorpe knows. Everyone but him. Ceolbert frowns. “I do not think it is my place to say,” he tells Eivor.
It feels like Thor has brought Mjölnir down upon his chest when the realization hits him —and suddenly, everything makes sense now, or at least he thinks it does. Eivor feels his heart clench, then fall into the pit of his stomach, and all he can say is a soft, nigh inaudible: “oh.”
IT’S ONLY A short ride to the south, near the border of Grantebridgescire, but Eivor convinces you to go with him even in the dead of night. He cannot bear the thought of you being upset —let alone upset with him. You’re quiet, unusually so, but when he pulls the reigns of his horse to a stop by the edge of the mire, you gasp —albeit softly. Skirting over the still surface of the water and into the air are hundreds of fireflies, all flashing and twinkling like little stars come to settle in the darkness. He dismounts and helps you down too. “There are so many,” you breathe, smiling.
Eivor stands behind you, his hands settling on your waist, chin resting on your shoulder to watch the fireflies with you. But the closeness and how your heart begins to ache and beat quicker, it’s too much to bear after today. You shake your head and step away from him, feeling dampness prick at your eyes again. “I wish you would not play so carelessly with my heart, Eivor,” you tell him, hugging yourself.
“It’s not careless,” he whispers, gently pulling you back to him. Eivor takes your hands, his gaze drawn downward to see how perfectly your hand fits in his —as though the gods always meant for the two of you to be together. And then he looks at you, eyes shining in the moonlight, glimmering with the reflection of fireflies flitting around his head and yours.
It makes your breath catch —how he looks at you. How he’s always looked at you. “You’ve always been at my side,” he tells you. It’s the truth, even when he was a boy and at odds with Sigurd, you were there —you were always there, and he’s been a fool not to tell you sooner. “It’s only ever been you.” Eivor lets your hands go but is quick to take your face into his hands, thumbs brushing over your cheeks with gentle reverence.
“I love you.” But he gives you no time to respond or react even as one of his hands slips back into your hair and he leans forward. Eivor’s lips find your own. His kiss is everything you’ve dreamt of and more —a sweet paradox with his rough but gentle lips and the tickle of his golden beard.
He pulls away too soon but only to watch the soft smile overtake your lips. You comb your fingers through his beard and lean toward him, arms draping over his shoulders, fingers locking at the nape of his neck. You kiss him back, and he wraps his arms around your middle, keeping you close to him —where he had always kept you in his heart.
“Ek ann þér,” you breathe against his lips, and a weight lifts from your heart at finally being able to tell him. You can feel his lips twitch into a smile against your own. When you part, it’s to turn back to watch the fireflies, and now Eivor’s arms are around your middle, his nose nuzzled into your neck. You lean back into him and sigh, almost thinking this is all a dream, but Sýnin’s low croak from the trees above is enough to assure you it’s real.
[ taglist: @mrsragnarlodbrok @vanillabeanlattes @withered-poppies @ananriel @itseivwhore @maximalblaze @overratedsun @theelvenvalkyrie @xxdearlybeloved @erzsebetrosztoczy @elluvians @letsloveimagines @finick94 @wallsarecrumbling @kitkitvm @edelaen @darkravenqueen98 @callmemythicalminx @rhienn-lavellan-rutherford @certifiedlittleshit @queenyalo @thedragonqueenfan @alessyaraven ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. tumblr was giving me a lot of grief with the tags this time, apologies if I missed anyone! if you’d like to be added to my Eivor taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!
#Eivor#Eivor Wolfsmal#Eivor x Reader#m!Eivor#m!Eivor x Reader#male Eivor#male Eivor x Reader#Eivor Imagine#Eivor Fanfiction#Assassin's Creed Valhalla#Assassin's Creed#requested#shamelesspsychicpursebuscuit#lil-monitsu#my writing#remember if you liked this pleases reblog it#also can we appreciate how stunning he looks#valhalla finally gave me some decent lighting and it was a cutscene#also i call these lightning bugs bc thats just how we do in the south
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(( DWC November 2023, Day 4, Attention/Grief, CW: none; @daily-writing-challenge ))
It was a quiet night in the Dream, beneath Amirdrassil's boughs. The team had been relieved, and set up camp near the central encampment to rest up for the conflicts of the day to come. It was Ghorren's turn to cook, so the steam given off by the stewpot was filled with the scent of strong spices he'd brought from Zandalar. It was mouthwatering, and Lorellai was both anticipating and dreading the burn her mouth was soon to feel. Just on the edge of the campfire's light, Edmund snored gently, taking a pre-dinner nap, while Shansii called on the healing waters she carried to soothe his wounds. Pin was writing another letter home, and Lorellai was left just poking at the fire with a stick while Stroganoff burbled softly behind her.
"You're staring, girl." Ghorren said, breaking the silence as he stirred the pot, sprinkling in yet more spice after taking an experimental sip of the broth.
"Hm? Oh, I'm sorry Ghorren. It's just... your left hand, the far finger. It's a different color, and I've never understood why. Was it injured?"
"Oh? Yes, but not by the enemy. I lost it to grief for my Yizbei, when she fell to the blood trolls. Old zandalari tradition, when you lose a spouse or loved one, you sacrifice the finger to the loa. Then, you grieve until it grows back. Once it's regenerated, then it is the sign from the loa that you should move on. If it doesn't grow back, then your time will soon come," he answered, stirring more before banging the spoon clean on the rim, and grabbing bowl from the mess kit.
"That's really romantic. You must have loved Yizbei very much." Lorellai said, accepting a bowl of the pungent, spicy stew.
"Oh yes, we had many wonderful years together, and two beautiful daughters to show for it. I wanted to show how much it meant to me. She'd probably call me a fool for it," Ghorren replied, smiling and shaking his head. "But, she is at rest, Bwonsamdi tends to her as he does all our dead, and I have plenty of life left to live. After all, I need to see my daughters grow, and with any luck, give me grandchildren to spoil."
The pair were joined at the fire by the rest of the team, roused by the delicious smelling meal. Jokes were shared and encouragement given before everyone retired for the night. Ghorren carefully snuffed the cooking flames with soil, and took in the team as they settled into their bedrolls and fell into much needed sleep. "Lend me your fury, my love. Once I get them through this, then I'll seek love again, as you would want me to."
Prayer complete, Ghorren settled in to sleep, all of them safe beneath Amidrassil's boughs for another night.
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Whumptober Day 14: Water Inhalation
This is a standalone story in my original Mind Games universe, a modern-day sci-fi/fantasy thriller setting about ordinary humans with superhuman abilities and the people who want to use or destroy them. Full description in my Whumptober masterpost, which is linked in my pinned post.
This story contains: minor whump, reluctant whumper, near-drowning
Words: 2200
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He had hoped his turn would never come, but of course it did. The line inexorably crept forward as he watched the others flail and thrash and choke, as the floor grew wet with water the others splashed out of the trough or coughed up. And then there was no one ahead of him anymore, and he was standing in the center of the room. His partner for the exercise knelt between him and the metal trough. Better to think of her that way, as a faceless temporary partner. Better not to think of her by her designation, or remember the joke they had shyly shared last night, or the way she had given him the apple from her lunch a week ago.
She faced the trough, with its cloudy water that was filthy by now with blood and vomit. Her head was bowed. With her back to him, he couldn’t see her face. He was grateful for that.
Everyone who had already gone through the exercise was standing against the far wall, wet and shaking. They stood as spread out as they could get, keeping a wary distance between one another. Some looked away, arms wrapped around themselves. Some cried silently, wiping their eyes with furtive motions as they glanced over toward the gray-uniformed guards by the door, hoping not to be noticed. Some stared stoically straight ahead at each pair who came after them, like they had something to prove.
He looked over his shoulder. There were only a few more who hadn’t gone yet. They watched with pale faces, looking away at first, only for their eyes to keep coming back to the two of them as they stood in the center. That was where he had been a moment ago. That was what he had done. He had tried not to look, but he couldn’t help it.
Anyway, even if he hadn’t looked, he would still have heard the sounds. The splashes and burbles. The vomiting. The crying, afterward—sometimes from the one who had been held under, sometimes from the one who had held them under.
Fear radiated from the people still waiting their turn. He tightened his stomach as if the fear were his own. A thicker, more complex stew of emotions came off the ones who had already gone. Some were still caught in the grip of terror. Others radiated a low, droning despair. Still others simmered with a dark anger he didn’t fully understand.
The instructors kept telling him his empathic gifts would be useful once he was a full PERI operative. It sure didn’t feel useful now. His own nerves were enough to make him want to vomit all by themselves. Why couldn’t the scientists who had made him have given something else—anything else? Pyrokinesis. Psychic healing. One of the cool unique abilities, like the girl who could fill anything metal she touched with an electric charge. He would even have settled for being just one more telepath if it meant he didn’t have to feel all of this.
He knew it didn’t work that way, of course. The abilities they developed were a matter of chance. It didn’t mean anything about them personally if they had a defensive ability when they wanted to fight, or an offensive ability when fighting made them sick, or even an ability weaker than anyone else in their cohort. Their genetics had been carefully planned, as much as these things could be planned. They all had the Enhanced gene, of course, which was what let them develop an ability in the first place. Any embryos without the gene had been discarded. And their DNA had been handpicked from the strongest Enhanced subjects the Psi Enhancement Research Initiative had in their possession. But these things could only be controlled so far.
That had been reassuring to him at five years old, when their training had started in earnest and he had been jealous of the ones who could do big, flashy things like move objects with their minds or shoot giant balls of fire across the room. It was less reassuring to him now, at twelve, with the next phase of their training starting. If the days to come were anything like today, this phase would involve a lot less of the simple jealousies and triumphs he had grown used to absorbing from the others, and a lot more fear.
They were all forbidden to use their abilities in this room. But of course, that only applied to the ones whose powers could be controlled. The ones who could send their partner flying across the room with their mind, bringing a quick end to the exercise. Or seal off their lungs so they wouldn’t need to breathe. Or turn the water to steam before their partner could shove them under. He couldn’t do anything about his empathy, and it didn’t give him an advantage here, so the instructors didn’t care.
Dr. Okamura, the instructor for today, blew her whistle. He had already grown to loathe that sound. “Go,” she snapped, a sharp command.
A wave of sick fear flowed off his partner and into him. He clamped his lips shut to stop the bile from escaping as he gripped her head with both hands and shoved her under the water.
Her fear changed to something sharper and stronger and more basic. It was no longer the terror of anticipation. It was an animal struggle for survival.
She flailed against him, bucking her head hard against his hands. A year ago, he wouldn’t have been able to hold her under. But the instructors had picked him out for extra strength training, and now he was as strong as just about any of the rest of them.
Maybe this was why they had done that. So that he could do this when the time came.
He understood the point of the exercise. The instructors had explained it thoroughly. It was to train them to survive attempts on their life, to fight when necessary, to kill when necessary. And it was to train them to endure pain and fear. As PERI operatives, they would have to do all of that.
But he couldn’t think about that distant future. Right now, all he wanted was to get through training. To get through this day. To get through the next few seconds.
His partner’s struggles weakened. Dr. Okamura hadn’t blown the whistle again yet, but he must have held her under long enough. Maybe Dr. Okamura had blown the whistle, and he just hadn’t heard it, distracted by the flailing and the choking and the splashing and the fear.
Yes, she had blown the whistle. She must have.
He let go.
Water surged out of the trough as his partner’s head broke the surface. The filthy liquid soaked his shoes. She choked, and gagged, and expelled a stream of water onto the floor. Her face was streaked with snot and tears.
Dr. Okamura fixed him with a glare. “The instructions are to hold your partner under the water until I blow the whistle.”
“I thought you did,” he said, but his voice was weak, because now he wasn’t sure of that at all.
“She could have stayed under longer,” said Dr. Okamura. “Isn’t that right?” The question wasn’t directed at him.
His partner let out a few more bubbling coughs, then answered with a shaky nod.
“Do it again,” Dr. Okamura ordered. Again, the piercing alarm of the whistle sliced through the air.
His partner looked up at him, eyes pleading. Why had she done that? What did she expect him to do—say no? That would get them both a yellow mark on their file, if they were lucky. A red mark if they weren’t. Too many yellow marks meant extra training. Too many red marks meant recycling.
He tangled his fingers in her slimy wet hair and shoved her under again.
Worse than her thrashing, worse than the distorted burbling and choking sounds she made, were the emotions radiating off her. The terror locked his arms in place until he wasn’t sure he would be able to release her even after the whistle blew. It made his stomach churn until he thought he might vomit before she did. Maybe before he let her up. Maybe all over the back of her neck.
And underneath the terror was the beginning of something else. Something sharp. Anger at him? But this wasn’t his fault. At Dr. Okamura? But there was no sense hating the instructors. It wouldn’t make a difference. And anyway, the instructors were only teaching them everything they would need to know for when they were full operatives.
If being a full operative was anything like this, he wasn’t anywhere near ready. The thought made him want to throw up, even more than the terror filling the room did. He needed a lot more training before he would be ready for that.
He needed this.
The whistle blew. His hands released. His body went boneless as he took a step back.
When his partner was done coughing up water, she stood slowly. Her hands hung at her side, shaking. When she turned to face him, her eyes were expressionless. Her mouth was a flat line.
“I’m sorry,” he said under his breath.
A spike of anger shot off her, directly into his squishy center. She said nothing as she turned away.
“Apologies are not appropriate,” Dr. Okamura admonished, fixing him with a reproachful stare. “Thank your partner instead, if you must speak. You’re helping each other with an important phase of your training.”
She didn’t thank him. He hadn’t thought she would.
“Well done,” said Dr. Okamura. “Next time, I expect you to wait for the whistle on the first attempt. If I have to correct you on this again, it will mean a yellow mark on your file.”
He nodded wordlessly.
“Now switch positions,” Dr. Okamura said.
He knelt in front of the trough. Sticky, slimy water soaked into the knees of his pants. A sharp, foul smell rose from the trough.
The whistle blew. Her fingers grasped his hair hard enough that he thought she might yank it from his scalp. Instead, she shoved him under in a sharp and vicious motion, almost too fast for him to draw in one last deep breath.
He tried not to fight. There was no sense in it—he knew he’d be under until the whistle blew. But his body took over, and he thrashed uselessly against her grip.
Her grip was unyielding as she held him under. Stronger than he had expected. Her touch had always been gentle before. But she had probably gotten the same extra strength training as him. Maybe she hadn’t expected him to be so strong, either.
She kept on holding him under. His lungs burned. He shook his head, trying to signal that he’d had enough, that he couldn’t it do anymore, that she had to let him up. Her grip didn’t falter.
Even though he understood, it still felt like a betrayal.
Dull horror radiated from her as she shoved his head deeper down. But under that, her spiky anger grew and seethed. And out of that angry sea came a sharp pop of something worse than his own panic, worse than the burning in his lungs, worse than his body’s growing conviction that he was going to die here.
Pleasure.
Some part of her was enjoying getting her revenge on him.
He knew why they had to do this. So did she. Even so, he doubted she would ever offer him her apple again again. And if she did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to take it. Not after remembering that sharp pop of dark pleasure.
As his body thought, a small, disconnected part of his mind wondered—Was that the point?
Most of the instructors didn’t have Enhanced abilities. But everyone in his cohort did, and their powers grew stronger by the year. What if they decided they didn’t want to train anymore? Before long, they might be too strong for the instructors to control. If they worked together.
If they knew they could trust each other.
But how could he trust anyone who had done this to him? No matter how much he understood the necessity of the exercise, his body insisted, deep in his bones, that the hands holding down belonged to the enemy.
The instructors wanted them to be enemies. The instructors needed them to be enemies.
The realization popped to life in his mind all at once, like the harsh dorm light flicking on in the morning, like the sharp burst of pleasure he had felt from his partner.
And then the distorted sound of the whistle reached him. The hands holding him down released. His thoughts evaporated in a burst of sheer relief that he was alive.
He looked up at his partner’s expressionless face. And for a second, he hated her.
---
Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @gala1981
Ask to be added or removed from my Whumptober 2023 taglist.
#whumptober2023#no.14#water inhalation#minor whump#oc#fic#near-drowning#reluctant whumper#my writing#my writing: whumptober 2023#my writing: Mind Games
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(Howdy, sug'! Just a passin' thought fer yer perusal)
A certain tall, maternally-physiqued pred ye know makin' a run tae town. Ye've accompanied her here more than once, 's none too far from her place, 'n she's even introduced ye tae some o' the friendly folk 'round ('n occasionally teased ye in front o' 'em, such as "casually" mentionin' "how right pretty" ye are in passin', 'r makin' comments 'bout grabbin' somethin' real sweet tae eat~ later, etc. . .), all in all a relatively normal errand in a relatively normal place.
Though, this time, the only "major" difference, iffin' ye reckon ye can call it that, 's how she's a bit. . . bloated. Plump as she usually is, there ain't much missin' the more prominant curve o' her front, 'specially given the way her clothes, likely a pair o' overalls, a buttoned flannel with the sleeves rolled up, 'r just an ol' teeshirt, 'r strainin' gently o'er the swell.
(Not tae mention her habit o' restin' a hand on her stomach, 'r strokin' it, cradlin' it, 'r even pressin' her hands tae her back fer support, unconciously pushin' her paunch out forwards while she stands. . .)
Throughout her trip, she stops 'n chats with folk, as is her way, bein' born with the gifts o' gluttony 'n gab, gently tendin' to her stomach, 'n the low GLURPS 'n BURBLES it faintly emits. . .
'n as the errand stretches on, 's clear: someonethin's makin' this sweet southern woman Gassy~
Her belly murmurs lower, deeper, periodically shudderin' 'r gggllo0O0o0O0aARrᵣrʳr churnin', wobblin' a wee urp oh pardon bit.
Sometimes the burps slip out like that.
Other times theuuUUuUUUuUuUurrpty're a wee burpit more intrusive.
Pl-hroOOUUURrRrpt-whew, 'scuse me!-plenty're full on chest-thumpin' 'r gut-slappin' belches, each oO0O0one deeper and wetter than the l-uUuUUUAAAaarp-ast~
As evenin' huOOorp ᵇᵉᵍ ᵖᵃʳᵈᵒⁿ nears, her errands wrap up, 'n at last, she makes her way home, carryin' whate'er she needs carried, arms still 'round her sloppin', sloshin' gut.
"ᴹʸ ᵐʸ ᵒʰ ᵐʸ, ˢʷᵉᵉ-uORrp-ᵗᶦᵉ, ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ᵐᵃᵏᶦⁿ' ᵃ ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵐᵉˢˢ ᵒ' ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵇᶦᵍ, ᶠᵃᵗ ᵍᵘᵗ ᵒ' ᵐᶦⁿᵉ, ʰᵘʰ? ᴳᶦᵛᶦⁿ' ᴹᵒᵐᵐʸ ᵍᵃˢ? ᴴᵐⁿ?"
She chuckles softly under her breath, a sound meant only for herself, and perhaps anyone within that self, fingers gingerly drummin' 'cross her paunch.
She'd snicker softly to herself, givin' her flabby front a tender, possessive squeeze,
"ʰᵉʰᵉʰᵉʰʰ~. . . ᴳᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵈ ᴳᶦʳʳʳʳˡ~. . ."
Ohhh yes…. Mmm I’d love to spend an entire day from morning to evening stewing in her huge gut. I hope by the time she has a moment alone with me that I really have been a good girl… and an even better meal~
So small that I don’t even make any visible imprints on her form, but juuust the right size to give her fierce indigestion and a bunch of powerful burps. I love making my preds belch as I squirm inside them.
The idea that her gut would get more noisy and gassy throughout the day is really hot as well~ either I’m getting gurgled up good in there or her stomach is whining in frustration as it tries and fails to digest me. Either way, I’m having a lot of fun in there wiggling and gyrating my hips to the churning of her belly 🤤
I love making a mess of myself inside of my pred~
#v.ore#v0re#soft vore#vore talk#asks#vore asks#open ended vore#such a good scenario <3#even before posting this I’d read it over a bunch of times
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@scumbag-the-hedgehog Liked for a Starter!
...What, was this some sort of cosmic joke? Since when did the shattered reflection have a mirror image?
The tenrec's default was a burbling stew of rage and violence, but those trace cases of confusion were the first to flitter over the face. Eyes pinch, their glance is askew with the natural chaos of bewilderment. Who was this guy? And why did he look so much like her? If she had some shoddy dumpster-diving older brother, it was certainly news to the doppelganger.
Though, it didn't take long for that aforementioned default of hers to kick in. It's the crunching of teeth, pointed teeth flashing as a lip caught itself in a sneer.
"I know what they say about imitation bein' the sincerest form'a flattery, but c'mon. This is kinda ridiculous, isn't it? I've been makin' a name for myself, sure, but I didn't think fan clubs would be the thing poppin' up. I thought my reward for beatin' on that blue rat's bundle'a tag-alongs would be more of a..."
—Hm. The words are lost while her thoughts take a moment to catch up. Her head tilts, thumb and middle finger connect to snap in the meantime.
Jolts of high voltage jump and shutter in sparks with each quick motion. "...A head hunt for me? A real battle royale situation, I guess. Guess those schmucks in their ivory towers don't care when one'a their friends get beat to an inch'a their life."
#(SURGE || IC.)#scumbag-the-hedgehog#((puts my hand on your shoulder))#((okay but if we could actually somehow salvage this and have these two be some semblance of brother and sister?))#((that would be so dope))#((just two really shitty siblings that are here to be everyone's problem))#((surge doesnt really. form bonds like that... so. scratches the side of my head))#((and there's just a lot of. Instinctual Animosity to get past so im really not sure if that can realistically happen SDFTGRFD))#((BUT THAT'S WHAT'S IN MY HEAD. they look like they could be related dammit and i just think that's Cute))
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Okay, so, imagine that there's a wizard spell called "Stunt Double", which summons a copy of you but from the Swole Dimension (you know, the dimension where everyone is incredibly muscular and built) for a time. You could postulate that there's an even higher dimension, that contains both this dimension and the swole dimension as two "points" on a continual scale of muscle mass. You could therefore view this as a percentile scale of swoleness of realities, representing all real numbers (rational and irrational).
So my question is, because of the process of representing transcendental states of swoleness (a root of a non-zero polynomial in one variable with integer coefficients) such as the π%-swoleness and e%-swoleness dimensions, would this extend to the complex swoleness plane? Hyper complex swoleness, p-adic swoleness, a library of dimensional swolgebra over a field, continually deeper abstracts of representations of algebraic structures of musculitude and identity and the snarling maw of information and narrative, a deep shred², torn and reformed myofibrils of complex systems of meaning and perception, withering into an infinite static blindness and unending chaos and a burbling meaty quantum infinity, a stew much like hell's sauna of the Elysium field.
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RP-Starter “That doesn’t sound good...want me to rub your tummy?”
Inspired by the line above...
"Mmmph...ouch...ugh..." I pat my stomach a few times, dislodging a pitifully small puff of air that brings little-to-no relief. My stomach is stewing, livid at the twice-reheated leftovers I polished off after an exhausting shift. A sickly burble rises, clearly audible in the silence of the bedroom.
Unnngh...shut up! It was either finish the packed lunch or go hungry--you'd be just as angry if I threw out the remainder of the (once) food and got into bed without eating anything. Lousy, useless stomach. I worked all day and I ate something--now do your damned job and digest it!
I curl my hand into a fist and slam it down on my misbehaving belly. The impact causes a sharp cramp in my angry guts and I curl around the new pain, still mentally cussing out my distressed innards for not fulfilling their function. My stomach continues to burble and whine as I squeeze the hybrid of hunger and indigestion. The leftovers from my lunch were barely enough for four mouthfuls of food--clearly not enough to fill a hungry tummy after more than seven hours without eating anything (lunch break happened early on in my shift because the only employee that could cover breaks demanded to be off by 1PM).
Something sour rises up my esophagus and I frantically swallow it back down. I'm exhausted--too tired to get up and locate a proper receptacle for vomit. There's no way I'm going to let myself spew on my sheets. Nope. Throwing up here means I'll have to strip the soiled sheets and wash them...even if I don't bother with re-making the bed, the act of stripping and washing the sheets sounds far too daunting for someone that's too exhausted to sit up and dive for the wastebasket that's somewhere in the room. My stomach lets out an indignant burble, unhappy at the sick that was returned to it. Hunger rumbles ominously, quickly interrupted by another indignant sound of indigestion.
Fuck off! Hungry or upset? You can't be both. I punctuate this thought with yet another fist to my gut. The resulting sickly snarl goes ignored as I'm too exhausted to bother reacting anymore. I continue to swallow, to try and get the sour feeling out of the back of my throat.
"Whoa! That didn't sound good." I peek at the door to my bedroom, arm covering my eyes. You're leaning casually against the doorframe, having been lured to my room by the sound of a distressed tummy. "Want me to rub your tummy?"
"I--" I'm cut off by a loud, liquidy rumble that booms out of my gut. I curl up, swallowing desperately and considering the benefits of stripping a pillowcase to act as a makeshift receptacle. "Ooh...o-oh..." I can't help but moan even as I swallow compulsively. It hurts. My entire digestive tract seems to be rebelling, trying to purge the nasty mess I swallowed...only...no part of my guts appears to be in agreement about what direction to purge the mess from. My intestines are intent on sending the mess upward while my stomach pushes right back, refusing to accept what it had so gleefully passed onto the intestines. The lower part of my esophagus seems to desperately want stuff to exit the way it went in, but my throat and my head are equally desperate to keep the gorge down.
"Aww...poor tummy. So upset..." You've wandered into the room and the turbulance from you sitting down on the edge of the bed is not doing my stomach any favors. It lets out a low snarling noise, like a dog grumbling as it gears up to bite at something annoying.
You slide a hand over my noisy belly, setting off more upset noises and cramps.
"MmPH--" I swallow against a burp that fights hard to get out. The two forces cancel out, leaving me very uncomfortable and adding to the ire brewing within me. With every movement of your palm, you draw an unwitting moan or other sound out of my lips. We manage to work up a few burps that are thankfully just burps, but they are pitiful and cautious because of the many times something hot and sour was forced up with the air.
It's going to be a long night. A long, uncomfortable night to see which wins the war in my belly: hunger or indigestion? All I know is that a war is raging and the state of my tummy is in the balance--what say you to giving it a little push? Which side are you going to root for?
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Writing WIP Wednesday (12/13)
Finally, a moment to pick out some words to share. Art WIPs are easy enough to share from my phone, but I have to be on my laptop to share writing.
Slowly picking at Best-Laid Plans. Here's a little 640-word snippet where Miranja officially meets Athis.
I was tagged by the esteemed @gwilin-stay-winnin. I hereby tag the rest of my wonderful friends: @dirty-bosmer @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @thana-topsy @thechaosdragoness @thequeenofthewinter
It was an unseasonably fair day, and women were hanging out their washing or chatting with friends while shopping for ingredients for their suppers. The men she saw were working on repairs to their houses, or mending or polishing armor and weapons. In the circle around the Gildergreen, old men played checkers and talked politics and farming while women sat on benches sewing or knitting and chatting about family and preparations for the next holiday. A group of children sat listening attentively to Sonja Harvest-Bringer giving an outdoor history lesson outside the Temple of Kynareth. The stream burbled and the air was filled with a mélange of scents: fresh water, mountain flowers, the Grey-Manes’ cow yard, and a hint of hot metal from the Skyforge. Heimskr’s impassioned preaching scattered its distinct seasoning throughout the whole comforting stew. Over to the east, the clashing of swords and shields was faintly audible as the Companions practiced their combat skills in the courtyard behind Jorrvaskr.
Hoping that the sexy Dunmer would be in the practice yard and wearing the same skin-baring hide armor she’d seen him in before, Miranja detoured toward Jorrvaskr. Sure enough, he was among the warriors swinging swords at the practice dummies, and Miranja leaned against one of the canopy supports and admired his shining, sweaty, lithe body and flaming hair as he went through his maneuvers. As he performed a spin attack, he caught her watching, and she smiled at him, her eyes smoldering with lust. He scowled in response, but when he turned back to his routine, Miranja noticed that he was exaggerating his movements and making them showier for her benefit. She took a seat in the nearest chair and continued to watch until he’d worn himself out.
The Dunmer started toward the canopy, fruitlessly wiping his sweaty brow on the back of his sweaty arm, and Miranja sat up straighter, eyes glowing hopefully. He came right to the table where she sat, pointedly ignoring her and going straight for the pitcher of water and an empty tankard.
“You looked really good out there,” Miranja commented as he poured. “I bet you’re a real whirlwind in actual battle.”
The Dunmer declined to respond until he’d gulped down the entire tankard and wiped his mouth. “I’m small and quick, and so are my weapons.”
“I’m Miranja. I’m very pleased to finally meet you properly, Small and Quick.” She smirked and winked at him, and he made a sour face but his eyes twinkled as he looked sidewise at her.
“Name’s Athis,” he said warily, reaching out and taking her extended hand briefly. “You here just to watch, or are you actually here to join?” He turned away to grab a bottle of mead from another table, then turned back to her as he uncorked it and began swigging the sweet liquor straight from the bottle.
“I’ve been considering it. Why did you join the Companions?”
“Fortune and glory, friend. Fortune and glory.”
“I suppose those are as good reasons as any,” Miranja nodded, eyeing his mead and realizing that her stomach was growling. It was past lunchtime and she still hadn’t been back to the keep.
“Everyone has their reasons, but they all boil down to the same thing. We get paid, and we earn a good reputation. I suppose some of us do it because they’re genuine do-gooders, but doing good is incidental to me. I suppose it’s nice to have the appreciation of an attractive lady once in a while.”
“To be honest, I appreciate just watching you work up a sweat,” Miranja told him, and was gratified to see him look at her with more interest. At the same time, she felt that someone else was looking at her, too, and realized she no longer heard weapons clashing. She and Athis both turned toward the now-silent yard, and the other Companions unfroze and began busying themselves with inspecting their weapons, straightening up the dummies, any little task to occupy themselves and - belatedly - keep from appearing to eavesdrop.
#tanithia writes#ao3#fanfic#skyrim#tesblr#elder scrolls#miranja#dunmer#athis#slutty dragonborn#whiterun
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Prompt #20: Hamper - Arrosez
Writing Music: Everybody Sins - Andrew WK
It was the dark of the moon in the depths of winter, the days short and bright with the nights long and frozen. The forest slumbered in this season, the only green seen from holly vines tangled in the bare limbs of the oak tree and the occasional pine scattered among the different trees of the Shroud. It was a time to rest and heal, take the time to tell stories, indulge in hobbies that one didn’t have the means to do in the busier seasons of spring, summer, and fall. The land would tend to itself now, for most at least.
For those dedicated to Memphina, this phase of the moon within the darkest of the months was a time to remember and in this Rose was no exception. The tribe was more malms away than they could count, separated by mountains and oceans and an iron cage. Sometimes, the cage could be slipped out of, their soul feeling the pull of home and tradition even in this ceruleum soaked hellscape.
A flicker of aether, carefully drawn from the bluejay that acted as unseen companion and lifeline, traveled throughout the compound of the Alaudae. Those that were already sleeping sunk deeper into it and those that weren’t found themselves pushed into a light slumber despite whatever task they were doing. It wouldn’t last long, but long enough for what they needed.
The doors of this cage were never locked, the collars around the necks of the Alaudae more than enough to keep the prisoners of war in line as Rose has found out time and time again. Escape was so close in this moment, but not close enough, not while that wretched device was locked around their neck and hampered their every effort to leave.
Instead, the call of impossible freedom was ignored as they walked through the ghostly silent halls and out into the frost coated gloom. They couldn’t see the moon, no one could when Menphina hid herself from the Star. But, they could still feel it, knew where it traveled unseen along the sea of stars. Their feet took them past the gates where guards slumped against the posts in forced slumber.
A clump of trees nearby called to the elezen, though they kept to the road to mask their passage. Only turning towards the trees once they were close enough that the footsteps wouldn’t be easily seen. Once within the shelter of the needled covered boughs Rose exhaled before looking up to the star speckled sky and let theirself think of things that only brought grief and pain in this place.
The warmth of a fire crackling, tucked in beside the stone hearth deep in the ground with a good book and a warm drink. The laughter of lovers nearby as Moni cooked and Ren got in the way to snitch bites of food as he could. The scent of spices and stew, savory and sweet, from the magic that Moni could manage in the kitchen. She always was the better cook. Meals shared along with kisses and cuddles and so many things they took for granted. Yet under it all? The Star and the road called, the bedrock singing a sweet tune of exploration with notes of cacophony, imbalances that needed correcting.
Tears rolled down the half mask Rose wore to keep their face protected from the biting cold, freezing before they could drop down onto the snow. The sorrow and longing sapped the strength from their limbs and a need to scream about the unfairness of it all burbled uselessly in their chest. They couldn’t, not here, never here. The spell was far too tenuous with the limited aether they could work with here. If they were caught? It would mean more pain, a step closer to death that they still fought against. It would be a step further from the memories they held close like a thread worn blanket that was cherished well past it’s usefulness.
It was too long and not long enough before they turned and left the copse of trees, retracing their steps back to their cell within the compound. If the guards at the gate were a bit too still? Well that was on them for falling asleep in the bitter cold. Asleep in their room Rose had nothing to do with it and no care for any lives lost in the dark of Menphina’s smile.
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