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#apex lemons
shaggygeck · 1 year
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Real Fusehound hours right here~
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Blowing Off Steam
For my beloved @hunterofthegods as a very late Valentine’s Day gift but now an anniversary gift!
Summary: Rune pushed Hound's buttons too hard in the arena and pissed them off. Rune is desperate to show how sorry they are, going to beg to their spouse for forgiveness. But Hound has a better idea for how Rune can show and prove how sorry they are.Or! In which Hound ties Rune up and edges them for their own amusement to use them like a toy; Only for Rune to get out of their bonds and show Hound just how sorry they truly are by ruining them again and again and again.
Reblogs > Likes! If you hit like/heart, plz reblog to support future content and make your local writer boogie! Tags and comments shall be smooched furiously and read with great joy!
Ao3 Link: Here
Fandom: Apex Legends
Relationship: Bloodhound x Bloodhound / Rune x Hound / Puppy Love
Warnings: R18+/NSFT, Bloodhound headcanons, Piercings, Bondage, and more! Check the AO3 link for full list of tags jic!
Words: 6k
___________
The Bloodhounds’ love was as strong as the day they fell in love. 
Patience. Kindness. Understanding. Aaaaand a smidge of bullying was the delicious cocktail that was put into their romance. Ever since they were children, introduced by their parents who were both pairs of scientists. Working on the same project and wanting their children to interact. 
It hadn’t been love at first sight, no, but it had been close. 
Their love was slow and steady; But inevitable. Like a growing red-hot fire that was biding its time to cause a perfectly timed forest fire. No matter how wild it looked on the outside, it would always be something that was inevitable and beautiful. 
And yet, no matter how strong this romance. How much they loved each other so dearly- how ineffable and how unshakable. In the arena, all bets were off. Dying to sink their blades or teeth into their respective spouse to be a beautiful sacrifice to Odin. To appease the Allfather with their lover’s blood, sweat, and tears mixed with the beautiful scent of gun powder and smoke. 
Still. All lovers had their quarrels. Where that red hot love was turned into beautiful tempestuous rage.
~Rest under the cut~
Hound was the more level-headed of the two. They looked to analyze and figure out scenarios or people. They were not emotionally lead. As a leader- a Jarl of their village, and a lover to their spouse who was emotionally lead- this was a good trait. It led to fewer arguments, fewer quarrels, and fewer disagreements. More open, honest communication. 
But sometimes... 
Sometimes Rune knew just how to particularly push their buttons. 
Rune was the cheekier of the two. Pressing Hound’s buttons was their specialty; Kept the marriage ‘spicy’ they would say. It was minor irritants, nothing pressing. Sometimes they would flirt with somebody Hound knew wouldn’t be a good fit. Sometimes Rune would simply dote Hound with PDA in front of the other legends despite their abhorrence of it. Or sometimes Rune would say something a little too cheeky in front of the cameras in the arena when taking Hound down. 
Whatever it was, it struck buttons, but only to get a rise out of them on purpose. Some sort of end game to Rune’s teasing and poking. 
And today? Today Rune had pushed them a little too hard. 
Anger and rage were hard for Hound to express. Rune always encouraged them to express their feelings. Lovingly and sweetly reminding them that they were a person first and a leader second. That they could take the time to feel the dread, the rage, and the sadness that was within them. 
Today. Today Hound feels like expressing some form of it. 
Rune had pressed too hard in the arena. They were on opposite squads. It had come down to just them, their respective teammates downed. It left the two hellhounds to face off in what spectators were delighted to find would be a bloody battle. 
It was honorable. Rune had their hatchet drawn, whilst Hound had their hunting dagger at the ready. Passionate hand to hand combat. 
Intimacy without a bed to contain them. 
They both had been bloody, circling each other, carefully sizing one another up. Words were spat, taunting and loving words. Where Hound had crooned, “You have fought honorably, my love. However, we both surely know the victor of this battle. Spare yourself the humiliation now.” 
And Rune had crooned back, their voice mimicking Hound’s to a T in the arena, “Of course, beloved- except it is I that shall have you beneath me. As the gods shall will it.” 
It was classic to hear the two Bloodhounds bicker. A fan favorite from their respective sponsors. Not to mention the blood and gore the two would leave in their path. Bickering was an agreed thing when the cameras and audio could pick them both up. Filthy words limited to just when they could turn the comms off and spit quiet bets at each other. 
But it was Rune this time who breaks that agreement. When they croon something about having Hound beneath them in other ways. Of what they would do to that sweet cunt when Rune had bested them. 
It was a dirty trick. A strike of embarrassment coursing through Hound like a raw ocean wave down their lungs. It makes them falter, the perfect time for Rune to strike them down with a pound and a swift slam of their hatchet into Hound’s throat. 
It was a dirty trick and they both knew it. Especially in front of cameras. Drones that could hear them. Not that the live broadcast would broadcast such a thing, quickly muffling the audio. But it meant the other legends watching the raw broadcast would have heard. Would have seen-- 
Hound steels their jaw when they wake in the medic wing. On a mission to find their spouse after a much needed shower. 
-- 
Hound doesn’t have to look long, as they shared the same quarters within the compound. But it is Rune who is seeking them out first. Normally they would take great joy in the spoils of their win; But clearly, they have come to Hound with their tail tucked between their legs and apology written all over their body. 
Hound does not look to them as they punch in the code to their room. The door sliding open and walking in first with Rune right behind them, ducking into the doorway to get in- giant that they were. 
The door slides shut behind them, the silence greeting them before Rune’s whine reaches their ears. “My love. My beloved. Engillinn minn. My moon- I cannot begin to beg enough for your forgivene--” 
“You may start with begging.” Hound doesn’t miss a beat, turning to face Rune with a furrow on their brow. Rune looks like the picture-perfect puppy, apologetic eyes and a bowed head. It would be easy, Hound thinks, to humiliate them back. 
Far too easy. But it would not get the point across. 
A click of Hound’s tongue that resembles a tut stops Rune from beginning to beg. Having been fresh from the showers and in their civilian clothing, Hound pulls a hair tie from under their sleeve and from around their wrist. Beginning to pull their wild curls up and into a ponytail slowly, already catching the way Rune’s Adam’s apple bobs in anticipation. 
Too easy.  
Hound doesn’t miss the knitting of Rune’s brow nor the confusion or how they shift on their legs to adjust their thighs. Trained to the sight of Hound tying their hair up/ 
It’s not like Hound didn’t know, they very well knew what that simple motion could do. Trained and familiar with the sight of it before Hound would typically sink to their knees. Or take to batting their lashes up at Rune before letting their touch caress their cock. 
That’s just what they wanted. Rune’s curiosity and attention. Their anticipation. The swell in their pants. 
“I...I am begging you for your for...forgiveness,” Rune begins, distracted in their apology as Hound takes slow steps towards them. It’s a predator’s stalk, and Rune plays the perfect part of prey as they take steps back to mirror them. Until their back hits the wall and Hound is just a breath away, body close to touching theirs. “My behavior was unacc--” 
“Remove your pants.” Hound’s words cut them off. Their tone flat and a cock of Hound’s head as their hands drop from their now tied hair. They bite back a smirk when Rune’s lips stay parted, confusion and curiosity all over their face. Cute. 
“Am I...not...in trouble?” 
“Do not ask questions you know the answer to. Come. You shall sit and hold still. You shall not touch me, lest I wish it.” Hound speaks as they step back, making a come-hither motion to follow. Only pausing when they catch that mischievous look in Rune’s eye. “Do not make me bind you, Pup. I would hate for you to think your punishment is a reward for bad behavior.” 
“Of course. I would think nothing of the sort, my love. Only my best behavior to win your favor back.” Rune speaks, but their tone is fighting back a smile. Following behind Hound and only stopping to put their hands in the air in mock surrender when Hound whips to look at them. A look in Hound’s eyes promising a far worse punishment. 
Surely this could not be so bad, Rune wonders to themself. 
-- 
It’s bad. 
Rune has decided it is really bad. 
Hound decided that their little jest was too much a threat and bound Rune anyhow. Binding them in beautiful red ropes with their arms above their head but legs left free. The bindings continued down over their chest, curving over the plushness of their bare pecs and carefully knotted behind their back. 
The harness was for show, they knew that. This rope was perfectly strong enough to hold them. Carefully created by a wondrous trader back in their home village on Talos. 
Rune’s legs are spread open, their whole body trembling and glowing with sweat but their eyes focused downwards at their beautiful spouse. Hound always looked so good with something in their mouth, but even better with the expression they’re making. Frustrated at Rune for the situation, they are sure. For their words. 
Hound’s red tinted glasses have been discarded. Their fiery curls tied up into a ponytail and a few curls framing across their cheeks messily. Their leather jacket has equally been discarded, showing off the black lace bralette used as a top with their chest near spilling out with peeks of their areola. Something that makes Rune’s mouth salivate at the sight, tracing shapes of the peachy patches of vitiligo and beauty marks downwards. How their piercings make shapes in the lacy fabric. 
But the best sight has to be the way Hound’s eyes are narrowed, their good pupil in a dangerously thin slit. One arm rests across Rune’s hips, forcing their hips down with a flex of their impressive bicep. Their plump lips are currently pressing tempting, fluttering kisses across their cock. Flushed from balls to tip, leaking pre-cum with a beautiful golden ring wrapped tightly around the base of Rune’s shaft. 
Hound had edged them now five times. So many years of being in tune with them left them knowledgeable on when Rune was close- no matter how they tried to hide it. The subtle tenseness of their jaw, the turn of their head and their beautiful amber curls cascading down their body, and the way their lips parted juuust so. 
Rune was a filthy and sweet talker whenever they had sex. Shown at the beginning when they had tried to dirty talk and plead their way through Hound getting them close. Perhaps thinking over stimulation would be their game tonight. That Hound would let them cum on their pretty face and tits and paint them white- 
But the second Hound pulled from their cock to instead rest their cheek on Rune’s thigh and draw circles in their other thigh? Rune had let out a growl of dismay at the realization that the game tonight was edging. 
Rune's hips buck, their words going from pleading to hissing and frustrated. Only pausing when Hound sinks their nails into their thighs, their voice low with their reminder, “This is your punishment, beloved. You are my stress relief tonight and I shall use you like my toy as I see fit. You would not ruin my pleasure nor relief, would you?” 
“N-no.” Rune grunts out, their hips falling back to the bed with a tremble and tremor wracking their body. “No, my love. I am your toy.” It’s hard to say it, but at this point they’d do anything for Hound’s beautiful mouth to be back on them. Or their hands. Or be inside them. 
Anything. 
Hound isn’t ignorant to that knowledge either. But, Rune looks sincere. And their poor pup had been patient this whole night- if a bit impatient. 
Hound hums. It’s not as if they weren’t affected either. They’re wet, soaked through their own tight pants now. A sigh passes their lips, catching Rune’s attention as Hound begins to stand up. Hound knows they catch the sight of how wet they are the second Rune snarls, jerking in their bonds to try and get a better look at them. 
“Stay.” Hound’s voice is low, silky, and commanding. Satisfied when Rune settles back down with a weak jerk of their cock, pre-cum beading at the head and drooling down the pierced shaft. Poor thing. 
Hound hooks their thumbs in their tight pants, kicking off their boots and working out of their pants with a slow sway of their hips to keep Rune’s attention. When it’s revealed they have no underwear on, Rune mouths something obscene, their head tipping a bit to the sky and lips parting. Clearly scenting the air. 
Filthy dog. 
Hound removes the rest of their clothing with the same finesse. Taking to crawling up Rune’s frame slowly, resting hands on either side of their head and leaning in to kiss them. Meeting in the kiss tongue first as both of the Bloodhounds moan into each other’s mouths. 
Rune’s hips buck up into nothing, Hound’s weight resting on their abdomen instead to kiss them. Their hand cups Rune’s cheek, guiding them through the kiss as Hound licks into their mouth. Tasting them. Devouring them. 
When they part, Hound climbs up onto their broad shoulders, spreading their thighs and resting their drooling cunt right above Rune’s head. They keep their hips up, just out of reach and hearing just how Rune snarls under them. Rune tries to thrash their body to lean up and get even one small taste of their beloved, but ultimately fails. 
“Patience,” Hound murmurs for what must be the tenth time tonight. They reach down to get a fistful of Rune’s hair. Delicately using their free hand to stroke some stray hairs from their face so they wouldn’t get any in their mouth. A small touch of affection for obedience. 
They take note of Rune’s lashes fluttering, leaning into Hound’s touch as they gently stroke curls from their face. It makes Hound weak, a squeeze in their chest of adoration and sympathy stabbing into them. “Be kind to me and I shall be kind to you. You have been doing so well, my love. Surely you can be good a little longer, yes?” 
Rune grumbles under their breath, something that makes Hound smack their cheek. Not hard enough to hurt, but a firm enough pat to catch their attention to look up at them. “I believe you threatened to have me under you, Pup. Shall I instead take you the very same as you have threatened?” 
A cheeky smile makes its way to Rune’s lips, only to drop almost shyly like they shouldn’t smile. They flick their gaze up to Hound’s face as if gauging if they’re still mad from earlier on that slight. When they find no such rage, but amusement in Hound’s eyes, they allow the smile to return. “A threat to fuck me? You are losing your touch if that is meant to frighten me, my love.” 
A laugh is shared between them, Hound shushing them with a gentle push of Rune’s face playfully. There’s that silent communication between them. That there was no harm in it now, any frustrations had passed. The scene paused for just a moment. 
Just a moment to share. 
However, they are still in the middle of something. Something Hound reminds them both of as they shift atop Rune and lower their hips. Using Rune’s hair in their grasp to guide their head up towards their pussy. “Come. Show me how sorry you are. Be gentle,” The words come from Hound’s lips softly. “Just kiss for now. Worship me.” 
Rune whimpers, the sound desperate and wanting. But they obey, despite how much they know they could show Hound how truly sorry they were. They dutifully press their lips in a kiss to Hound’s pussy; Fluttering kisses starting from their mound, down over their engorged clit, getting their lips glossy with their slick. Slowly and surely moving their kisses from over their cunt to over their thighs in deep, hungry kisses. 
Hound sighs softly over the attention, massaging Rune’s scalp as they flutter kisses over Hound’s lower lips. Rune presses their luck now and again with an open-mouthed kiss, the slightest brush of their tongue against their heated flesh. Each time a tongue is felt, however, Hound pulls their hair lightly. A quiet warning. 
Rune only can truly do what they wish to when they begin to beg. Mumbled words of ‘please’ against Hound’s wet flesh, rumbling through their chest the more desperate they get. Especially when Hound reaches underneath their own body, slipping two fingers into their body with a gasp, then offering those fingers to Rune to lap at like a starved dog. 
It earns more whimpering from Rune, whose hips are now thrusting up into the air for something desperate to grind against. They mumble pretty pleases, quiet mumbles that they shall be good, how they’ll be such a good pup. 
How they’ll take such good care of Hound as an apology- as a thank you. 
“Have you learned your lesson?” Hound speaks softly, still keeping juuuust out of reach with a lift of their hips. They keep a good grip of Rune’s hair, forcing the taller of the two to strain in want, panting with parted lips and taking in Hound’s scent. They try their best to nod, but Hound’s grip keeps them from doing so. “Your words, little one.” 
“Yes. Yes, by the gods, Hound, yes. I will be good; I will be so good. Let me worship you, allow me to take care of you. Release me. Let me ravish you- allow me to have you- Please, please, please-” Rune’s voice is lower, lower than usual. Their natural baritone forming this lower gravel pitched whine of desperation. Their lashes brush their cheekbones with each flutter, threatening to gather tears when they look up at their spouse. 
Once more Hound’s heart squeezes and they are a helpless victim to the look that their lover gives them combined with their sweet words. But Hound knows them better. Rune is manipulative in scenarios like this, promising sweet nothings only to be freed of their grasp and ruining Hound into next week. Smothering Hound in bruises, bitemarks, and making their voice hoarse. 
So, Hound hums, thoughtful and low. They cock their head akin to a dog sizing up their prey, looking Rune over. Their flush across golden flesh, how sweat makes them glow in the dim lighting of the sun peering through the window, and just how sweet their seeing ruby red eye looks up at Hound. 
“No.” Hound says simply, watching Rune practically roar as they strain against their bonds. Their hips thrust up, trying to buck Hound off and thrash their shoulders to try and move them. To no avail; Hound was always good with rope work. Hound lets a smile flirt across their lips. “Settle yourself, Pup. I merely shall not be releasing you. I can give you what you desire, but you shall remain tied. For now.” 
The quiet promise of release on good behavior at least stops the minor tantrum. Rune huffs and chuffs much like a big cat, settling back down and looking up at Hound hopefully. Hound gives them what they want in a controlled manner, carefully adjusting their position to lower themself down to Rune’s mouth. 
Rune’s hands twitch in their bonds, clearly wanting to hold Hound’s thighs. Hound gingerly reaches up with their free hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing to help ease their need to grab. Feeling Rune’s wedding ring press against their flesh. 
It makes Hound’s heart throb. 
Rune is a hunter of their word. They bury their face against Hound with a longing moan, their forked tongue making quick work of them. They slide their tongue from Hound’s hole up to their fat clit, sealing their soft lips around it and giving it sloppy, suckling kisses. Rune’s moans are starved, matching how Hound sighs shakily above them.  
But they both know how Hound gets. 
Those soft sighs soon turn to moans, which become whining moans filled with whimpers. Louder and louder as they grip Rune’s hair tight in one hand, their other squeezing Rune’s hand which squeezes theirs back to ground them.  
It doesn’t take long for Hound’s hips to start moving, humping Rune’s face and across their tongue. Stilling their hips to tremble shakily atop them when Rune’s lips seal around their whole cunt to sloppily lick at them. Rune’s tongue dips briefly inside of them, licking sharply upwards to their poor clit that they once again abuse. 
Rune tends to their cunt like they were worshiping them. Each open mouthed kiss on their cunt purposeful to lick at them and moan shamelessly into them. Sometimes dipping their head low enough to let their nose run across their clit so they could taste them in full. They hum contentedly, softly as if to replicate a purr just as their tongue slowly slides back up from their hole to their clit. 
The vibrations seal the deal with one more talented flick of Rune’s tongue that traps their clit briefly in the fork of their tongue. Hound cums with a sharp, snapping snarl and their head throwing back with a perfect arch of their back. Their grip holds Rune’s head in place as they cum, plentiful slick being licked up with Hound’s squirt as their body trembles and shakes. 
“Divine,” Rune moans against their cunt, muffled as they nuzzle their way sloppily against Hound. “Always so delicious, ástin mín. I cannot get enough of you.” Rune sighs, their tongue once more trying to lick its way into Hound to make a sloppy mess of them. 
Over sensitive from cumming, Hound’s hips jump, but they aren’t sure where to go. At first, they jerk away from Rune’s tongue and kisses, only to press down to try and be flush to meet their touch. A whimper leaves Hound, their legs twitching against Rune’s chest and toes curling. But they finally decide to pull up and away, looking down at the mess they’ve made of their spouse as Hound takes heavy, panting breaths. 
Rune’s face is flushed, slick smeared over their lips and nose. Their pupil is blown wide, near eclipsing the red of their iris as they look up at Hound. Their lips are parted, flushed and wanting. They looked beautiful. 
Too tempting... 
Hound sighs shakily as they climb down Rune’s body to straddle their waist. They reach up, leaning their torso over Rune’s face and being in reach for them to lean up and nip at their hanging breasts. Hound jumps a bit, huffing with a small laugh as Rune finally manages to latch onto a pierced nipple with a longing moan. 
“A-ah- my love, j-just a moment-” Hound’s voice shakes, trying to untie Rune’s wrists and separate the rope that went to the harness tied across their chest. Their hips jump, humping over Rune’s abdomen when Rune merely pops off one breast and moves to the next one hungrily. 
“Rune-” It’s hard to sound stern when they’re caught in a moan. However, with great effort, Hound does manage to untie them. Throwing the extra rope off the side of the bed later and not having time to check Rune’s wrists before arms wind around their body and force them to hold still so their chest can be ravaged. 
Hound grabs the headboard of the bed for balance, arching their back with a whine as Rune’s teeth worry one of their nipples. They don’t bite, merely scraping their teeth before suckling and popping off to make Hound gasp. 
Hound hardly has time to breathe before one of Rune’s arms moves from around them and slides down Hound’s body. They slip two large fingers easily inside Hound’s cunt with a hiss from both of them. 
It helps that Rune is mumbling ‘Thank you’s to them between bites of their breasts. Pounding their fingers into Hound and quirking them forward just right, curling them to make their beloved practically howl with pleasure. 
Hound’s body trembles above them, their body flushed head to toe. It feels as if they can’t breathe. Suddenly overwhelmed with pleasure as Rune’s thumb swipes across their clit with every thrust of their fingers inside. It takes no time at all for Hound to cum again, squeezing around their thick fingers and throwing their head back with a cry. 
Rune moans into their breast, lapping sloppily at their nipple without thought as their fingers stay inside them. Only moving their first knuckles in curling motions to make Hound squirm and whimper beautifully above them. 
“Rune-” Hound starts to whimper out their name, but Rune takes the hint. They come off their breast, sliding their fingers out of them and moaning in want as Hound begins to move. 
They move together without need for verbal communication. Where Rune moves on the bed to lie down and sliding their hands desperately over Hound’s flesh. Hound moves to straddle their hips, reaching back and behind them to grab Rune’s weeping cock and guiding it to their cunt with hurry. 
Rune is...very well endowed, but as they have discovered through the years, Hound didn't want too much prep for them. They liked the bite of the stretch, shown as they begin to sink down now and Rune’s hands fly to their breasts to massage and swipe their thumbs over their nipples. 
Hound’s breath hitches, their brows knitting and their hands pressing to Rune’s pecs in turn to thumb over their nipples. Always trying to one up the other. 
Rune’s moan is wanton and needy, sounding like they were just seconds from dying when Hound slowly takes them inch by inch. Rune’s mouth starts up again, their voice low and growling with each word. “So tight- so wet. You always feel so good, tunglið mitt. W-what I wouldn’t give to stay inside of you for eternity. The gods have made you to take this cock, just like this. What a sight you are for me.” 
It works just as well. Hound’s face flushes, showing more brightly on the peachy spots of their vitiligo. They turn their head to hide their blush, their body shaking and trembling as they work their way slowly down onto Rune’s cock. 
But after so many years of marriage, Rune knows just what they want. 
What they need. 
It’s why they suddenly grab Hound’s hips, holding them with a bruising grip as they force them downwards just as Rune’s hips come up to slam into them. There’s a cry from both of them, with Hound’s being startled and full of pleasure, while Rune’s is more guttural and needy. 
It burns in the best way, the stretch makes Hound’s hips jerk and twitch, their hands finding their way up to grip Rune’s shoulders with nails biting into flesh. Hound’s facial expression twists, their eyebrows knitting and teeth sunken into their bottom lip with tremors wracking their frame. 
It hits Rune what’s happened when they feel the rapid fluttering around their cock and more wetness clinging to their flesh.  
A smug look goes across Rune’s features as Hound rides the waves of their sudden orgasm. A low laugh leaving Rune as they roll their hips, feeling Hound’s nails bite deeper into their shoulders at the sudden movement. 
By the gods- there is a reason Hound tied up their spouse. 
“Look at you,” Rune breathes out in a croon, sliding their hands down over Hound’s curves and over the swell of their hips where bruises are beginning to form. “Beautiful, my love, just beautiful. What a little whore you are. Cumming just from taking me fully. I truly am blessed to see you this way.” 
“M-mind your tongue-” Hound tries to bite back, but their voice is breathless and keening; Lacking any hint of malice or venom. Tears prick at the corners of their eyes from the intensity, their heart still pounding in their chest as they try to gain the reins back in the situation. 
But Rune has been bound for too long. 
Rune moves, holding Hound close to them as they move their bodies as one. Never once leaving their body as they shift Hound to lying down beneath them. It takes some urging, but eventually Hound follows their motions to roll onto their side and hitch a leg over Rune’s shoulder. 
It gives Rune the vantage to lean down onto Hound, bending them in half and showing off their flexibility. A sight that makes Rune beam, showing off sharp teeth before delicately pressing a kiss to Hound’s ankle adoringly. 
“There you are, beloved.” Rune sighs out, rolling their hips slowly into Hound and causing their frame to shudder. “Like this. Let me take care of you. I shall show you how very apologetic I am.” 
“By breaking me?” Hound teases, peeking up coyly at Rune from their thick lashes and through messed up curls, catching the way their spouse grins lazily down at them. A furrow to Rune’s brow in contained pleasure. 
“Would you like an apology any other way?” Rune teases back, leaning further down to capture a kiss on Hound’s cheek after they brush their crimson curls from their face. A loving gesture that makes the smaller of the two smile softly to themself, turning their head to properly catch Rune’s lips in a kiss. 
“If you would like to break me,” Hound murmurs on Rune’s lips, swiping a tongue over their lips with the tip of their tongue in a quick fashion. From bottom lip to upper just to feel Rune’s breath catch. “Then do it how I like it, Pup.” 
“Fuck, Hound.” Rune growls, their voice hoarse as their cock throbs inside their spouse. Rune moves their bodies quickly, tossing both Hound’s legs over their shoulders now and pressing downwards to get into a proper position. 
Now in a proper mating press and feeling fully engulfed by the sheer size of Rune, Hound’s head throws back in preparation. Already feeling how Rune leans down into them, their long, long hair curtaining them both as Rune’s teeth sink into the crook of Hound’s exposed throat. 
They moan together, Hound’s voice louder into the open, sticky air. Rune moves fluidly with them, their hips moving in a practiced way to constantly stay inside Hound. Years of practice making them both acutely aware of how the other liked it. 
It’s why Hound’s fingers leave the sheets to instead wind around Rune’s neck, sliding one hand into their longer hair to pull on it hard enough to make Rune keen. Their other hand falls to Rune’s back, feeling the muscles and scars under their fingertips as their nails dig in and leave stripes across their flesh. 
Rune is never loud, but their words always fill that area for them. They murmur into Hound’s neck, growling in between words. “Gonna breed you. I shall fuck you raw, my love. How sorry I am- let me show you. All night. How very sorry that I am. Let me make you cum again and again and again--” 
Hound lets out a whimper against their will, their hips tilting up as best as they can in this position. They pull on Rune’s hair just to hear them groan, feeling how Rune’s hips still against them and pump in shallow thrusts just to make sure they grind against Hound’s clit. 
What a cheater. 
It works, the quiet battle falling in Rune’s favor as Hound’s over sensitive body cums first with a howl from their lips and a furrow of their brow. Rune isn’t far behind them, a snarl ripping from their lips as they press their hips as close as they can get. They cum inside of Hound, pumping them full with excess already slipping out and down onto their ass, down onto the bed. 
The rest of the night is filled the very same with Rune fucking Hound in any and every position they can think of. On all fours, against the wall; In between each round Rune likes to clean Hound up with their tongue, fingers pushing their cum back inside Hound numerous times. Fucking them sloppy with their fingers and then their cock. Then using the very same as lubricant to fuck their ass. 
The whole time Rune tells them how sorry they are, how much they love them. They fuck Hound until their mind is empty, no longer remembering why they were even mad in the first place. 
How could they be mad, after all, when Rune was showing just how sorry they were each time? 
By the Allfather, Rune was relentless. Even during clean up time in the shower, they nursed Hound’s pussy with their tongue. Kissing, licking, dragging their tongue across their flushed flesh and making Hound shiver and shake, clinging to Rune’s hair desperately with shaking legs. 
Even when ice had been applied to help Hound get feeling back in their clit and reduce swelling, somehow that wound up with even more touching from Rune. Ending the night with a nursing session where Hound is straddling their thighs and Rune is bent to worship their breasts. Leaving Hound’s cunt drooling with slick in their pajama pants that are quickly slipped off so Rune can rub and jerk their clit off with each swipe of their tongue over a nipple. 
It’s the most solid sleep Hound gets in months, that’s without a doubt. 
In the morning, when Hound awakens, it is to Rune gently brushing their hair back and kissing their forehead. Murmurs are exchanged, with Hound reaching up silently and Rune taking the welcome embrace. 
“I’ve made you breakfast,” Rune murmurs softly after a few moments of peace, nosing their way against the top of Hound’s head and inhaling their scent. Their next words are playful, spoken with a smile growing on their lips. “Can you walk? Do I need to carry you?” 
Hound huffs this exasperated sound. A bite back on their tongue about how Rune could have fucked them harder. But as soon as they go to stand, they soon eat their words they’d said in their mind, stumbling and almost falling to their knees. Thankfully, Rune catches them by the waist, tugging them back onto their lap and grinning against Hound’s neck. 
“Do not be stubborn, Hound. I am happy to help.” Rune finishes with a kiss to Hound’s lobe, hearing the smaller of the two’s groan as they move to wind their legs around Rune’s waist. Looping their arms around Rune’s neck as huge hands cup under their ass to carry them down to the feast they had prepped for their mate. 
All of Hound’s favorites; Even if everything Rune made was their favorite. They thank their beloved with a kiss at the corner of their mouth, murmuring on how everything smelled delicious and how thankful they were to have them. 
Rune’s shy smile and the duck of their head is enough to warm Hound’s heart. But the nuzzle they brush across Hound’s nose seals the deal with the silent kiss. 
No. They could never stay mad at them for long. 
Their love was just as strong as the day they had fallen in love, after all.
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lemonade-juley · 1 year
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Me and a friend supposedly played with God in apex the other day
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just-mint-to-be · 2 years
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May I humbly request your take on a virgin! reader that’s kind of give in to mirage and wants to show her appreciation to him but she’s hella nervous and doesn’t know what to do?
Oooo this is hot, I hope I didn’t make him too OOC
NSFW
He could’ve melted at the sight; you, on your knees with bug like glistening eyes trained solely on him. Or rather, trained solely on his aching arousal. A tinge of red dusted your cheeks and, for a moment, he feared you’d regressed back into your angry, spiteful state- you’d been rather hesitant to accept his love in the past. Your lips rubbed together, awarding their surface a similar, silvery sheen to your gaze.
‘Y/n?’ He murmured, half in concern and half in searing need at the intensity of your motionless state. ‘C’mon baby, give me something, anything...’ his words held dual meaning; he longed for both your touch and speech.
‘I...’ you slid along the carpet, arms coming to perch atop your own shoulders in a coy stance that shielded your previously, spectacularly, bare breasts. ‘I’ve never done this before...’
Silence elapsed, and emotion surged both to his head and base. The male cracked a smile, one that may have too clearly told of his innermost thoughts; I’ll be your first and only everything. Good, that’s how it was meant to be.
Elliott leant forward, taking your chin softly under his palm, ‘Hey, it’s fine. It’s great, actually. I’ll teach you.’ You peered down, that blush returning twice as strong in a way he could now comfortably see as chaste inexperience. He took his sentry on the couch once more, his knees parted with you in line between them. All it took was a gentle tap to his thigh and you came forward, a stark contrast to how you used to be.
His thumb traced your lips and you rested into his touch; one finger parting the soggy heat of them to collect a little string of saliva. He dolloped it on the head of his cock, swirling them tip lightly before gesturing.
‘Ok babe, first of all, I want to see what your sweet little tongue can do...’
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i should probably private some of my old spotify playlists for things im not into anymore so nobody thinks i still care about like. god. apex legends (🤢) but most spotify playlists you cna find in search are so god awful that i feel like i Have to leave them up in the off chance someone will find them like an oasis in the desert
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snake-in-dallas · 2 years
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Top Ethos Strains in 2022 by Ethos Genetics
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The cannabis industry has been supported by Ethos Genetics, a US seed bank, for more than 20 years. They raise seeds to be of high grade. Ethos Genetics uses science and technology to specifically breed their strains. In ethos genetics, superiority and quality are meant.
It's no surprise that these strains have won cannabis cups. Ethos Genetics claims to breed and sell the ideal cannabis to increase yields and consistently produce top-quality buds.
You can tell how well-liked Ethos strains are by the amount of coverage these genetics have received in major publications like High Times, Adam Dunn, and Cannabis. Cannabis consumers regard Ethos Genetics as a celebrity.
Best Strains of Ethos Genetics
1. Super Lemon Haze F5
In the cannabis industry, Super Lemon Haze F5 by Ethos Genetics is a well-known variety. It is worthwhile to invest. Both growers and stoners love this primarily sativa strain.
SLH inherits from its parent, Jack Herer, and lemon skunk the pleasing scent of sweet-tart and lemon. You will appreciate the strain since she is quick, according to growers. It blooms quickly after germination. You also don't have to be concerned about the plant's tolerance to tests mites and molds.
So, even a novice may successfully cultivate it. You'll receive good yields from it. Additionally, its energetic, rejuvenating, and stimulating impacts make you fall for this strain. Its sativa nature causes her to grow tall.
2. Ethos Apex
Ethos Apex is an ideal cannabis strain for easing pain and reducing tension. Creation of Ethos Genetics what you want amid your suffering and depression is Ethos Apex. Ethos Apex is a cross between two delicious strains Mandarin Cookies X Lilac Diesel BX3. 
From the popular Ethos Genetics comes the epic-sounding, evenly balanced strain known as Ethos Apex. It is a strong but manageable plant that provides enormous amounts of marijuana along with massive stoner highs, soaring THC levels, and plenty of giggles. While the user unwinds to the plant's potent punch, the orangey, chemmy terpenes mix to create extremely delicious flavors.
For people who have persistent loss of appetite, stress, muscle cramps, depression, or pain, the strain is a wonderful companion. The overall result, a euphoric sense of enjoyment that uplifts the mood, can cut through the thickest cloud.
3. Mandarin Sunset
Mandarin Sunset- the premium strain was developed by Ethos Genetics. Through the crossbreeding of the parent strains, Herijuana and Orange Skunk. Initially, it was found in Colorado, USA.
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The zesty, creamy mandarin orange flavor of this mostly Indica strain is adored and has a hint of skunk flavor. The buds of this large plant have a flavor that is spicy, vaporous, fresh, lemony, and similar to organic tropical items with a hint of diesel.
It has 1% CBD and 23% THC. It is the best strain to smoke on warm evenings. It would be ideal if you kept in mind that ingesting too much Mandarin sunset could result in a nasty high in this situation. So, pay attention to the dosages. She helps you battle aches, anxiety, and loss of appetite.
A potent sedative indica high is associated with Mandarin Sunset. It grows into a distinctive flower after a moderate amount of stretching, and the great calyx-to-leaf ratio makes Mandarin sunset simple to grow. 
4. Mandarin Cookies
A charming yet rare Sativa-dominant hybrid from Ethos genetics is called mandarin cookies. This strain was bred by using the outstanding Cookies X Mandarin Sunset genetics. If you're looking for a beautiful flower with mouthwatering flavors and significant effects, you've found it here!
Mandarin cookies have a flavor that is crisp, tangy, and slightly nutty when inhaled. With a sharp tangerine impression that becomes fairly potent as the nugs are burnt, the aroma is unusually natural and kushy.
Similar to the flavor, the high is uplifting and just as enlightening. In a nutshell, you will also feel inspired and energized. You will also get to know your most creative self!
The strain works well against depression, pain, stress, and ADHD.
5. Purple Sunset R2BX
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Purple Sunset is a diverse cannabis strain that leans heavily on indica. This Harvest Cup winner is a hybrid strain of Mandarin Sunset, Purple Punch, and Mandarin Cookies.
What we can say about the purple sunset strain is that it produces beautiful but extremely dense nugs that stack deep. This strain also possesses rich mint green nugs with purple and orange notes, which indicates that its parents may have had some influence.
This stunning plant is appropriate for both the day and the evening. You can overcome stress, depression, chronic pain, and mood swings with the help of this delicious nug.
This strain quickly blossoms. So simple to grow. Continue to prune your buds for high yields. The medium-height plant is ideal for producing euphoric and soothing effects on the body.
6. Banana Daddy
Ethos genetics' powerful invention, Banana Daddy is a hybrid child of Granddaddy Purple and Banana Hammock R1. The sweet flavor and excellent head high of these strains are well-known.
It will blow your mind with the distinct flavor of banana mixed with fruity and grapes undertones. You won't be able to stop after a few puffs due to the potent floral aroma.
But keep in mind that the strain is very active. It moves quickly and has incredible body-high and calming effects that will have you smitten. With a mind-blowing THC level of 26–30%, it will keep you unconscious for a while. Not recommended for beginners!
Banana daddy is quite simple to grow, though. This will flower in as little as 7-9 weeks. Regardless of whether they are grown indoors or outdoors, these medium-height plants produce good yields. These medium-sized nugs work well for treating anxiety, chronic pain, and insomnia.
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leclsrc · 9 months
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decent incentives ✴︎ cl16, mv1
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genre: this is. Smut, porn W plot, threesome, driver reader
word count: 6.9k
Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs. Or: You’ve been a brat, and only two people know how to mellow you out. title from this
auds here… hi hi hi! scanned my reqs last week, found a max/charles threesome one, and wrote this out in half a day after a friend showed me the challengers trailer (i love tennis and it drove me to write abt a sport that was not, in fact, tennis) also i truly cannot explain the phenomenon behind me finding smut/these kinds of works easier to suss out these days (long form fic i talked abt in the last drabble is not this one fyi) but it’s just ???? like i don’t… i’ve no clue. i hope u enjoy this anyway!!!! love auds :)
nsfw warnings under the cut!
18+ because... penetrative sex, double penetration, sexual tension, masturbation (f), teasing, praise central, reader is a MASSIVE brat, size kink, dirty talk, i don’t want to say brat taming but kinda kinda
Your first time in Max Verstappen’s hotel room happened after a tiring night of media and press, where you spent hours together smoking to calm yourselves down. You’d almost been caught by a manager, stepping on your sticks as soon as the back door swung open and your names were called out to do another interview. This was with ESPN, if you remember right. There’d been a muddled chaos of journalism in the venue, all the jumbled mess of the same questions. As young as you both are, do you feel intimidated by success?
It didn’t—and still doesn’t—help, you suppose, that both you and Max had stared, tight-lipped and deflated brows, and stated, with finality: no.
The afternoon stretched into an entire night, and by the time the clock ticked nine and everything had formally wrapped up, Max mustered up the courage and a half it took to invite you to his hotel room for a cig and half a Cuervo divided into three shots each. The conversation had progressed as he drove, the continuation of an otherwise unorthodox friendship between a Red Bull and Mercedes driver—a fact you’d both acknowledged but opted to ignore.
Drivers are friends all the time, you figure—you’re close with few drivers—but none of them are Max. You had made the lousy small talk, commented on how different the pre- and post-race processes have become since your entrance in 2018, which, back then, had seemed like forever ago. “It would seem like forever to a world champion,” he’d said, and his voice is all teasing and raspy and scruffed up. You had laughed, a scoffy little noise, and told him to shut up.
He obeyed, for two seconds, then added, “Do you mind if we meet someone there?”
The hotel room was what you might expect a high-level athlete to be bestowed with, wide and huge but not as wide and not as huge as yours a few streets over. There’d been a thing of cologne left uncapped on the table by the door, Adidas shoes on the floor next to Nikes, and then a low table housing a still smoking joint that left the entire living room smelling like grass.
Somehow, Max had managed to turn a neutral, sterile hotel room into a boy’s room. The scent of weed mixed with Tom Ford cologne. The rap music blending into the open balcony’s traffic noise. The socks on the floor, two pairs, both white. It’s a strenuous effort, you’d thought—and you were beginning to think this wasn’t the work of Max alone. “We have a guest,” he’d hollered when he managed to fiddle with the key card properly enough to leave the door alone.
No one had answered, or surfaced from the hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom, so you followed Max into the bar area. Bottles of booze in varying states of empty, lemon slices and salt now cold—“Do you not call housekeeping?” You’d asked, amusement concealing curiosity as you accepted a poured-out shot. He said they do—they—and sometimes hotel staff are just a bunch of pricks. He asked more questions. How it felt to win at twenty-one, how it felt to be driving, to be the youngest winner, the first female driver. 
Ask me something I don’t hear fucking journalists say all the time, you’d replied back, half-jokingly. The August air nipped at your cheeks, chilling your warm face. He’d laughed, and explained that he re-asked the questions in case you have a more honest answer to give him. The most honesty you could offer is that you’d grown to hate your reputation because it precedes your skill. It’d been silent for a bit then, just the scent of the unclaimed weed. Then Max went, We have a new friend.
You turned to see who he was talking to. Charles was at the doorway, eyes on you already, raising a hand to say a silent hello. “H…” He trailed off. “Hey.”
He was shirtless, Calvins tight on his legs, his free hand scratching absently at his abs. Behind you, you had faintly picked up on Max introducing you and Charles rolled his eyes before replying, clipped, I know who she is, wiseass. He’d taken the weed and almost left, but you spoke next.
“Want to come sit?”
He paused, turned, and blinked. “I’m alright,” he rejected. “We have a meeting tomorrow, don’t forget.”
Then he was back in the bedroom area, leaving behind him a trail of grassy smoke. He was clearly rugged and fresh from sleep, the delicious sleep athletes have all grown familiar with: post-race, overcome with a terrible exhaustion. You’d only ever exchanged a few words with either of these two, and the fact that you were alone with them sent a warm, drawling thrill up your spine.
You were two and a half shots in when Charles reappeared, sans weed. “Any left for me?”
If you grouped the grid into years, you would be with Max and Charles—on the younger end, still at the ripe years of your careers. You entered first, though, then Max, thenCharles, which meant you were connected to, and friends with, relatively different people on the paddock. But the 2020 season and your many close calls with Max began the media and manager tirade of constantly lumping you and Max into the same interviews, press conferences, and media days, to maybe somehow elicit a bit of drama out (a tireless and unrelenting effort).
That’s how the rumors started. The rumor that permeates you most is one that asks about you, Max, and Charles. Some say you dated one then the other (a homie hopper, they’d branded you in 2021), others say they dated each other and you butted in. All of them were woefully untrue, in the same way all had some ring of truth to them.
And you suppose that’s what hotwired the beginning of your nights spent at Max’s hotel room, where Charles would nearly always be camped out, then eventually vice versa (Charles’ room, Max camping out; your room, solo, housing them for one night), drinking and/or smoking and/or playing some form of cards. And you suppose again that it was all this that radiated into everything else, all your wins and successes and bad days and near crashes, that just caused the entire universe to topple over, into itself, and creep up onto the three of you in Bahrain that year.
But that year is three years ago, and if you try to detail every last divot of it, you’re going to wind up rubbing a migraine out of your head. And you’re not interested in developing a headache—not when you’re celebrating the fifth race of the 2023 season.
It’s your fourth win this season. It’s all anybody ever talks about, how you had gone and secured a third championship for yourself last year, and how you’re gunning for four, the greatest the sport has seen in years. It’s all anyone can repeat and echo—you’re a fucking legend!—and you know from experience that praise does more than the most dangerous cocktail of drugs to get you high.
The afterparty is full and obnoxiously loud, dark and smoky and low-visibility. You’re wearing a flimsy dress and running a hand through your hair while you nurse a drink, feeling drunk on compliments and confused with certain absences. You can feel the bass through the tiled floor, heels clicking on it as you search, search, and come up short. Neither Max nor Charles have sent you a text, a play they always perform to break a routine you’ve become familiar with. You frown. Hey, somebody says next to you, you’re better than anyone else on the grid right now! You thank them, thinking to yourself—where the fuck is anyone else on the grid anyway? The relevant people, at least?
Half an hour later, you’ve ditched the party and are pounding with your fists at Max’s hotel room door in an effort to get them to open it quicker, after your knuckles didn’t seem to do the work well enough. You half—no, mostly—expect Charles to be the one who pulls it open. He’s more prudent. He gives in easier. He’s nicer and he can spare a thought for the other people on this floor (but the price of this room means there barely are). 
“What.” His voice is gritty.
“You told me you would come tonight.” Your voice is steady—you’d chosen not to drink much, and what little you consumed wore off on the ride here. Even with your heels on and even in sleepiness, you notice his presence towers over yours. “You both said.”
“We were tired.”
You scoff and gently push past him into the room, where evidence of their existence rags the furniture. “Every hotel room you ever stay in is turned into a fucking frat house.” Beer bottles, cigs, gifts from fans stored with precarious care but peeking out from suitcases. 
“We were sleeping. I am sleepy,” he says behind you, unamused by your sudden appearance. He shuts the door and stands still, looking as disappointed as he can. It’s unlike him. You’re buying time to find out what the problem is.
“Okay, I’ll go,” you say, relenting, running a few fingers over the mess of clothes strewn atop the armrest of the couch. “My driver’s downstairs, anyway. I wanted you there tonight, though.” You look up, meet his eyes. Tired and green and fed up. “Both of you. We could’ve celebrated.”
He pulls his lips tight and stands straighter. “I know, I know.” He softens a little. “I’m sorry, okay? Desolé. Just… tired.” You know he’s tired because his team is shit, and you know it has nothing to do with you, but you’re so wrapped up with everything that your irritance fails to quell.
“Where’s Max?” You ask roughly instead, thumbing at the strap of your minidress. He gestures to the bedroom. You’re quiet but stormy when you walk in, finding him, messy hair and tired eyes notwithstanding, fully awake, unlike what his roomie has been telling you since you arrived; you scoff out loud again. Des-fucking-picable. You sit yourself on the couch, crossing your legs petulantly.
They both stare. They’re mad, it occurs to you, which is weird because they had you in between them on that same bed less than forty-eight hours ago. You’d come thrice and begged for more, but they laughed and said you all needed sleep to get up for race prep. Race prep. Race prep.
“Okay, then.” You throw two hands up in a semi-shrug. “Let’s have it. What’s the matter? No use lying.”
They both look irritated. “Nothing,” Max says.
“Fuck nothing.” You trail a hand over the hem of your dress. “You’re pissed with me, but I didn’t do shit.” You try to rerack the race, but you hadn’t so much as collided with them in the slightest, apart from overtaking them a few times, but they weren’t man children to whine over that. You’d shared the podium with Charles, for Chrissake.
“You’re right. You just went and…” Charles blows a raspberry and makes an explosion gesture, opening his clenched fist. “Shat on us in your post-race interview.”
And there it is.
You huff out a laugh, momentarily losing control over speech, and it’s caught in between itself and a sigh, a breathy noise that makes waves in the quiet room. Okay, you think. I get it. Your eyes flit in-between the two men across you, your shoulders straight and eyebrows raised, posing a challenge. “What, are you jealous?”
They’re silent. And you know silence always means—
Your eyes relax, smug and a little teasing as you elaborate. “Because you know I’m better than both of you?”
—Yes.
Their silence is redeeming and rewarding and permissive and it speaks volumes louder than if they’d actually admitted to it. You stare back at them, eyes narrowed, amused, coy. You’d been joking around in your Sky Sports interview. Sure, you’re a bit of a tease, especially on the high of a win. But they should know that by now.
You know it annoys them more to leave the door wide open as you leave, than to slam it closed.
“Will you draw me a tattoo?!”
“I’d love to, but you are going to regret it,” Charles laughs, signing his name off with a heart on the frenzied fan’s outstretched cap. The busy, busy practice day had now worn into night, though nothing seems to be taking his mind off the fact that you’ve been giving him and Max the cold shoulder since last week. And he knows it’s stupid, he knows he and Max were being irrational and pissy—him especially—but now he just finds himself needing to apologize before anything becomes worse.
But his priority is getting to your hotel, which now seems like the journey of his lifetime. His bodyguard is a bulldozer and grips his elbow to traverse them through the sea of people who cheer him on, go Charles have faith in Ferrari and yeah, that’s been getting more and more difficult as the races pass without much good progress. There are flashes all around, noise and laughing and whoops and gifts he tries to receive, but he just—he needs to get to your hotel. Preoccupied, he remembers where he’d seen Max last, just seconds before leaving the paddock for the evening.
You spend a lot of time with a certain pair Ferrari and Mercedes drivers, says the interviewer in Dutch. Charles squints at the subtitles and waits for Max’s reaction.
He’s in the passenger seat, being driven around for a change, and maybe he’s a pessimist and he misses you and Max, or maybe the city he’s in is just. Dreary, so he opts to stare at his phone like every other person. The clip’s been posted by a fan on Twitter, and the caption is something jokey—something about a dream threesome. He can’t help but laugh as he watches. We are close, us three, Max says, nodding. In fact I will be meeting them later.
The media’s always speculated, rumors born out of a few close calls outside clubs where you’re tipsy and giggly and getting into one car. The fans, funny as ever, also make some fun of it—posting pictures of you three captioned with something like polyamory is real or her and the guys she told you not to worry about, but God if any of them knew the real picture, the whole three years of it, all the sex and hickeys and rumors.
He scrolls a bit more. There are a few photos of you leaving the paddock, hand poised atop your face to shield it from the paps. You get loads more of them wherever you are, loads morecompared to anybody else on the grid. You always attract the media, the press. He finds a picture with your face in it, smiling at your result during FP2. Fuck. You’re pretty, hair damp with sweat, lips stretched into a proud grin, suited hand raising a thumbs up.
“Where to?” The driver beside him asks suddenly.
“Fairmont,” Max says to his assistant as he pulls out of parking. “I’m hanging up, doei.” He presses the red button and sighs, shutting his eyes and driving the steady, increasingly familiar routes of the city. He’d called you this morning but you didn’t pick up. Last night he’d slept restlessly, which was no different from the nights before, anyway.
He gets to the valet parking of your hotel when purple is just settling into blackness in the sky, the beginnings of a civil discussion at the tip of his tongue as he exits the elevator and finds your room, opening it and finding it unlocked already. Charles must have done the brunt of it, or maybe you’d gotten an assistant of an assistant to pass an extra keycard to him. You always plan around them, thinking ahead. Both on and off track.
Like the hotel rooms he and Charles share or camp out at, your existence is terribly visible. Unlike them, though, it manifests differently.
It smells like your perfume, the pink bottle he’d found you spritzing on once, and everything is neat and tidy and gorgeous. A vase of white peonies on the low table, lipstick on the table by the mirror, even the pack of cigarettes you barely smoke is pretty and unassuming on the sofa. The only thing amiss—a pair of men’s shoes, those ones with stars on them that you bought Charles on a spur-of-the-moment shopping trip. He toes off his own beside them, eyes the alignment, and fixes it lest you scold them for it later.
Anyway. It smells like you. That’s the only thing he cares about right now. It hits him like a tidal wave, after being ignored the whole week and then some. Your perfume, your favorite linen spray—that black and white glass bottle you carry around like a rosary—your favorite lip balm, even. He swears he smells the vanilla, can recall the taste of it from kissing you ditzy.
It’s beginning to rain—it had been drizzling already, en route here—and the noise pelts the windows, an accompaniment to his footsteps down the hall. He’s familiar with the layout of a penthouse suite, but still he tries out the WC door, and then the closet with the ironing board, before finally he figures the bedroom should be at the end of the hall.
He’s reciting it. I’m sorry. Would you stop being a brat? No. No, just say you’re sorry and then he’s standing at the ajar door of your bedroom, pushing it open, and he can’t feel anything. The words have evaporated. So have his warm little sentimental feelings, and so the annoyance he’d come busting in with.
Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs.
He opens his mouth but nothing leaves. His eyes find Charles, standing by the door, propped against the desk, arms crossed and fingers digging into his biceps. Max looks at you again. You have a pretty flush high on your cheeks, a slight sheen of sweat on your exposed collar. He blinks and realizes you’ve been talking.
“I said, you can sit the fuck down.” There’s a couch to his left.
He pulls himself together and stays beside Charles. “I’m good here, thanks.”
You eye the two of them. They look like stupid twins in the same way they look like Republican husbands. You roll your eyes and allow it; anyway, you’re not in the mood to order either of them around too much.
Charles has been watching you for a while now, watched you fake moans and exaggerate whines, feigning pleasure over two of your fingers. It’s almost laughable—he’d allowed a smile, in fact, because he knows better. Once, he’d pulled your hair so hard you teared up, nodding, hand at his wrist, whimpering more, harder, do it. Another time, he and Max had gotten you all riled up and edged for half an hour, so riled that all you could mutter out were please and their names when they finally stuffed you full. You’re evidently playing your games again. You love to play around with them. It’s almost—you could almost call it a hobby.
“I’m not going to stop just ‘cause you’re both here.” Your hand moves, two fingers fucking into yourself, pink lace pushed aside. Your cunt is so pretty, they’re both thinking. “Did you think I would?” When silence greets you, you decide to address them directly. “Max. Did you?”
His voice is thin and tight when he responds, “Yeah, actually—so we could suss this out, at least.”
Your laugh is patronizing. “I prefer it this way. And you know what?”
Max stares. Charles has already been told this, several minutes ago when he found you in the exact same position. It’s not any easier for him to hear it again, chaste and sweet out of your lips. You can’t touch me.
See, they would’ve been content without touching you, if they sit and think about it. Max didn’t walk in here thinking he’d even be kissing you, and he knows Charles thinks the same thing. Maybe touch you—innocently, that kind of way. Sure, they’d been pent up, heady with arousal, but that came second to talking things out. But now you’ve told them they can’t touch, and that’s worsened them to their limit. Charles imagines touching you, the same touch he gives when it’s post-race and he gets you alone, to himself, nobody else’s, quick fucks in a dim closet, whispering some dirty shit in your ear and getting you like putty in his hands.
Max thinks of nearly the same thing. Imagines running his hand over your hair, gentle but firm, the same way he does when he knocks at your hotel room after hours and gets you from high-strung and bratty to begging for more. You notice their eyes, darkened; you realize their minds have wandered. So, they watch hopelessly as the smirk spreads prettily across your flushed face, and they remember the events of a week prior, when childishly, they’d acted out, and think, for a second, that maybe they deserve this.
You all know what it’s like to keep them from touching you.
It was both easier and worse then, in 2020 when everything started—when everything was brand new and thrilling and exciting. Easier, because they were satisfied as soon as they got you to come, maybe kiss them both, and they were content with slow exploration. Worse, because you were all insatiable. It felt like none of you could go minutes without some form of touch, during, in-between, after practice, quali, fuck—it was worse, much worse.
As you all grew older and got accustomed to the drivel of racing, you all got better. It didn’t get much easier.
Charles recalls how insatiable he was—and thinks, with amusement almost, that if he was insatiable then, he’s worse now. Now he knows where, how, for how long to touch you to get you wide-eyed and warm in the face even in the most serious of moments. Max, too. He knows how you taste, bend, tease. They love touching you. Just skin to skin. And you’ve gone and put a great big X mark over that.
“So,” Max says, voice flat, the way it is when he’s unamused with a reporter, “we’re in a time out.”
“You can call it that,” you giggle, and it segues into a huffy whimper when you angle your hand just right. “You were acting childish, anyway.”
Charles sighs, long and deep. “We—fuck.” His eyes can’t unglue themselves from your fingers. He knows he could make you feel so much better, fuck real moans out of you until you’re crying. “We were being childish, oui, and it was—we were just tense. I was unhappy with strategy. I could’ve been P2 but they pitted me at the worst time, putain. I took it out on you, and I’m… I was… I was worn out, and you called us childish in your interview.” 
Ever the minx, you only smile. You’d been joking, you clarified that a day later; it was crass, spurred on by team radios of the two of them complaining in the latter half of the race. “It was a joke, Charles.”
“I know, baby, I know.” His lip curls and he breathes steadily, controlling himself. “It was unprompted though. You weren’t even asked about us. And yeah, a joke—but it felt shitty, love. I don’t mind it—we don’t mind it, but—” He needs to think about the phrasing, think about his intentions.
Your eyes are on fire, clearly still angry, but steadily softening.
“But in moderation,” comes Max’s raspy voice. “You’re running your mouth a lot in the media.”
“You’re one to—ah—talk,” you huff back, a futile argument.
“You need to understand that—that when you’re giddy, or angry, you can’t keep turning to interviews to express all that out. You need to sit with it. Just because we’re not…” your boyfriends, Max almost says, “…yours, doesn’t mean you can shit on us then expect us to be okay with it a few hours later. It’s a thing you do. A game you play. And it’s nice, it was nice then, but it’s annoying now, and it’s almost, like, do you even want this to keep going? To work—?”
You recoil. “You seriously think I don’t want th—”
Charles cuts in. “Well, when you play at us like this, yeah. Put in the work. If you’re high off a win, or mad for some other reason, just let it happen. Don’t fucking.” He exhales. “Call us names, then show up at our hotel acting like an angel.”
They’ve always looked out for you like this, known when to scold you or put you in your place for doing too much or not doing enough. They’ve never let personal things cross too much with business, which is a blessing of an ability when you’re three people having regular sex while balancing a ludicrous athletic career. It’s all sussed down to stupid ‘I care for you’ stuff that, frankly, they’re both too horny and angry to get into the grit of right now.
They don’t realize how quiet the room has grown until you eke out a noise, a thoughtful sound of agreement. You’ve pulled your fingers out, both hands playing with a loose thread on the hem of the sweater, rolling it into a ball. Your hair falls in waves. There’s a crease in it from the ponytail you wear when driving.
Your expression is still murderous, but much softer now; you cough, “I—I get what you’re saying. And I know I play… I have these games, or—but, honestly, I could say the same to you both.” You stutter through your totally shit explanation.
“How do you… mean,” deadpans Max. 
“I mean, when I’m acting out, you two just take it.” Having them at your mercy like that is satisfying in its own right, but pragmatically, it’s unhealthy. “You don’t ever tell me off. Even now. I need you to tell me… to fucking,” you’re warm and spluttery now. “Fuck's sake, okay? I know I can be annoying. I know I say stupid shit when I don’t finish and I’m way less diplomatic than Mr. Il Predestinato,” you breathe. “But you two just let me be annoying!”
“Then don’t be annoying,” Charles says, diplomatic as ever—his voice rises, though, nearly matching yours.
“Not like that!” You huff, folding your legs and sitting straighter, and they catch a glimpse of your pink panties again. “When I’m out of line, you”—you point to them—“need to correct me.” They’re nearly blindsided by your request to… be told what to do, which is so different from how sex usually works. From how this whole dynamic usually works.
But Max remembers your manager, and Toto, and your teammate Lewis even, and your engineers, who have all, at one point or another, had to talk you down and tell you to calm down and correct your behavior. So he says, “People do that all the time, but it only works for a second.”
“Because th—” You suck in a lungful of air. “They’re not you two, you daft fuckers!” You’re at the centre of the bed now, sweater drooped over your folded thighs, eyes matching the rain outside. “Every time, I need to be talked down, and you never. Do it. So do it. Fucking—do it. I have to tell you everything.”
“You don’t—-”
“Oh, I do.” You say, folding your arms over your chest. 
“This is despicable,” Max says. “We need to sort this out properly.”
“So what? This isn’t”—you raise violent air quotes—“putting in the work?”
They glance at each other for a minute. They feel you thinking you’re winning, thinking they’ll grovel and say okay we’ll do that next time, can we fuck you? Like all the other semi-resolved fights before. You’re sitting straight, eyebrows raised, defiant. But for them to do that—you just said it wasn’t what you needed. 
And they’d have to be caught dead before not giving you what you need. If you want to be bossed around a bit, then they’ll do it.
“Sit down,” Charles goes. Unmoving. 
“What.” You’re deadpanning, eyes narrowed.
“Sit the fuck down,” he repeats. You open your mouth, but he’s quicker. “Don’t make me say it again.”
You pout, leaning against the headboard and unfolding your legs. He rounds the room, sits at the foot of the bed. It’s a big bed, so even if he’s on it, he still needs to reach over a bit to be able to touch you. The distance is good, though, keeps them in control. Max sits opposite him, both of them on either side of you, and they’re so close, so scrutinizing, so handsome. 
“Put your fingers in your mouth,” he says. You take a second, spreading your knees and obeying. You find a way, though, to make their little challenge all your own—you make a show of it, peeking your tongue out and licking your bottom lip all shiny before hollowing your cheeks. You stare at them the whole time and you don’t blink. It’s hotter than it has any right to be. “Suck on them.” You continue doing it, lips slightly curled.
“You’re a brat.” You try to conceal the whimper that leaves you but it fails pathetically. Charles presses on. “A spoiled brat.”
He’s the nicer of the two. Your whole threesome situation had began three years ago, and in almost every tryst since then, he’s been nice. In fact, if any of them were to ever ‘tell you off’ like you so desperately wanted, apparently, it would have definitely been Max. He’s firm, yeah, but he’s sweet. And he’d hate to boss you around too much, even if it’s something he wants. So he thinks, and he pretends he’s back to quali day of last week. It was a slow morning because of weather problems, so everyone was in a mood, and you were absolutely no exception. You come off as quiet to the public and to some of the grid, but to your friends, you’re anything but.
In an effort to lift the mood, you’d been mouthing off the entire day to your close circle of driver friends, in particular retelling the story of how you had teased Charles post-DNF in Saudi, and even gotten Lando to laugh about it at the time. What a season starter, you said when you were recounting it. You left out a detail: that night in Saudi, he’d fucked you and refused to let you cum, soaking your pillow with tears and goading a sobbed apology out of you.
Watching you joke about it again, even if it was a fucking joke and even if it was because you were mad at him and Max—got him all red hot, pissed off. Seething.
“Do you remember last race weekend when you joked about my DNF in Saudi?”
Cheeks hollowed, you nod.
“Fucking brat. That whole day. Ignoring me, ignoring Max. Didn’t listen to our apologies. Just noise all day.”
Your brows knit defiantly.
“I’m serious. You weren’t being funny. Just a brat. And if you were bored or pissed, you could’ve said so instead of making me look stupid.” You nod.
He glimpses at Max; the latter speaks next. “Open yourself up.”
You spread your legs out farther and sneak your spit-slick fingers down, pushing the flimsy material aside to rub at your cunt, two fingers sliding right back in. You breathe out shakily and wait for them to talk again. You’re still fussy, high-strung, not totally calm and mellowed down yet.
“When Charles and I aren’t here to fuck you into behaving, who’s going to make sure you’re acting proper?”
“Carlos,” you grit out in between thrusts.
They seethe. “Again,” Charles says, unamused.
“Nat,” you name your manager. “Lewis, or something. Fuck. Lando? I don’t—”
You asked to be told what to do, but you never said, they suppose, that it would be an easy job. “Guess again.”
“Toto.” You look delighted at that last one, knowing the implication. They’ve always been a bit jealous there. You thrive off disobedience, getting your two favorite boys all angry and flushed red with it. You open your mouth to try smartassing your way out of their orders, but Max beats you to it. “If you guess wrong, you’re not cumming. We’ll fuck you tonight, but no cumming.”
You whimper out loud, sinking your fingers farther in, adding a third.
“Don’t add another. Answer Max,” Charles says.
“Fuck,” you seethe, slipping the third out on your next thrust. “Me. I’m supposed to keep myself in check. When I’m mad. When I’m giddy and fuck—yeah. Me. It’s me.”
“Good girl,” he rasps out. “Good girl. You have to practice. How does it feel?”
I know, you mouth, eyes fluttering. You scissor the two fingers you’re thrusting in and out, wet with slick. “Feels good.”
“Not your fingers, love,” Max says. “How’s it feel hearing what we just told you?”
“Good, better,” you say in-between breaths. “I’ll practice. I like it. You’re not… letting me push you around. You’re—you can punish—fuck. Me.”
“Yeah? How, then?” 
“Fuck me,” you repeat breathlessly. “Both of you.”
“Add another,” Charles orders, and you nod, quick and pliant, fucking yourself open. They’re both so hard, cocks heavy and uncomfortable in their jeans. You can see the thick shapes of them through the denim, and you thrust harder, a futile attempt to replicate how it feels when they’re fucking you.
“You remember how it feels, having both of us in you?” Max sounds amused.
“Yes,” you moan. Your pathetic imitation of moans and gasps earlier pales in comparison to this, voice dry and thick with pleasure and raw desperation. “Yes, pl—fuck, yes.”
“Why aren’t you feeling it now?” They need to hear you verbalize the reason why, admit it one last time before they give you what you want. You whine, rutting your hips up against your hand, catching your clit on the heel of your palm. 
“Because I was being a brat, and I—you were being childish, but I didn’t want to talk things through either—and I’m always taking out my emotions on you guys, and I’m sorry, okay, would you just fuck me already?”
They’re on you immediately, all words and whispers, fingers at your chin turning you both ways to slot kisses on your mouth. Your free hand palms over Max’s bulge; he’s the one to your right. It’s hard and thick and heavy and you need it, need them. Charles’ hand takes over yours, thrusting deep and you’re whimpering into his sweet mouth.
“Feel my cock?” Max asks, “Could make you feel real nice, baby.”
“I know,” you sigh, breathless. “I want it.”
“When's the last time you took us both?” Charles asks, smile wicked. “Little thing like you.”
You grit out a moan, fuzzy and floating, letting them lift you up to straddle—one of them—you open your eyes and see Charles staring up at you, wonder and green eyes. “Got this, love?” You nod, yeah, I’ve got it, you say, little sighs. Both of you. Now.
This space you’re in, where it’s pleasure and fuzz and nothing else, is comparable to the high of winning. And you know you prefer that to sex, at least now, because racing is your life. It’s the slow satisfaction of being the best on the entire grid, despite everything. It’s the cheers, the raised fists when you climb atop your car and bring the crowd to a crescendo. The even louder screams when you pull your helmet and balaclava off and smile, trophy and all, champagne shiny and glowy on your face. All that shit—it’s addictive, and it feels just like this. So similar, in fact, because when you win, you finish on top of Charles and Max, and—
—Max is behind you, jeans tugged just enough for his cock to be pulled free, slick with lube and prodding at your ass—
—it feels just fucking like this.
“Like Max’s cock filling you up?” His cockhead is breaching your tight entrance and you moan out loud.
“I missed it,” you say, muffled by Charles’ free thumb at your lips, swirling it on your tongue. You flip him off for cutting you off and he laughs. “Give it t’me,” you goad, turning slightly. You want it so bad, missed being fed with their cocks. A week is too long. “I need more of it, all of it. In me, fill me up,” you beg, whimpering, desperate.
Max stares at your ass, grabs at the flesh there, at the string of your thong. You suck him in so hungrily, like you’re challenging him to not thrust in fully; you’re canting your hips backward too, and Max has to hike the too-big sweater up to watch the muscles of your back flex to meet his dick.
“So pretty, princess,” Charles says, because with them you really are a princess. Max begins to thrust into you from behind and you’re getting little moans fucked out of you, watching Charles unbuckle his jeans to tug his cock out, thick and pretty and you want—if you could, you would suck on it, let him fuck your throat, but you’re in the business of being filled to the point of blank thoughts right now.
You feel Charles at your cunt then, your slick making the slide easier, and Charles bucks his hips up and you—this is what you needed, to mellow you down, get you all loose and ready for more. “Take it, baby,” Max says, “all of it, all of us.”
“Ah,” you gasp out. “Ah.”
“Come on,” he grits, voice hardening. “You’re ruined. Pretty little girl. Come on.”
“Maxie,” you call out weakly, your fond little nickname for him. You remember Charles whining about how he doesn’t have one, so you save baby for him, had sussed that out on a night where they took turns fucking you. Your hips torn between the two dicks stuffing you, face sweaty and the sweater doesn’t help, gets you hotter; Charles gets the hint, and with effort, pulls it off you. Your skin is shiny underneath, matching bra sticking to your sweaty, sheened out skin.
“Love it,” you say, voice strained. “Split—fuck—me open.” Your holes clench around them and Jesus, they could have you all flushed and pretty and spread out like them, like this, forever. Charles grabs at the flesh of your ass, slaps you once and you’re tightening around them, breath impossibly still, thighs shaking. Max’s hands hold your hips tight, hungrily traveling up, groping at the wire of your bra to press at your tits. You’re pressed against both of them at a delicious angle that gets you dizzy.
“I’m gonna cum, I,” you breathe out, moaning, “I haven’t touched myself since…”
They both moan at that, delirious. Fuck. The thought of you holding it—for them—fuck. 
“You’re so perfect, so—fuck—slutty,” Charles says, and you can’t hide the moan fast enough. “Feels good, having us in you, yeah? Getting you all noisy and… fucking—shit. I know how much you needed this, love. I know how much you love it. Us.”
From behind, Max snakes a hand up your abdomen, the column of your throat, and wraps there. You see white from the sensation of it alone.
“Tell me—I can’t—please, I—Charles—Maxie—” You’re increasingly incoherent, slick running down your thighs, twitching vigorously. You try to comprehend everything but you’re losing coherence and they get it, they get it, wiping your tears and sweat and coercing you to cum, yeah, pretty little pussy so fucking wet for us, cum hard, come on, you’ve been so good, baby, the best girl for us.
There’s no way either of them are lasting after that, after watching you fall apart and finish on top of them, stuffed full, stuffed pliant, stuffed fucking docile.
It’s your turn, then, to praise, your favorite boys, always so good for me, thank you for letting me cum, come on, let me taste it—and you’re stained with their release after a few minutes, Max biting on your shoulder, Charles’ thumb indenting your hip.
What. A. Podium, ladies and gentlemen! Max Verstappen of Red Bull, from P6 in the last race to a stunning P3 drive—Charles Leclerc, braving the team’s dismal strategy to get P2! What a knockout. Of course the Mercedes legend, gunning for four championships now, had crossed the flag first to claim her fifth P1 of the season.
What a legendary race, absolutely proper podium. They showed us what driving is, real driving.
The season is heating up. 
Makes you wonder what happened over the weekend for them to get such good results.
This is F1. I’m sure they keep each other motivated.
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konigbabe · 11 months
Text
keep it quiet
Pairing: ID!Leon Kennedy x fem!reader | single dad AU
Word count: 2.2k
Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; single dad Leon; breath play; p-in-v sex; praise kink; top!leon; blowjobs; slight face-fucking; female gendered anatomy
Summary: Just single dad Leon fucking you in the janitor's closet during class.
a/n: Canon ID!Leon is around 29 but Leon in this '"universe" is aged up to be in his 30s (age won't be specified but I imagine him to be in his mid-to-late 30s).
Written as part of my A to Z kinks game. Q is for a quickie.
series masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi
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The pungent smell of bleach hangs heavy in the air, biting your nose with every breath you take; tangling with the bright citrus notes of Leon's cologne, a potent blend of bergamot and lemon. The two scents mingle and dance, a waltz of sharp and sweet.
It’s an unexpected combination. One that should’ve clashed, yet somehow they complement each other.
Your mind tries to process the conflicting sensations, but it’s a futile effort when every sense is consumed by the man behind you and the way his hips keep pistoning into you.
Sharp, short thrusts.
Each one driving his cock deeper into your body.
Angled so that the head of his cock kisses your cervix every time. With a fervor that steals your breath. Baths you in liquid fire.
Each thrust like a battering ram, slamming into you with a force that threatens to tear you apart.
Somehow, you find yourself holding on, clinging to the nearby shelf, like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to this world. Knuckles straining, fingers curling over the smooth surface, a rush of heat courses through your veins as Leon's grip tightens ever so slightly.
"Fuck, Leon–"
Your whine tapers off, replaced by a deep, purring hum of satisfaction as Leon’s hand encircles your throat; exerting a gentle but firm grip that pulls you closer to him. Chin nestled on the base of your shoulder, his teeth glide across the tender underside of your ear.
A tingle starts at the nape of your neck and courses through your body, like a sparkling river of sensation.
The fluorescent light above flickers intermittently, casting a ghostly and eerie glow over the confined space. The hum of the light like a faint melody.
The grip on your hips dissipates; Leon’s other arm moves upwards. His palm hovers before your lips, the tip of his middle finger tracing the underside of your lip; heartbeat picking up.
"Open up fo’ me."
And you oblige. Without a second wasted, two of his fingers find their way into your mouth. Pressing against the wet muscle, teasing your tongue and coaxing it into action; hooking behind your teeth, you manage to swirl your tongue around the fingertips.
"That’s it–jus’ like that," his words come in a low, gravelly murmur. Dripping in satisfaction. Followed by a brush of his lips against the delicate shell of your ear. "Good girl."
His words flood your body with heat; every nerve alights. His voice a velvet caress. A balm to your soul. A sweet validation.
Nudging your legs further apart with his boot, you suck at his fingers one by one; giving each a secluded attention. Leon’s breath hitches when your tongue laps at the tip of his index finger; the weight of his forehead rests on the crown of your shoulder, lips parting in a gasp of pleasure.
It makes you moan, makes you quiver around him, akin to the flutter of a butterfly's wings.
Pushing your hips backwards, you meet the sharp plane of his pelvis as his fingers withdraw; a wet string smudged over your lower lip. Slickness coats your tongue, leaving a tangy taste in your mouth.
Leon's fingers sneak under the hunched material of your skirt, tracing a wet path over the exposed flesh of your thighs. His thumb lingers at the apex, applying just enough pressure to make you shiver, attempting to bite back a moan.
Lost in the sea of sensations that threaten to consume you.
The rough pads of his fingers find your clit; the pulsating nub throbs beneath his touch. It's as if a live wire is coursing through your body, electrifying every nerve ending. Leon’s fingers move in rhythm with his thrusts–
"Leon–fuck, don’t stop–Leon–"
Words mingle together. Mind too foggy. Too fucked up to comprehend a single sentence.
-the pressure enough to send you spiralling; making your breath come in ragged gasps, quiet mewls as his fingers dance over your sensitive flesh, drawing out every last drop of pleasure.
A sweet ache coils in your belly, radiating outwards.
Both hands gripping a shelf on each side of the narrow closet, you feel like a marionette. Completely at his mercy. The wood creaks under your grasp, protesting the force of your grip. But you can't help it; the pleasure’s too intense, too all-consuming.
Leon's fingers work their magic; teasing and coaxing your body to the brink of orgasm. Each stroke and brush causing your walls to flutter, squeeze him delightfully; making his hips quake with every movement.
The heat between your legs intensifies, the wetness pooling and spilling over onto his cock. His thumb circles your clit, drawing it out and flicking it back in a rhythmic motion that has you on the edge.
Body like a coiled spring, wound tight and ready to snap, your hips push back.
Until the squeeze of his fingers on the side of your throat fades while leaving behind a warmth that lingers on your skin–
Every touch, every stroke, every kiss a building block, adding to the fire that’s burning inside you.
–and is replaced by a hand covering your mouth, stifling a sound that begins to surge from the depths of your being.
In a natural reaction, one of your hands shoots towards the intrusion, fingers wrapping around Leon’s wrist, feeling the cool material of his watch.
You moan when Leon’s hips still. Pelvis flush against the curve of your ass, buried to the brim, as if he's trying to meld his body with yours. His breath ghosts over your nape.
Footsteps echo through the door. Two sets of heels clicking against the polished concrete floor. You both freeze, bodies still tangled together in the cramped space.
You should be panicking, being seen like that. But the fire in your belly refuses to be quenched; your body a bundle of nerves, the thrill of excitement at the thought of being caught mingling with the heady rush of pleasure that Leon is coaxing from you. It's a dangerous game, one that sets your heart racing and your skin ablaze with need.
You’re sure they’ll hear the frantic thumping of your heart, the ragged gasps of breath that escape your lips.
Leon's grip on your jaw tightens, grounding you in the moment, urging you to focus only on the pleasure that he's giving you.
Instead, a whimper slips from your mouth, muffled by Leon’s hand when you feel the slow, deliberate slide of his cock out of your dripping wetness. Moving in slow motion as he withdraws, teasing you with just the tip of his throbbing cock still nestled inside you.
Every nerve in your body alive with anticipation, yearning for the moment when he will plunge back inside you, filling you up completely. You can feel the wetness coating his cock, and the slickness of your own desire as it clings to him, urging him to come back to you.
Your body’s a symphony of sensations, each note building on the last until it crescendos into a symphony of pleasure.
"Shhh," the short stubble grazes your cheek as he murmurs, leisurely drawing his cock back inside your slick heat; the footsteps grow louder, "wouldn’t want your fellow teachers seein’ you gettin’ stuffed by my cock in the janitor’s closet, would you?"
As Leon's hand exerts a gentle force on your parted lips, your head falls back, coming to rest on the sharp, angular edge of his clavicle. Capable of feeling every inch of him as he moves languidly within you, each thrust slow and deliberate, savoring the squeeze of your cunt on him.
Leon’s words, accompanied by a steady slide of his cock, capable of feeling every inch of him; it makes your core throb; your walls to tighten, emitting a gentle moan from the man behind you.
"You’re making noises too," you mumble, the words barely coherent in the midst of your ecstasy. Consumed by the heat of his body against yours, the scent of his mixed with the musky aroma of sex. The sound of his ragged breaths, guttural grunts and gentle moans of your name.
The rhythmic motion of his thrusts lulling you into a state of pure bliss.
"Can’t help it," his teeth graze your shoulder blade, "you just feel too good.." Emphasizing his words; Leon’s fingers pull from your aching nub before giving it a gentle slap. With a sudden shift, his hips deliver a sharp, forceful thrust, shattering the lazy rhythm he’d established earlier.
You inhale sharply at the unexpected sensation, but the burn of desire only intensifies.
Senses on overdrive, the footsteps pass. Leaving you and Leon alone again. It seems to drive him back deeper into you, his thrusts becoming more frenzied and urgent.
Leon’s fingers curl and stroke your clit, slow and steady, then faster, rougher, until—
Heat; A tidal wave of pleasure crashes over you, consuming every inch of your being. Your mind dissolves into a haze of pleasure, every nerve ending alight with ecstasy.
–a cry rips from your throat, echoing through the room. The tension snaps, leaving you panting, trembling, and utterly spent.
Cunt fluttering around Leon’s cock, his hands snap to grip your waist. His breathing’s heavy and ragged, matching the pace of his thrusts. He holds you close, his body flush against yours, as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm.
"Fuck–’m gonna cum," his lips latch onto your pulsating jugular, feeling your violent heartbeat, "be good to me, get on your knees," he rasps, having a hard time formulating full sentences as the coil in his body tightens, threatening to unravel at any moment.
Hips snapping forward one last time, burying himself deep inside your leaking cunt, his breath hot against your skin before you obey.
A pathetic whine leaves your lips at the sudden emptiness when he pulls away, hands guiding you to turn around, putting pressure on your shoulders to make you sink down to your knees in front of him.
Jeans pushed down just enough to free himself, heat flushes your face at the sight of his cock, glistening with your cum. Not wasting time, your lips wrap around the spongy tip, tasting the salty tang of your own release mixed with the slightly sweet taste of his skin. Swirling around the sensitive head.
The taste floods your mouth. A heady mixture of musk and lust.
And you savor it. Like a rare delicacy.
"Fuck–look at you," Leon growls.
His eyes smolder with desire as he looks down at you, watching the way your lips stretch to accommodate him. A low, throaty moan of appreciation slips past his lips, his hand tightening in your hair as he urges you to take him deeper.
Eyes moving upwards, his chin is all you can see as he throws his head back, hand gripping the same shelf you were moments ago, knuckles white. The leather of his jacket creaks with the movement.
Coaxing out every drop of pleasure from his throbbing cock. The taste of him lingers in your mouth, a potent reminder of the pleasure you're bringing him.
Breathing becoming ragged, his body tenses under your hands.
Suddenly, his hips thrust forward with a sudden urgency that takes you by surprise. The head of his cock kisses the back of your throat for a second, causing you to lose your breath and withdraw as your gag reflex kicks in, eyes watering.
You can feel the wetness of your own saliva and his precum dribbling down your chin.
"Shit, sorry," he rumbles, eyes back on your kneeling form.
His gaze is glazed over with desire, and his hand moves from your hair to cup your cheek. He brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, smearing the slickness across your skin.
"S’okay," you reassure him with a soft smile, "you can do that; just tell me next time."
He nods as your fingers wrap around his base, taking him back in eagerly, taking him as deep as you can, feeling his thick length stretching your mouth to its limits.
This time, you’re ready; relaxing your throat, you let him set the pace. Feeling the pressure at the back of your head as he guides your face towards his cock.
With each drive, he plunges deeper into your mouth. His body taut like a bowstring, every muscle coiled tight. You can feel the tension emanating from him in waves, his arousal thick in the air between you.
His cock swells inside of your mouth, pulsing with each beat of his heart. You can taste his desire, a heady mix of salt and musk that fills your senses.
Tapping his thigh, he stops his movements as you glide your lips along his cock, hand moving in the same rhythm.
You pick up the pace, tongue and lips working in perfect unison to coax out every last drop of his pleasure.
With a deep grunt of your name, he convulses, his body wracked with spasms of ecstasy. Fingernails scratch your scalp as he spills into your mouth, and you savor the taste of him, swallowing each salty, hot drop eagerly.
As he comes down from his high, he looks down at you with a mixture of awe and gratitude in his eyes.
"That’s A plus, miss teacher," he whispers, voice husky, pulling you up to stand in front of him.
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mycoblogg · 5 months
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HORROR WEEK- FOTD #144 : apple bolete! (exsudoporus frostii)
the apple bolete (also frost's bolete) is a mycorrhizal fungus in the family boletaceae >:-) it typically grows near the hardwood trees of the eastern US, southern mexico & costa rica. it was chosen for horror week due to its appearance being reminiscent of muscle tissue !!
the big question : will it kill me?? nope !! however, although they are edible, they are not recommended for consumption as it is quite easy to confuse them with other red boletes. ^^
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e. frostii description :
"the shape of the cap of the young fruit body ranges from a half sphere to convex, later becoming broadly convex to flat or shallowly depressed, with a diameter of 5–15 cm (2.0–5.9 in). the edge of the cap is curved inward, although as it ages it can uncurl and turn upward. in moist conditions, the cap surface is sticky as a result of its cuticle, which is made of gelatinized hyphae. if the fruit body has dried out after a rain, the cap is especially shiny, sometimes appearing finely areolate (having a pattern of block-like areas similar to cracked, dried mud). young mushrooms have a whitish bloom on the cap surface.
the colour is bright red initially, but fades with age. the flesh is up to 2.5 cm (1.0 in) thick, & ranges in colour from pallid to pale yellow to lemon yellow. the flesh has a variable staining reaction in response to bruising, so some specimens may turn deep blue almost immediately, while others turn blue weakly & slowly.
the tubes comprising the pore surface (the hymenium) are 9–15 mm deep, yellow to olivaceous yellow (mustard yellow), turning dingy blue when bruised. the pores are small (2 to 3 per mm), circular, & until old age a deep red colour that eventually becomes paler. the pore surface is often beaded with yellowish droplets when young (a distinguishing characteristic), & readily stains blue when bruised. the stipe is 4 to 12 cm (1.6 to 4.7 in) long, & 1 to 2.5 cm (0.4 to 1.0 in) thick at its apex. it is roughly equal in thickness throughout its length, though it may taper somewhat toward the top ; some specimens may appear ventricose (swollen in the middle). the stipe surface is mostly red, or yellowish near the base ; it is reticulate — characterized by ridges arranged in the form of a net-like pattern."
[images : source & source] [fungus description : source]
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bleubrri · 1 year
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the pounding at the apex of your skull worsens with every pathetic sniffle, feeble attempts to clear your stuffy nose. your throat is a shell of its former self—torn to shreds and burning with the feeling of being lacerated by shards of glass. it’s by far the worst day, you’re debilitatingly sick, and toji hates it.
every frenzy of coughs that vibrate in your throat and wrack your little body so hard that he thinks you’ll choke up a lung—he hates that he can’t do anything. and you keep worrying for him, scalding him to keep his distance.
“you’ll get sick, toji.” your voice is cracked beyond belief, all nasally and hoarse from the constant strain on your throat, and being buried in his chest doesn’t help its muffled volume.
“i don’t care.” he pulls you closer, running large hands up your arms and finding goosebumps branded into your skin. “shit, you’re freezin’ baby.”
“‘s just a few chills.”
he frowns, unconvinced, and reluctantly slips from his place under you, stepping up from the bed and leaning down to bundle the covers around you tighter. you blink up at him, tired eyes and runny nose pulling at his heartstrings as you reach out to clasp his hand.
“where you goin’?”
he presses the icy points of your knuckles to his lips. “‘m gonna make you somethin’. you hungry?” your eyes dart around and you nod sheepishly, like you’re embarrassed to accept the offer. it almost makes him scoff—if you asked for the sun toji would rip every star from the sky just to see you smile.
“okay.” he kisses the tip of your nose, uncaring of the way you scrunch up your face and mumble about being all snotty. “sit tight, bubs.”
he watches your eyes flutter shut as you nod, burrowing into the plush of the pillow as he makes his way to the kitchen.
you’re awoken from a hazy sneeze-filled sleep by clinking at the side of the bed and a subtle savoury scent penetrating the blocked tunnels of your sinuses.
toji chuckles at the delighted hey that you croak out, as if he wasn’t 2 rooms away and listening in on every cough and sniffle. he sits up against the headboard, pulling you up towards him as he settles a tray on his lap.
there’s ice cream that he lets you eat first; vanilla, because all that other shits for kids or assholes. a simple rice porridge that settles your stomach and fills you with a tranquil warmth. a questionable looking juice that you’re skeptical of, but turns out to be pleasantly sweet with notes of ginger and lemon that already have you feeling more refreshed. and the soup is delicious—thick and glossy with veggies peeking through and a subtle spice that soothes your soul and warms you all over. you’re staring at him with gooey heart-eyes by the time he spoons the last of it past your lips. there’s a pleasant heaviness to your limbs, and your eyes are drooping again by the time you’ve sipped some water and polished everything off.
your thank you comes in a dreamy mumble that has him pressing his lips to your forehead as you slump against his broad form.
he grunts, slipping a hand under your hoodie to trace the bones of your hips and watching your breaths even out until you drift into the least fitful sleep of the day.
“anythin’ for you.”
#: @sheluvzeren @oxygenstarrved @wh0reforlevi
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Stress Relief
For someone on Twitter who requested a lil Voidstrike :D and who am I if not indulgent in them
Summary: Wraith has been working herself too hard trying to find the answers of her life she knows so little of. Anita is tired of seeing her work herself to the point of tears and anxiety and decides to help her favorite girl out.Or! In which Anita takes it into her own hands to absolutely render Wraith's mind into mush so she stops thinking so much.
Ao3 link: Here
Reblogs > Likes. Remember to Reblog if you hit Like to support future content like this and keep me writing :D Comments and tags will be read and u shall be SMOOCHED!!!
Fandom: Apex Legends
Relationship: Bangalore x Wraith - Voidstrike
Warnings:R18+/NSFT, Wraith has piercings/body mods, Anita is a service top as she deserves, Otherwise p tame for smth horny!
Words: 1.4k
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“None of it is clear! Not even the birthdays add up- o-or even the names! What if I’m not right on this? What if- what if I’m tracing the wrong person? And it’s me- but not me? What if I-I just can’t-”   
“Settle down, kitty. You’ve been at this for three hours, you’re gonna get yourself overwhelmed. Take a break, you’ve been workin’ too hard, beautiful.”   
Anita’s voice is a soothing break in the confines of Wraith’s loud mind. Everyone is too loud, theories running around, too many names being shouted- what was right, what was wrong. What could be false information, what could be right.  
Frustratedly, Wraith stares at the documents in front of her.  
~Rest under the cut~
The documents are scattered on the table, messy scribbles on a journal and one already closed beside her- full of notes on the pages, front and back. Wraith has been gnawing on her bottom lip, pinching the plump flesh between her teeth and surely close to drawing blood from how flushed it is.  
It- it should be right here. It’s staring her in the face, she just knows it. If she could just get everybody to settle down and stop talking all at once-   
“Hey,” Anita’s voice once again cuts through her inner mantra. Her tone is full of command, solid with no room for argument. It makes Wraith’s eyes snap up, milky white starting to drown into icy blue as the voices begin to settle down. “Don’t think I asked you if you wanted to take a break. I said take a break. C’mere.”   
Anita’s tone is final. Her look even more so, peering over her arm that’s thrown over the couch where she’s sat. Her other hand has a bottle in it, sipping on her taste of drink and providing Wraith company for the day. 
Anita had her own share of documents in front of her, highlights and little red notes scribbled with questions or comparisons. Her own table is pristine, carefully laid out thoughts in comparison to Wraith's mess on the table.  
Helping, Wraith reminds herself. She wasn’t alone.   
Her breath is shaky, over stimulation clouding her better judgement. But...Anita was right- not that Wraith would admit that out loud and fuel her ego.   
With finality, she moves from the kitchen table and slowly crosses the threshold into the living room. Her footsteps are soft, watching Anita watch her with a small furrow to her brow as she looks Wraith down then up to catch her gaze. 
There are no words exchanged as Anita sets down her drink, opening her arms and shifting her open legs to be a bit more closed. Wraith doesn’t need to speak either, slowly climbing into her girlfriend’s lap and settling her arms around Anita’s shoulders. Just as Anita’s arms encircle around her waist, one hand on the back of her head and encouraging Wraith to bury into her neck with another on her lower back.  
Fingers gently dip beneath Wraith’s hoodie to brush warm fingers against icy cold skin. It makes Wraith sigh as her body eases its tensions all at once, inhaling Anita's spicy scent and taking note of the cologne on her. The same breath exhales from her just as easy, easing her muscles. 
Anita hums against her gently, resting her cheek on Wraith's head as her hands slide under her girlfriend's hoodie. Her fingers trace over Wraith's back, sliding up then down nice and easy until Wraith's breath has calmed.  
Everything is quiet save for Anita's breathing and the slow steady sound of her heart. Wraith appreciates the comfort, quietly showing it by pressing soft kisses to Anita's neck.  
"Mmh, watch it, baby. You know I'm sensitive." Anita sighs out, gently trying to readjust Wraith and clearly expecting her to do the same. But when Wraith hums softly, nipping at her neck, she knows she has Anita right where she wants her when Anita moans.  
"I know." Wraith murmurs matter-of-factly, adjusting her stance in Anita's lap to make it more pointed how her thighs splay on either side of hers.  
"Could distract you," Anita relents with her tone playful as if she's pondering it. Even as her hands slide down into the loose lounge pants on Wraith's waist, sliding down to get a handful of her plentiful ass. Anita pulls Wraith against her in a harsh grind, causing the smaller of the two to gasp. "Could take care of you. You've been workin' too hard as is.  
Wraith sighs shakily, feeling how Anita's hand slides further down, brushing fingertips under Wraith to slip under her panties. Normally Wraith liked playing cat and mouse, toying and teasing until Anita was at her limit. But she can’t today.  
Wraith’s whisper is gentle, hardly above a breath as it breathes from her. A simply, tiny, "Please-"  
"For you, baby? I'd do anything."  
--  
Wraith finds herself sobbing on her back before she can even blink. Now in her bedroom, lying on her back with her fingers fisted into the sheets- not knowing whether to settle there or Anita’s curls. Her back is arched, lips parted and hair a mess around her as Anita lies between her legs with messy, wet sounds coming from her. Licking, suckling, moaning into Wraith's pussy with her arms hooked under her thighs.  
Anita has pushed Wraith into a half-folded style, baring her pussy to its fullest so she can torture her clit. Sometimes dipping her tongue inside of her just to moan and making Wraith cry out with a squirm. 
Wraith has cum at least three times already, sweat building on her forehead and making the rest of her skin shiny with a heavenly glow. All of her clothing save for her hoodie has been tossed off, her hoodie tugged up above her heavy, pierced breasts. Something that Anita pays attention to by sliding her hands up to give them a squeeze when her lips focus on suckling Wraith's clit.  
"G-God, 'Nita-" Wraith sobs out, her body trembling as her back arches. She can feel the rubber band in her lower abdomen threatening to snap again, making her strain with an arch of her back. Her voice trembles in a cry, slamming her hands down to the bed to curl her fingers tight into the sheets. 
Anita doesn't even acknowledge her save for a low hum of approval. One of her hands squeezing her breast moving so she can slide her calloused thumb over Wraith's pierced nipple, gingerly pinching and tugging it. Just as her other hand splays across Wraith's lower abdomen, applying light pressure to keep her pinned down. 
It's enough. Forcing another orgasm from Wraith's trembling form. Her moan is loud, one of her hands coming up to grab her own hair to steady herself as sobs wrack her frame. Her breathing is heavy, hard, everything in her mind being reduced to nothing but mush. 
Anita doesn't even stop. Her tongue only pauses for a moment, splayed out underneath Wraith's throbbing clit to feel how the engorged little thing presses to her tongue. Her eyes are near pitch black as she looks up at Wraith, taking in every inch of her greedily. 
When Wraith finally catches her breath, Anita's hands slide down her form. Two fingers sliding through her slick to gather lubrication before slipping them into Wraith who quickly whimpers, her head falling back weakly. 
"Come on, d-don't you think this is a little exces-- ah!" Wraith is cut off once more by Anita curling her fingers just right inside of her. Followed by her blowing air lightly over Wraith's flushed clit to make her jump and squeeze down on her fingers. 
"Excessive, huh?" Anita practically purrs out, her voice thick and hoarse from her own arousal. Pleased by pleasing Wraith. "What's excessive is how much you think. Relax. Let me handle tonight, okay?" 
Wraith's breath shudders when Anita moves, bending Wraith in half as she pulls herself up to her knees. Keeping one arm braced on the back of her knees to begin thrusting her fingers into Wraith as if she was fucking her. Punctuated by how Anita leans in, her lips brushing over Wraith's parted ones that gasp against her helplessly. 
"Like I always tell you. I got you." It's whispered in a gravel tone against Wraith's lips before she captures them to swallow Wraith's cries. 
Wraith would hand it to Anita later. She sure did know how to keep a girl's head clear.
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lemonade-juley · 2 years
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So normally when I play Apex, and some random notices I have a feminine name as my username, it's usually devolved into a pretty negative experience.
But the other day, I was playing Fuse and one of my teammates just ask "are you a girl?" Into text chat, bit I didn't say anything except use Fuse's "Nothin like a lil' chaos, ay?" Quip, and shortly after the guy goes "Did I just get ghosted" to which I responded with Fuse saying "Walk it off mate" and that was the end of the whole interaction and the game proceeded as normal
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techs-ass · 1 year
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Shark Dump: Lemon Sharks!
Some of you seemed to enjoy my shark facts and honestly, if I can get the chance to rave about sharks, I will. So here are some shark facts starting with my favorite, Lemon Sharks!!
If you guys enjoy this, feel free to leave me a request with the name of a shark you'd like to learn about and I'll be happy to info dump on them. I'm thinking about posting one every Sunday (Shark Sundays!!! :D )
Technically I was supposed to post this earlier but I didn't lol oops-
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Conservation Status: NEAR THREATENED
This cute guy here is a Lemon shark or Negaprion brevirostris! They get this name from their yellowish skin and yellow bellies but they can be anywhere from brown to olive colored. Lemon sharks are mostly native to the Atlantic Ocean and parts of the Pacific where they occupy coral keys, mangrove forests, bays and even docks. Most populations can be found in Gulf of Mexico, the West Indies, and the Caribbean.
They can grow up to 11 ft long which makes them one of the larger species of sharks but don't let their size scare you! These guys are mostly scavengers that hunt for food near sandy in-shore areas. Most of the lemon sharks diet consists of bony fish, crustaceans and stingrays although they occasionally snack on seabirds or smaller sharks. They hunt using electroreceptors on their nose, called ampullae de Lorenzini, which help them detect fish and other creatures, even buried in the sand.
(Remember, sharks don't have hands so they rely on their nose and mouth to explore the enviroment around them!)
Lemon sharks usually live in oceanic waters that are no deeper than 188 ft although some have been found in waters at depths of up to 300 ft. They are one of 43 sharks that can swim in freshwater but usually don't travel very far into these waters as they can't survive for long periods in them. If you see a lemon shark in freshwater, they're probably just there for a quick bite to eat before heading back to the ocean.
Fun Fact: Bull sharks are the only shark that can survive in both salt and fresh water! They're also one of the dumber sharks and will try to eat anything that fits in their mouths.
Despite how scary they look, lemon sharks are actually a favorite among divers and marine biologist because of their docile behavior! They rarely attack humans (As of 2011, researchers had found only 10 cases of lemon sharks attacking humans, and none of these cases were deadly), in fact, they are very shy and usually try to avoid us. Though if they do approach, they're usually just being curious and will bump you with their nose.
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But my favorite thing about lemon Sharks? Once they get over their shyness, they LOVE getting belly rubs! They find the sensation very pleasant and will actively seek out the divers who pet them, even chasing other sharks away if they feel the diver’s giving them too much attention. Sometimes, if you rub their belly too much or if you stimulate the tiny sensory pores located on their snout, you can put them into something called tonic immobility.
Tonic immobility is a reflex that causes a temporary state of inactivity in an animal. Similar to hypnosis! Researchers aren't sure why sharks do this as it's usually thought to be a prey instinct so apex predators like sharks shouldn't have this. But most researchers have found that the sharks aren't stressed when they perform this behavior so it might just mean they're really relaxed! This is backed up by the fact that when in this state the shark’s muscles relax and their breathing becomes deep and rhythmic. Sharks usually enter tonic immobility in less than a minute and they can remain in this state for up to 15 minutes. It doesn't hurt them at all and researches use this to help subdue them.
Lemon sharks (like many other sharks) are imperative to keeping our reefs alive and healthy. Without them, we've already begun to see a major decline in coral reefs and seagrass beds. By taking these sharks out of the coral reef ecosystem, there's nothing to keep the larger predatory fish in check and they overfeed on the herbivores. With less herbivores, macroalgae expands and coral can no longer compete, shifting the ecosystem to one of algae dominance causing the reefs to eventually die out.
Now, back to lemon sharks and the most important fact I have about them: their conservation status.
Lemon sharks are considered to be near threatened. This means that they are likely to become endagered in the near future. This is because they are targeted by commercial and recreational fishermen primarily due to their highly prized fins. Their meat is also in high demand and is considered a delicacy in many areas. Further, the continuing destruction of their habitat has led to the severe decline of lemon shark populations.
But thankfully, there are steps already being taken to help protect these sweet sea puppies. The Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission prohibits the harvesting of lemon sharks in state waters. Any lemon shark that catches onto a hook is to be released immediately, either by removal of the hook from the shark or by cutting the shark free—whichever will release the shark quickest. Some countries are also slowly starting to put in protections for them as well.
You can also help! Many people view sharks as blood-thirsty monsters due to decades of slander campaigns and hollywood scare movies (I'm glaring at you Jaws). But we can change that view by showing the world just how beautiful and intelligent these creatures really are! The more informed people are about the sharks, the more we can do to help them. Just by reading this post and learning about lemon sharks, you're helping! Now, the next time you hear someone talking smack about sharks, you can smack them with some cool shark facts! Then hopefully with enough smacking, we can change how people see these lovely predators and get more support for their protection.
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dreamsb0u · 8 months
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making sans aus and some of my characters as sharks just bc i can
SANS AUS: Cross - Thresher/Foxtail. Look at that tail. Beautiful. I love him and I love threshers. Fight me. They're also not commonly seen and considered vulnerable. They're shy around humans and I like beating Cross to a pulp so go figure. He would use his tail as a sword also. Just saying.
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Horror: Silky Shark. I don't know I just,,,,,,,, just take him. Please. Love him,,,,,
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Dust: Oceanic White Tip. I don't know why I just feel like it suits him. ALSO. The white tips kinda look like dust geddit.
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Nightmare: Frilled Shark. They're known for their eel like and ancient traits and living in the deeper sea which I feel like Nightmare would definitely be like. Bro wants nothing to do with those OTHER sharks (He gets roped into their shenanigans anyways)
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Killer: Fuck. He'd be a Shortfin Mako for sure. They're super fast (The fastest shark and one of the fastest fish listed!) and live in the open ocean! They're endangered though which is sad :( But !! They're pretty and strong!
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this image just gives off 'i know what you are' vibes
Dream: Lemon Shark. I like them you can also fight me on this one fucking do it. They're a very social type of shark and generally known for interacting with divers in friendly ways! Also they're yellow (I think)
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Swap: Blue shark. Self explanatory and! They live in deep waters, are near threatened and rarely bite humans! They're very cool and I like them.
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Ink: Epaulette Shark, they're colourful and live in reefs! Also that mf (/aff) WOULD evolve to walk on land. The spots? Ink fr.
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Error: Bitch would be a greenland shark. They live in very deep water and have very slow metabolism, they look kinda gnarly and live for a long time (at least 250 years!!!). They often have eye parasites that make their vision shit and Error's glasses,,,,, yeah ok ill leave
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MY CHARACTERS
Cur: Dogfish lol jk. Sand Tiger Shark, like most sharks- they only attack when they're bothered first (DON'T FUCKING PULL THE SHARK'S TAILS WTF....) and show protective behaviour. They have big teeth that stick out of their mouth and a big appetite but they're sadly critically endangered. They're the most widely kept large shark due to their tolerance of captivity.
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Flesh: Angel shark. He's pretty, they're pretty. Next Question.
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Cinder: Tiger Shark. They have a reputation for being 'trash eaters' because of the things scientists find in their stomachs. They swim wherever but are guided by warmer currents and stay closer to the equator when it's cold. They're an apex predator with their only known predator being the orca.
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Extra image of a Greenland shark I found funny
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LOOK AT IT DNJHSNDAJN
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yeyinde · 1 year
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omg i just saw a tag on one of your recent posts saying you could talk all day about how the cod boys smell and i’m begging you PLEASE do!! i’m a huge fan of perfumes and one of my favorite things to do for characters is to compile scents that i think would fit them the best. i’m super curious what your thoughts are and i would love to hear more!
thank you so much for this!! i had a lot of fun with it! 🖤
Ghost: dead leaves, pine, cedar, fall air, laurel, balsam, smoke, clove bud, black patchouli, mushroom caps, dampened black soil. he smells like a thick, dense Pacific Northwest forest after a heavy rainfall or a piece of driftwood washed up on the shore — Roja Parfums APEX or Tom Ford Costa Azzurra
Soap: amber, violet, magnolia, guaiac wood, pink pepper, earl grey tea, steamed milk, vanilla, grass, clover, sun-warmed cornfields, muguet, honeysuckle, acacia, ozone, meadow air, tree moss, oakmoss, fir balsam, lavender, and cumarin (which smells like freshly harvested hay). he smells like a field in the zenith of summer, maybe freshly cut grass; something sweet and rich — Dolce&Gabbana Intenso or Viktor & Rolf Spice Bomb
Price: tobacco, agarwood, whiskey, resins, white musk, leather, vetiver, sandalwood, amber, suede, mysore sandalwood, vanilla husk, chamois accord, Alaskan cedarwood, tobacco leaf, black oak, cardamom, saffron threads, miel blanc. he smells like a pub that's always empty or an antique store; thick with smoke, and heavy with leather and tobacco — Tobacco Oud, Ombrè, or Tobacco Vanile by Tom Ford
Gaz: orange, Italian lemon zest, green apple, tonka beans, amber, woody vanilla, tuberose, iris, tiaré, paperwhite narcissus, night-blooming jasmine. he smells like the coast in the spring; sage and sea salt — Versace Eros or Frederic Malle Musc Ravageur
Alejandro: spicy (almost cola-clove-y), resinous, premium myrrh accord, frankincense, oud, myrrh, bergamot, neroli, patchouli. he smells a little bit like being on the balcony of a nightclub: fresh air cut with the thick tang of spice and smoke wafting through the open doors or the ocean on a humid summer night after a rainshower soaked the sand — Giorgio Armani Acqua di Gio or Ralph Lauren Polo Earth
Rodolfo: strong coffee, streusel coffee cake, nutmeg, brown sugar, toasted almonds, cardamom, ambergris, cashmere wood, vanilla, saffron. he smells like a cafe in the morning, sweet and robust; or a bookstore —Byredo Vanille Antique or Maison Francis Kurkdjian Baccarat Rouge 540
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ackerfics · 8 months
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FAMILY LINE — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc
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act one, chapter four: first, a dead wife; second, a dead mother (wc: 6.1k) | masterlist
i forgot to mention ... this is going to be slow burn as fuck
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116 AC
“Your Grace, the strawberry scones and the lemon tarts are here. Where should I place them?”
A well-groomed finger points to the space right beside the tiered display of glistening honey cakes and small blueberry pies. “If you can place them right there, it would be delightful.” The handmaiden arranges the platters of desserts just the way the person in charge likes them. “Thank you. Oh, that’s lovely.”
The soft hands behind the emerald green gown sleeves adjust the plates until the flowers on the ceramics shine through without being overshadowed by the splatters of colours on the table. Teapots are checked if the right tea flavour is procured and once that is done, the lemon candies are also poured into a bowl. The owner of the non-calloused hand sighs in accomplishment, her brown eyes taking in the assembly of what could have been an array of sweets in a luxurious bakery in the more noble circles of King’s Landing. 
Alicent doesn’t know why she is fussing so much.
Afternoon tea is usually spent with all of the children the handmaidens can round up. Aether and Aegon would be the contributors of the most noise inside her solar, with the two boys circling the only girl in their little trio like a gaggle of geese; Helaena would be murmuring things to her little friends (Alicent makes sure that the bugs she brings to the tea sessions are happily crawling inside a jar); Aemond would be reading about the basics of swordsmanship or listening to his female cousin narrate the events in the book she was reading; Daeron and Daemian would be having a contest of their own, which ends up in too many crumbs on the carpets; and Aesira would be the prim little lady that she is, reading books that she managed to take from one of the libraries or simply writing in her journal while the chaos reigns in. Each child has their own little world and the placid chambers fit for the Queen become the royal nursery where they all resided years ago. Alicent never worries about presentations with that many children. Spreads of an assortment of sweets are laid out on her table because little hands always pick what they prefer.
Maybe that is why she is pacing with her head rolling on the ground; Alicent will be alone with one of them and for some reason, everything has to be perfect.
Aesira is a ghost set to ignite Alicent’s heart and mind in bouts of internal battles — a shot in the heart for the young Queen, for the little girl bears the most uncanny resemblance to the late Aemma Targaryen. The only known daughter of the Rogue Prince is a reminder that Alicent remains to be the least of priorities for the King. There is no chance for her and her children if this familiar face roams the halls, being the perfect Valyrian beauty that she is at such a young age — white blonde hair flowing in cascading waves, lilac eyes that glisten like the most expensive jewels, and magic in her veins that puts her in the apex of the chain of beings. Alicent wants to loathe her, she really does, as selfish as it sounds and as ugly as it can get. It is not becoming of her as the most powerful woman in the realm to wear her most private insecurities on her sleeve for everyone to see just because she feels so low compared to this child. It doesn’t help that she receives sympathies from the court Ladies, all with faux smiles and the ambitious intention to climb into her social circle, every time Aesira wears her blue gowns — a statement that she will always be her mother’s daughter and nothing else; as high as honour.
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, to set up this tea session with only Aesira and not with the entire brood of Tragaryens in the Keep (minus the newest addition to the family courtesy of Rhaenyra). It comes with an intention in mind. Any move she places on the board is laden with purpose, including this one.
Alicent knows about her duties as the Queen; to stand with her husband through the thickest of thickets and to bear children that will further spread the magic of Old Valyria for generations to come. Yet one stands out the most. It comes from her father’s lips. Place Aegon as Heir. And it haunts her still. At some point, she doesn’t want to place a heavy burden on her son — her closest companion for five years when she felt the most alone in the castle, the babe's scent clinging to his skin giving her comfort above all else while she shed tears away from prying eyes. While Helaena never saw her with her dreamy disposition as a babe, Aegon always placed a tiny palm on her cheek to pat away the sadness staining her face. But this duty of putting him as Heir means survival. Such a pity how desperation shapes humans. So starts putting Aegon to the most subtle lessons in hopes of preparing him for his role in the future. Who was once her closest companion becomes the child who flinches when she merely places a finger on his shoulder.
It stabs her — whatever she touches is doomed to hurt, starting with her eldest son. 
She hopes that this impending decision on his future would soothe the wounds she inflicted on his skin, a gift disguised as a political move.
The presence of Aesira as the royal family’s ward is one way of securing Aegon’s claim. The Queen grasps an opportunity when she sees one. What better way to utilise Alicent’s ghost than to thread her fate with her son, probably giving the young boy the good graces of her husband in the process? She is pretty sure the seed planted by Aegon’s affection for Aesira is starting to sprout in her husband’s head, only waiting for the right time to announce it to both children and watch it blossom into a flowering plant that will be a rarity — a marriage primarily borne from the purest and most innocent of loves (from one person, still love nonetheless). Both children are at an age where arrangements are made but Alicent doesn’t want to subject them to the binds of a betrothal yet. Having Aesira as Aegon’s potential bride will be a weapon that brings down Lords to their knees, only solidifying their proximity to the throne when they birth trueborn children, something that Rhaenyra only speaks as one of her many lies. With the current Heir’s erratic behaviour, Alicent promises to herself that she will make this union happen and it will start by enticing the young girl to be closer to her.
“Lady Aesira Targaryen, Your Grace.”
Criston’s voice makes her jump. Alicent turns toward the open doors of her solar but not before hastily tucking stray auburn curls away from her face, an unsteady smile pulling on her lips. She unconsciously runs her hands over the skirts of her emerald gown, erasing the invisible creases from view.
“Thank you, Ser Criston,” Alicent’s voice is clear among the bricks holding her chambers. She looks over her shoulder, to the handmaidens who stand still beside the table with hands intertwined in front of their navels. “You are dismissed.” They bow at her and exit with Criston, leaving her with the little girl by the door. Alicent smiles, tilting her head a little to take in Aesira’s appearance. “Aesira.”
“Your Grace,” Aesira enunciates, lowering herself in a curtsy that seems to be a product of her lessons with the Septa. Clad in a soft lilac gown that is one of the many commissioned to her under the Queen’s orders (none of that eye-catching blue that the court Ladies keep whispering about), Aesira is a vision of the perfect little comely Lady bound to have hearts served for her on a gold platter. As always, her hair is styled with matching ribbons from her dress and is free to bounce with every step she makes. Alicent notices that the girl is starting to carry herself with dignity, her eyes only letting the sliver of emotions shine through — nervousness and anticipation as to why the Queen invited her and only her to her solar. Aesira straightens her posture, hands carefully holding one another in front of her as she adds, “Thank you for honouring me with an invitation. I hope I will be a good enough company for your afternoon.”
Alicent waves her hand, a practised thing that she acquired since she became Queen. “None of that,” she jests. “Your presence in my solar is already the best company I can ask for so far into my day. Come,” she beckons the girl to the table, backing to one of the cushioned chairs, “our refreshments and sweets await.”
A wave of gratitude washes over the young girl’s body. There is a little pep in her step when she makes her way to the table of various colours and waits for Alicent to sit before doing so herself on the adjacent chair. Alicent sometimes forgets that she is the same age as her eldest son with how she’s carrying herself.
The childish glow in Aesira’s eyes never dims while she trails them over the outlines of every whipped cream, filling, and dough shapes all prepared for her. It makes the shackles in the Queen’s heart loosen. Alicent doesn’t recall why she was worrying so much about Aesira’s favourites before she entered her chambers. The girl doesn’t dive straight into the honey cakes she likes so much in their usual tea sessions with the other children, rather, she carefully takes a piece of strawberry scone, the pieces of the fruit peeking through the golden bread permeating in the air. Alicent saw the exact piece of pastry in Daemian’s little hands every time. What she didn’t notice was Aesira eyeing it the same as a curious pup yet she chose to indulge in her regular honey cakes instead of taking her little brother’s share of sweets. Because it was always like that — Aether with his lemon-flavoured choices, Daemian with the hues of strawberries, and honey following Aesira like a perfume’s sillage on a summer day. Now, Alicent understands that the girl doesn’t have only one thing going about with her. It’s refreshing to see in a child of nine name days.
Alicent sips on her blend of flower and citrus tea, a specific kind of blossom the Maesters told was shipped from Yi Ti, content with the still moment for once in her hectic schedule. She lets out a chuckle when she hears a satisfied hum from Aesira, the little lady’s eyes closed to savour a second pastry, this time, a small bite of the blueberry tart.
“This is delicious, Your Grace,” Aesira hums after gulping down another bite of her blueberry tart.
Alicent smiles. “The handmaidens told me they were freshly picked and made into a new batch of sweets. Do you find it to your liking?” Her smile widens at Aesira’s animated nodding. Alicent spends a couple of moments just watching the girl stuff her face as elegantly as she can while being able to relish in the fusion of flavours brought by the treats. The initial intention of bringing Aesira here was to place the idea that she will most likely marry Aegon in the near future, it simply doesn’t exist at this juncture of the afternoon. Aesira finishes her second tart, eyes lingering on her next piece of sweet but never realising that there are residues clinging on the corners of her lips — blue from the tarts and a reminder that she is every bit of the child that she is. Alicent unconsciously picks up the napkin folded into a swan (hoping that it will add to Aesira’s fascination) and leans forward in her seat. She carefully wipes the girl’s mouth, mindful to never hurt her with her cursed fingers. “You really like it that much, little one?”
Wide lilac eyes take her in, reflecting the image of her jutting her lip in a smile while wiping invisible crumbs from Aesira’s cherubic cheeks. It is at that moment that Alicent realises she never touched her children this tenderly for so long. Her beautiful daughter—her beloved little girl—started to flinch every time a single sensation crawled on her skin. Alicent doesn’t even get to embrace Helaena after her dreams because it would make her scream more and the woman can do nothing but watch while her daughter continues pulling hair out from her scalp. It’s reminiscent of when Aether was found terrified and out of his wits that when she moved to take him away from the Kingsguard, the poor boy looked near mortified with how overwhelming everything was. Alicent forgets what it feels like to hold her children, to become the mother they deserve. As the Queen, she is expected to be standoffish but that doesn’t mean she longs to be within the circles of laughter lighting the Keep’s royal wing. With each pattern her thumb creates on Aesira’s cheek, she gains that familiar warmth again. It’s the same warmth she had when she first held Aegon, when Helaena clung to her as a babe, when Aemond smiles every time she appears, or when Daeron giggles at everything he finds funny.
She’s touching Aesira and Aesira is not hurting.
A slow nod answers her question and all thoughts vanish from her head.
Alicent tucks a lock of striking blonde hair from Aesira’s face. Time is suspended as they stare at each other, every drop of care radiating from one’s fingertips, travelling from where they touch down to the apex of a beating heart. The little one’s eyelashes shake with a flutter, the surface of her eyes becoming even more glassy by the second. Alicent purses her slips when she sees a betraying tear appear from one of Aesira’s bottom eyelids, the girl still seeing a glimpse of someone through her. She’s been on the other end of those looks since she married her husband. First, it was a dead wife and now, it’s a dead mother. Yet she keeps tidying Aesira’s hair. For once, it doesn’t squeeze her chest the way it should. She doesn’t feel like ripping her heart from the inside out nor has the urge to shout obscenities to the eye of the beholder. Instead of turning away, Alicent cups both of Aesira’s cheeks, slightly squeezing them in a manner that she herself experienced from her father before he went away to Oldtown.
Without saying a word, Alicent pulls the little girl into an embrace and the moment she does, Aesira starts sobbing.
Upon hearing the gasps for air the little one makes, Alicent looks up at the ceiling with her vision clouding with unshed tears. Her larger hand rubs soothing circles on the girl’s shaking back. When she feels a tear or two slipping from her eye, Alicent closes her eyes and presses a grounding kiss on the crown of Aesira’s head, swaying the two of them in a lullaby she starts humming unconsciously.
“I’ve got you, little one,” Alicent whispers on her forehead. “You have me now.”
The cries increase in volume and she tightens her hold around the small body slumping over her. Alicent hears the door open behind her, probably someone who heard the muffled sobs coming from inside her solar and thought it would be best to check for any altercations. True enough, when she slightly turns her head, she sees Criston frantically looking around for any threats, his hand firmly gripping his sword. The two of them make eye contact and instantly, a wave of understanding and sympathy paints Criston’s face. Alicent tries flashing a convincing smile. The Kingsguard glances at Aesira with downturned eyebrows and a rueful smile before bowing his head and disappearing through the door as if he didn’t grace the chambers with his presence.
The music of the fauna residing in the gardens goes on as Aesira tires herself out from crying.
Alicent doesn’t make a move to remove the girl from her side. She gives the little one the only thing she didn’t receive when her own mother died from a sickness that inevitably took her life way too early. Not one person thought that the little girl hugging her brothers while they let out cries of their own would ever need any semblance of comfort all these years. Alicent herself carries this guilt. She may be late but it is better than turning a blind eye and letting the girl cry within the confines of her chambers.
She isn’t a Queen who found the perfect match for her son. For now, she is a mother caring for her child. How wrong she was for thinking that this girl is nothing but a pawn in her Game of Thrones.
“Do you want to see a magic trick?” She asks with a gentle voice.
Aesira peeks from the bodice of her dress, eyes rimmed with red and cheeks too puffy to hide that she just bared her soul in front of the Queen of the realm. “Yes please,” she answers meekly, almost as tiny as the day they first met in the royal nursery.
Never losing the smile, Alicent pours Aesira a cup of the butterfly pea tea she was indulging in not too long ago. “Keep a close eye, alright? Don’t look away from the cup.” Aesira answers with another slow nod. It is all it takes for Alicent to take the secret ingredient from a small container at the side of the table and pour it into the cup. The deep blue colour of the drink gradually becomes a purple shade that is mostly associated with Targaryens. Oh, how Alicent never regrets glancing at Aesira. The girl has come out of her shell to peer at the cup in awe, the stars lighting up her eyes once again. She brushes a hand over the waves of her hair. “Isn’t it lovely? It’s a trick I’ve learned from the Maesters when they introduced this specific plant to make soothing teas with. Why don’t you give it a try, little one?”
Aesira exchanges a smile with her before sipping from the cup in the proper way that a Lady should. Once again, Alicent marvels at how Aesira fully executed what has been taught in her etiquette lessons. Surely the Septa in charge of teaching her girls is basking in pride for producing one of the most comely little ladies in court.
The teacup clinks against the saucer and Aesira faces her with wonder on her face. “What did you add to turn it into purple, Your Grace?”
The title doesn’t sit well with Alicent. Tiny baby steps first and they will get there eventually, nothing of the Your Grace greetings; she wants to hear titles befitting that of family ties attached to her name. Whatever the case, she will start showering unconditional affection to this child. Alicent winks a little, whispering, “A learned person never reveals their secret.” The answer doesn’t satisfy Aesira for she pouts while staring at the ripples on the surface of her tea, the small dried flowers floating and bumping on each other inside the rim. “You must simply visit my solar every other afternoon now to witness the sorcery flowing from my hands. Don’t tell the others about our meetings though. It remains our little solace from the rambunctiousness they always bring.”
Aesira giggles, agreeing with her. “They are quite loud, especially the boys. You have my promise, Your Grace. Though, Hel shouldn’t be left out.”
How adorable. “Then, we shall invite her as well. A tea party is better enjoyed with the people you wish to share priceless memories with after all.”
Now, Alicent comprehends why Aegon is so taken with her. The way she laughs is laced with the purest delicacy that fully captures your attention. One can tell that benevolence and humility oozes from every fibre of her being. It is the kind of beauty that lasts for lifetimes — timeless. While some Ladies fabricate stories to put the child against her, more sensible Ladies step forward to say nothing but amazing things about the little Lady. She is absolutely wonderful; she complimented even the tiniest details of my new gown, even I, myself, didn't know I have embroideries showing a rare species of butterflies. Oh, a divine little thing; no shed of her horrible father in her for the Sevens’ sakes, she is her mother through and through. The second coming of Rhaenys Targaryen, Aegon the Conqueror’s wife, herself. Maybe Alicent should have listened to the better part of the court instead of feeding into the words dipped in flowery lies.
The smiles die down and Aesira utters, “I understand the reason you invited my company this afternoon, Your Grace.” Gone is the easygoing air surrounding the table, replaced by a weighty gust of wind that worries Alicent. Aesira gives her a rueful smile that has her heart clenching. “The Lords and Ladies have been talking, Your Grace. They speak of theories that concern me and Aegon.” The girl doesn’t waver from Alicent’s widening eyes and parted lips. “I’ve always known that my placement in the Keep has meaning. Father told me so. He was already planning on betrothals when I was but a child of two name days, as far as I can remember. Mother was furious,” she gazes at a memory only she can see, “and it was the first time I ever saw it on her face. But the fact never changes that I should face it when the time comes. The court acknowledges me as Aegon’s match, he even does it himself whenever he finds the most opportune moments to say so, and with the timing of your invitation, I placed the pieces of the puzzle together.
“I only ask of this for my peace of mind, Your Grace; am I his betrothed?”
Alicent cradles Aesira’s cheeks in the ridges of her palms. She shakes her head without saying anything at first but with the distress soiling the little one’s features, she quickly brushes her hair away from her forehead. “Fret not for the matters circulating court, especially ones that are clearly passed from mouths whose main aim is to fuel a fire. They don’t know anything, little one, and they never will. The moment the King says any word of your impending marriage, you will be the first to hear about it from me. Understood?” 
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Besides, if you ask me, it’s too early for you to wear any extravagant gown made from white fabrics. Enjoy all the colours before putting on a wedding dress, alright?” Aesira shares a little laugh with her. Sombre blue rains down Alicent. “I would never wish to burden you with something so shackling like a betrothal.” Guilt gnaws the lining of her stomach. It’s a good thing she never ate anything and only watched Aesira enjoy the spread that is baked solely for her. She takes back everything she planned. Her father might have scolded her for her decision but he isn’t here to throw verbal daggers at her. “You are still nine; thinking of betrothals can wait.”
Aesira’s shoulders drop the tension. A radiant smile beams from her face; the sun is put to shame. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace! Now, Aether can rest his pacing.”
“He doesn’t like the spreading rumours of your match with Aegon, I gather then.”
“He keeps threatening to make Aegon pay during their lessons with Ser Criston,” Aesira whispers with a secretive twinkle of mischief in her eyes, seeing the improvement in her brother’s handling of the sword. Aether has the same as well and it makes Alicent laugh. “It’s quite sad to watch from the viewing balcony, to be honest.”
Poor Aegon, the embarrassment he must feel. “Ah, so that’s where Aegon gets his scratches from.”
Nonetheless, Alicent never saw any sign of resignation coming from her eldest son. It is subtle — the influence of the twins in his life. When he started learning the ways of the sword years ago with Aether, he never showed a shred of determination unlike his companion, who hardened through the years and only became ruthless with the sparring partners he had. It is only when Aesira graces the balconies does he fully commit to swinging the practice sword he’s given as if it would make Aesira come down from many flights of stairs to watch the bout in the courtyard. During the times the subject of Aesira’s prospective betrothal is brought up, with Aegon usually within hearing range, Alicent notices the little changes in his behaviour. He starts taking things seriously according to the Maesters and Ser Criston as if he is trying to prove something to everyone and himself. At dinners these days, he’s often seen glaring at Aether rather than settling little desserts on Aesira’s plate while the other boy sneers at the sight of him making unnecessary snarky looks. How fascinating it is to see the hold a girl has over her son. 
The little one places a hand over her mouth in realisation. “Please don’t admonish Aether, Your Grace.”
Alicent affectionately pinches her cheek until she whines. “I would never. Boys are bound to gain small scars from their training now and then. It is a given when they learn how to be better fighters. Aegon should know that picking up the sword means having permanent marks etched on his skin.”
Aesira nods, looking down at her whimsical tea while smiling. “Aemond is doing well, I notice. He told me all of the things he learned from his first lesson.”
“Really? Do tell me more, little one.”
As the stories revolving around her younger children (ones she never even heard of) encircled Alicent and Aesira, the high afternoon sun dipped down the crests of the mountain ranges in the distance, sunburst igniting the heavens to flare a magnificent view — and it washed everything golden. 
Hearts are opened that day and there is no sign of them closing.
Days have passed and Alicent is walking through the hallways of the Keep with a destination in mind, her skirts swishing along with the resolution coating her actions. Lord and Ladies turn their heads as she passes by, never forgetting to pay their respects by greeting and bowing even though she only wishes to see one thing in front of her as she navigates the intricate architecture of the castle — those double doors barring the inhabitants away from the harsh whispers of the halls. The clanging from behind indicates that Criston is doing his best in keeping with her pace yet she pays him no mind, slippered feet padding on the stairs leading to the castle wing dedicated to her newest children. She finally reached the level where her destination resides and immediately, the guard placed by the doors bows at her presence, his face pursing in concern. Criston doesn’t have time to announce her arrival as she opens the doors.
Three pairs of varying shades of purple from the chaise lounge look up. Just like she predicted, the three children are all gathered inside Aesira’s solar after hearing about the message Viserys received from Daemon across The Narrow Seas. Without saying a word, Alicent gathers them in her arms and offers them the unconditional warmth of someone holding their comfort dear to heart. She kneels in front of the children as their arms clutch her torso and neck. Alicent’s heart breaks when one of them starts crying, the sound alerting Criston to shut the doors and give the four the privacy they all need.
“Does Father not love us anymore?” Daemian wails on Alicent’s chest, still a toddler in his four name days to fully understand that their father left them for good.
“He is nothing but a fool,” Alicent says to the three of them. “Some men simply don't deserve to become a parent for the abomination that they are.”
The older siblings don’t speak a word but it is clear on their faces how they feel about the situation. Aether wears rage like a second skin, eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a deep scowl. His chin is lowered a little, giving the illusion of shadows brushing against the top of his eye and his fists are clenching on the sides of his pants, creasing the fabric between his fingers. While Aether is a master of having his heart on his sleeve, Aesira’s silence sends Alicent a spine-chilling sensation from the crown of her head down to the tips of her limbs. The little one is glaring at nothing and something at the same time; one would think her mind is vacant with how still she is. Her brothers are shaking from anger and misery yet she remains unmoving at their side, her head not even touching the shoulder of the woman rubbing their backs. Alicent hopes that in her lifetime, she will never be placed on the other end of Aesira’s stare.
“I despise him,” Aether spits the word with so much emotion that a single tear runs down his cheek. “If I see him again, I might actually kill him.”
Alicent pulls the boy closer to her. “Do not speak of such terms,” she murmurs on his hair. “We do not dabble in kinslaying. We are above that.”
Aether makes a sharp gasp, a result of holding back his incoming sob. “I am just so angry, Your Grace. How could he do this and not feel any shred of remorse?”
It’s Aesira who says the words. “Because he thinks of no one but himself.” Her eyelids are rapidly blinking to prevent the tears from flowing. There is a tremble in her bottom lip, but no sign of a frown pulling down her mouth. Alicent instantly gets an image of Helaena’s dolls.
“But Father is—”
“He is not our father, Daemian!” She glares at the whimpering boy. Alicent doesn’t even have the room to interject when Aesira adds with as much distaste in her voice as she can muster, “And he will never be. He chose to leave us in a place we do not know. He nearly took Aether from us and left him somewhere in the Keep for three days until he was found terrified to the bone.” She gulps down, breath hitching, and shoulders taut with tension. “He doesn’t care about us. If he did, he would have landed his blasted dragon in the Dragonpit and raised us himself instead of siring children with his new wife. He doesn’t love us, not even when Mother is swollen with carrying us. How can he when we’re not born from love—”
“Sira!” Aether shouts, hugging a distraught Daemian closer to him. “You’re scaring Damy!”
At that moment, Alicent sees Aesira cry for the third time.
“Oh, little one,” Alicent says the words like a caress. She hears broken sentences on her shoulder, all with a combination of sorry and I didn’t mean it. “I know, I know,” she answers every single phrase she can pick up. Alicent manages to catch Aether’s teary eyes, beckoning the young boy to bring himself and his brother back to her embrace. They go back to huddling close to Alicent as if they are meant to be there and not anywhere else. “That man is an imbecile for leaving behind three beautiful children. I may not know if he truly felt that deeply for the family he created with your mother but I know you three can make one of your own here. We might not be of blood but I can care for you like I am made by the Seven to do so. Now, little one,” she strokes Aesira’s hair from her face, “apologise to your younger brother.”
“I’m sorry for scaring you, Damy,” Aesira’s voice wobbles. “Your big sister is just angry at him.”
Daemian lets go of Alicent and buries himself into Aesira. “Don’t do that again,” he pouts.
She kisses his temple. “I won’t.” Aesira picks him up, letting out a small huff at the added weight, remarking, “You’re getting bigger, Damy. Please don’t get any bigger on me now. I won’t be able to carry you like this if you keep on getting taller than me.” All she gets in reply is a lovely giggle. She wordlessly asks Alicent for permission and the woman nods her head. “Damy, what have you been eating?” She grumbles away to the table where the jar of blueberry and lemon sweets Alicent gave lay resting, her brother clinging onto her like one of those creatures Aether drew during one boring tutoring lesson with Aegon’s name attached to it.
“What will happen, Your Grace?” Aether asks Alicent, who turns back to him. “Will the King send out dragon eggs just like Daemon asked for?”
“The King will make a decision that he thinks is right,” the woman is now fully sitting on the carpeted floor to accommodate the boy of name days in a more comfortable position against her, “ and whatever will happen, we have no part in it. Nothing will change if my husband decides to send out dragon eggs to Essos just because The Rogue Prince demands them. Life will not stop its course — you will keep on growing and you will have futures to play into. My husband’s younger brother is not the end of your world, Aether.” She gazes at the pair of children picking up variations of sweets from the jar, recognizing the piece of expensive ceramic as part of her personal collection. Alicent sent her little one stocks of the candies her brothers and she loves chewing on on a regular basis, the contents of the jar coming from one conversation they shared about what her brothers preferred. Aesira is fussing over her baby brother while the boy continues smearing the cream of the blueberry sweets on his mouth. “Daemian stops his crying easily now.”
Aether follows her eyes to where his siblings are. He snorts at the moustache above Daemian’s lip. “It’s mostly because of Aesira,” slowly, he adds with a growing smile, “which is funny because she made him cry in the first place.” He catches Alicent’s frown and mutters, “Sorry.”
What is with oldest brothers and jesting about younger siblings? Gwayne did it to her growing up. Aegon does it with Helaena and Aemond each time they breathe the same air as him (never Daeron because the boy follows him around like a little duckling). Aether constantly teases the Seven Hells out of his little sister and brother. She supposes it is simply in their nature to be their kin’s greatest bully. Though that doesn’t mean Aegon gets away with pushing his brother into a bush to catch Aesira’s attention or comment on Helaena’s weird insects out of the blue. (Aemond cried to Alicent that Aegon pushed him simply because he was mean about everything but when Aether smacked Aegon at the back of his head for snatching Aesira away after pushing the younger boy, Alicent instantly understood.)
“But really, I’m glad Sira is here. I don’t need other siblings when I already have her and Daemian. They are enough for me as is. Besides, the kids Lady Laena gave birth to are nothing to me; they just happen to share the same father as me, Aesira, and Daemian.” Then, he stops leaning on Alicent. “Is that one of my lemon candies?” He scrambles to stand up from his comfortable position, scurrying to where Daemian is on the verge of gobbling one of his prized lemon candies, the sugar coating glinting against the sun’s rays. “You already have your blueberry candies, Damy! Don’t eat it! Sira,” he whines, pouting away as fixes his sister with a purposeful rendition of a puppy asking for treats, “he’s eating my sweets!”
Alicent picks herself up from the floor and stares at the children for a few moments, what Aether said ringing in her mind. Does Rhaenyra share the same feeling? Does her anger spread to Alicent’s own blood that she doesn’t have the heart to acknowledge that they are her siblings despite not sharing a mother? Again, her father’s words add to the headache. Rhaenyra will not stop until there are no threats to her throne. Alicent will have to cleave for her mercy to not have a single strand of hair on her family be harmed. She doesn’t realise she has been pulling apart pieces of thin skin from her fingers, the sharp sting of newly-healed wounds opening again.
She will indulge in this domestic bliss for now; but when the moment comes for her to wear the crown fitted on her head, her first move will be putting forth the greatest union known among the realms — a marriage.
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