your needy knight just needs some alone time.. with you, of course.ᐟ
₊ᰔ⋮i believe i am the last paladin!mike lover alive and i will die on this hill alone.
it’s raining outside and mike smells like wet wool and rusted iron, a sharp, bitter scent of a man who’s been standing in the dark for too long. he doesn't climb through the window with any kind of grace, he just kind of shoves himself through the frame, boots catching on the stone and making a heavy clumsy sound that makes him wince. he’s shivering, not even from the cold but just from the sheer vibrating tension of it all
the armor comes off in a mess. he fumbles with the leather straps, his fingers shaking so bad he almost knots them, and he just lets the heavy pieces fall where they want. he doesn’t look like a hero. he just looks tired. lanky and awkward and exhausted
he crawls onto the bed and he’s so heavy, all bony elbows and cold skin, and he just collapses. he doesn't ask. he just tucks his face into the side of your neck and stays there, breathing in like he’s been underwater for hours and you’re the first bit of air he’s found. he finds your hand and pulls it to his head, a silent demand, and the second your fingers hit his hair he just breaks
“it’s so loud out there,” he mutters, and his voice is thick. burning with a feverish kind of need. his forehead is hot against your collarbone and he keeps shifting, trying to get closer, trying to press his ear directly against your ribs so he can hear your heart. he needs it to be the only thing he hears
“i-i can't stand it. i have to stand behind his chair and i have to listen to him talk about you like you’re just... something he owns. he’s so loud and he doesn't even see you! he doesn't see anything! i’m just standing there and my hands are cramping because i want to just grab you and run. i’m losing my mind. i think i’m actually losing it.”
you tug at a curl, winding it around your finger, and he lets out a broken, shaky breath. his whole body finally starting to go limp. he’s not trying to be smooth. he’s just clinging to you like a kid, his arms wrapped around your waist so tight it’s almost hard to breathe
“don't tell me to leave yet,” he whispers, and he sounds so small, so stripped of all that metal and duty. “i have to go back to the barracks in an hour but just... just keep doing that. please. i feel like i’m disappearing when i’m not in this room. everything else is just fake. it’s just noise”
he shifts again, his nose brushing the skin of your chest, and he just closes his eyes, letting out a long pathetic sigh
“mmn, i’m just.. so tired of pretending i don't know you. i'm so tired of being just a shadow. i just want to stay here. please just let me stay for a second. i don't want to be a guard. i just want to be yours. i just need you to tell me that it’s real. tell me i’m still real.”
mourning over mike wheeler apologists like they’re my dead wives💔
the rent was cheap, the apartment was close to campus, and mike wheeler was,objectively speaking, the most attractive guy you’d ever seen. you knew he was 'weird' before you moved in, but you didn't realize how weird he truly is.
content: HEADCANONS!, roommate au, creep!mike, slightly nsfw, minors dni!!!,dubious consent, aged up characters, ooc dom!mike, mike is a f*cking weirdo.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 mike is a vampire in the apartment. you’ll be in the kitchen at 2am, thinking you’re alone, only to turn around and find him sitting at the dark dining table, just..watching you. he doesn't turn the lights on. when you jump, he just gives a slow, lopsided smirk and says, "did i scare you?" in a voice that’s way too calm.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he’s helpful to a fault. you’ll come home to find your laundry has been moved from the washer to the dryer, but it’s the way he folds it that’s off. Your personal items, especially the more delicate ones, are always at the top of the pile, perfectly smoothed out. if you mention it, he just shrugs and says he didn't want your things to get wrinkled.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 mike has a habit of "forgetting" you’re in the bathroom. he never knocks. even after you’ve started locking the door, you’ll see the handle jiggle, followed by a long silence where you know he’s still standing right on the other side of the wood, waiting for you to come out.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 you start noticing small things missing. a hair tie, a single earring, a hoodie you haven't seen in a week. then, you’ll catch a whiff of your own perfume or detergent coming from his room. when his door is cracked open, you can see he’s got a shrine of sorts on his desk, mostly polaroids and scraps of paper, and you’re terrified to look close enough to see what’s on them.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 the worst part is the feeling of being watched while you sleep. you’ve woken up a few times to the sound of the floorboards creaking right outside your bedroom door. once, you saw his shadow under the door, perfectly still for twenty minutes. when you finally gathered the courage to call out his name, the shadow just drifted away without a word.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 the wall between your rooms is paper thin. you’ll be in bed, just trying to sleep, and you’ll hear the rhythmic, slow creak of his bed frame. he doesn’t try to be quiet. in fact, sometimes he whispers your name just loud enough for it to carry through the drywall, a low, wet sound that makes your stomach flip in the worst way. he wants you to know exactly what he’s thinking about.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he’s a cleaner but only for your things. you’ll come home to find him in your room, always with a flimsy excuse like “the window was leaking”, but he’s usually hovering by your bed. he’ll be sitting on your mattress, his hand slowly smoothing over your pillows, and he won't get up when you walk in. he just watches you with his big brown eyes and asks if you’ve changed your sheets recently because they “smell like you.”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 the bathroom situation is a constant power play. he likes to leave his door cracked when he’s showering, knowing you have to pass it to get to the kitchen. if you catch a glimpse of him through the steam, he doesn't cover up, he just stares back, tracing the water droplets down his own chest while holding eye contact until you’re the one who has to look away.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 you find a folder on his laptop that isn't password protected, almost like he wanted you to find it. it’s filled with candid shots, but they aren't of your face. they’re highres closeups of your hands, the curve of your waist when your shirt lifts, your bare feet under the coffee table. the file names are just dates and timestamps of when he took them while you were alone…or at least you thought you were.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he talks about your body like it’s something he owns or is studying for a final. if you’re wearing something even slightly revealing, he’ll comment on it with clinical perversion. “that bra doesn't fit you right,” he’ll say, his eyes fixed on your chest, “the straps are digging in. do you want me to adjust them for you?” he says it so casually, like it’s a perfectly normal thing for a roommate to offer.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 the sleepwatching takes a darker turn. you’ve started waking up to the smell of his specific cigarette smoke(🤤) or his cologne in your room, even though you locked the door. you’ll find small gifts on your nightstand that he definitely shouldn't have been able to place there, a ring you thought you lost, a single flower, or a note in his messy scrawl that just says “you look so peaceful when you aren't fighting me.”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he’s techsavvy, and it shows in the worst ways. you’ll find your laptop or phone has been moved slightly, or the battery is drained. he doesn't just look through your photos, he installs remote access.. just in case you lose it, of course. he likes to sit in his room with his headphones on, watching the green light on your webcam flicker to life, just so he can watch the way you bite your lip when you’re focusing on homework.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he’s obsessed with your reactions. he’ll "accidentally" spill water on your shirt just to watch the fabric turn translucent, and he won't look away. he’ll stand there with a paper towel, offering to help pat it dry, his eyes burning into you as he moves his hand dangerously close to your skin. he wants to see you flustered. he wants to see you scared.he wants to see you want it.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he uses logic to gaslight you. “it’s efficient to share a blanket while we watch this, the heating bill is too high,” he’ll say, pulling you flush against his side. he’ll tuck his cold nose into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. if you try to pull away, his grip tightens just enough to be a warning. “don’t be difficult,” he’ll mutter, his voice dropping an octave. “i’m just trying to keep you warm.”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 you finally find it, a hidden partition in his closet or a locked digital drive. it’s not just photos, it’s everything. recordings of your voice when you’re talking on the phone, a list of your favorite meals, even a calendar marking your cycle.(so romantic honestly.) when he catches you looking, he doesn't apologize. he just closes the door behind him, locks it, and says, “now you know exactly how much i think about you. do you have any idea how exhausting it is, keeping all this inside?”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he uses his height and his slim, deceptively strong build to pin you against the wall of his cramped room. he doesn't go straight for your clothes, he goes for your head. he’ll cup your face with both hands, his thumbs digging into your cheeks just enough to force you to look at him. “stop shaking,” he’ll whisper, his eyes blown wide and dark. “you’ve been playing this game with me for months. don't pretend you're scared now.”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he narrates every single reaction your body has. he’ll press his face into your hair and describe the exact way your breathing has changed, the way your heart is hammering against your ribs, the way you’re "leaking" through your clothes. he makes it feel like he’s inside your skin, knowing your body better than you do. it’s a mental overload that makes it impossible to think, leaving you with nothing but the feeling of him.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he’s a master of making you feel like the aggressor. when he finally puts his hands on you in a way that’s undeniably sexual, he’ll stop at the most agonizing moment. he’ll pull back just an inch and wait. “tell me to stop,” he’ll challenge, his voice a low, raspy command. “tell me you hate it. tell me you want me to leave you alone and never touch you again.” he knows you can't, and the silence that follows is your "yes" in his eyes.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 when you finally stop fighting, when your body goes soft and you lean into him because the tension is just too much, his demeanor changes. he becomes almost worshipful in a sick way. he’ll sink to his knees, his hands roaming over your hips with a desperate, shaky reverence. “there she is,” he’ll murmur against your stomach. “i knew you were in there.”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he’ll pull your clothes off slowly, not with romance, but with the focused intensity of someone finally opening a package he’s been staring at for months. he’ll make you stand there under the harsh bedroom light for a minute, just so he can take you in, his eyes roaming over every inch of you.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 there’s a specific kind of suffocation he likes. pressing his chest hard against yours so your heartbeats have to sync up because there’s no room for anything else. he likes to feel you struggling for breath beneath him, your lungs working double time as he whispers about how small you feel in his hands.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he’ll get you right to the edge, where you’re arching off the sheets and your head is back, and then he’ll just... stop. he’ll hover there, his weight braced on his elbows, watching you fall apart. he won't move another inch until you say his name, until you admit that you’re begging for him.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he’s handsy in a way that feels like he’s trying to memorize your texture. one hand is always anchored, wrapped in your hair to pull your head back, or clamped firmly around your waist, while the other explores with a terrifyingly slow precision. he’ll find the exact spots that make you lose your mind and he’ll stay there, watching your face transition from shock to total, mindless bliss with a smirk that says “i knew it.”
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 he wants the world to know what happened, even if it’s a secret. he’ll leave souvenirs all over your body. dark bruises on your inner thighs where his fingers dug in, or a row of neat, stinging teeth marks along your collarbone. he’ll spend the last few minutes just admiring his work, tracing the marks with his tongue, making sure you’ll be sore enough to remember him with every step you take the next day.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 once it’s over, he just stays draped over you, watching you try to catch your breath. he’ll reach out and wipe a stray tear or a bit of sweat from your forehead with a thumb, his expression terrifyingly calm. “that wasn't so bad, was it?” he’ll murmur, his voice completely back to normal. “i told you we’d be good together.“
nerd!rafe was never one to be underestimated. he was great at everything from the most advanced equations to coding for the episode story he made for you.
so when you found him in the campus library, nose deep in a physics textbook, you could only wonder if maybe he could be nose deep in your pussy next . . .
"w─what did you say?" oh, you said that out loud.
welp, might as well see it through am i right?
"you're good at a lot of things right, rafey?" he nods.
batting your eyelashes at him, you suggest, "could you maybe teach me a lil' something?"
"i was just reading about nucleonics. are you interested in that?" he questions with that adorable nerdy gaze, audibly gulping when you shut his textbook.
his breath catches in his throat when you lean close, your gourmand-scented perfume filling his nostrils. his eyes briefly dropped to where your perky tits nearly spilled out of your white tank, the hot pink lace from your bra tempting him to see the whole thing.
"not really . . . jus' wanna see how skilled you are . . . alone in my dorm . . ." you trail off and you can visibly see the light bulb flickering to life over your boyfriend's head.
"o─oh right, of course. . ."
you knew rafe was good at a lot of things but never did you think eating pussy was in his realm of expertise.
because now you were spread out n' dripping onto rafe's plaid bedsheets. you've lost count of how many orgasms he's ripped from you so far.
you were so sensitive at this point. that textured tongue of his licking at your buzzing clit had your legs trembling around his head. the cold frames of his glasses against your thigh, sending shivers down your spine.
you were a goner when he had the audacity to look up at you. gazing at you with those ocean-like orbs, glasses lenses covered with droplets of your slick. that neatly styled hair of his was ruined as you tugged at the blond strands, trying to get a grip on reality.
then that muffled, "is this the lesson you wanted?" acted as a natural vibrator paired with his swirling tongue sent you over the edge . . .
but hey, i guess you could pussy eating to his endless line of skills!
warnings ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა : big dih rafe , kind of subby rafe >-< , p in v ( missionary ) , dih description , brief oral ( fem rec. ) , belly bulges :D
nerd!rafe had a hung smile. y’know that smile guys have when you know it’s big. real sultry n’ wide that had you wondering if anything else was wide down low, if you’re pickin’ up what i’m puttin’ down.
yeah, that was rafe. the handsome nerd in your physics class who you’ve wanted since the first day of classes. laughing at one of his buddy's jokes with that dimpled grin, and smile lines that only added to his charm.
& a woman’s intuition is never wrong, so when you finally got him in your bed, you were pleased to see you were 100% correct . . .
“w–what’s wrong?” he stammered, noticing your eyes were glued onto his cock. “you don’t like it? i–i’ll see what i can do, jus’ don’t look at it for too long.”
“no, it’s pretty,” you finally looked up at him, stopping his rambling. pretty was honestly an understatement; his dick was unreal.
it was tanned with a prominent vein that ran along the underside of his cock. his tip was mushroom-like, and you were surprised that those actually existed in real life. it was also quite flushed as he grew needier, a pearl of pre jus’ nearly dribbling down his length. both wide n’ heavy, the thickness literally weighing his cock down.
“it won’t be too much for you, will it?” he questions, mindlessly dragging his leaky tip between your folds, his heart hammering against his chest as he begins coating himself in your sticky slick.
he already ate you out moments before to prepare you. lapping up your juices for what felt like hours, remnants of your arousal glistened on his lips. he nods when you tell him, “it’s okay, i can take it, rafey . . .”
it felt like rafe was in your throat. by no means was he rough; he was just soooo big that you felt him at your deepest spots with the smallest roll of his hips. he wasn’t even going fast, nervously looking up at each clench, sharp breath, or shiver, making sure you were enjoying it.
“am i good?” he’d ask with a whine. if you were sane enough, you’d scoff. was he good? good wasn’t nearly enough to describe how perfect he was. the way he filled you, hitting your sweet spot in a way that had you pulsing and expelling your essence around him in creamy rivulets.
“ ‘s big, rafey,” you managed between moans. all he could do was offer you an apologetic look while your tummy bulged with each thrust.
his mind and body would go on autopilot, forcing himself to drive deeper into your heat when he saw that dazed expression on your face . . .
well, it’s safe to say rafe cameron took you thru there, but you certainly weren’t done with him just yet. maybe next time you’ll cockwarm him & see what that’s giving!
hi i was the girl who requested drunk munch finn. 🥰 i'll try to remember it but idk if i do...
i think it was like drunk finn who's like obsessed with ur pussy and he keeps going even when u cum and his movements are so sloppy and messy.
additionally. sprinkle some doe eyes in there with something about his nose...
<𝟑 .ᐟ drunk finn is a messy eater (18+)
"F-fuck, Finn-" you let out a broken moan, eyes drawn shut at the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body. Even as you tug at black curls with weak fingers, it does nothing to contain just how strongly you're feeling it all.
You're bordering on your fourth orgasm of the night and Finn hadn't moved an in inch from between your thighs since he walked into your home after a night out drinking with his friends. He kissed you away to the bedroom, and as soon as your back hit the mattress, you knew you stood no chance.
It's hard to recollect much of the memory, just watching him come inside on stable feet and a clouded mind set on you. He'd looked lovesick before, but this—this was different.
You vaguely remember him uttering the words against your neck between wet, sloppy kisses,
"Wanna go down on you." Then, with a hickey to your collarbone, "wanted it all night, baby."
That was all it took to get you to this point. After all, you were easy for him. He was sober enough to make the decision and you were glad until that first wave of overstimulation hit.
He's relentless. Uncaring for how loud he's causing you to be, breaking the silence of the bedroom with ease, tongue buried deep inside of you while his nose, simply existing, prods at your clit in a deliciously delicate way. He eats messy, tongue licking in uncoordinated movements with no effort to change it. It's almost teasing, fleeting, and he pays no mind to it.
His arms tighten around your thighs, pulling you down the expanse of the messy bed and closer to his mouth as if he wasn't already as deep and close as he possibly could be. The sheets bunch up around the two of you further, but all you can focus on is the tremble of your thighs and the tightening of that coil in your stomach again.
"'m close," you murmur the words to Finn, tugging at his hair to get his attention, watching his eyes flit up from your navel to your half-lidded, fucked out eyes that have spent half of the night knit tightly shut. Thank god the only light in the room was the bedside lamp, the soft glow helping your mind.
"I know, give it to me," he breathes out, barely an inch away from your clit as he speaks, "I got you."
"It's too much," you whine when he returns to eating you out messily like before. The oversensitivity only comes to life when you get a break, which he instead takes as you telling him to not stop.
Grinding into his touch and trying to meet the deep thrusts of his tongue, his nose digs into your clit satisfyingly and all you can think of is how perfect he is, down to the curve of his nose. And you're his drunk craving. It's a privilege, almost, that you get to reap the benefits of a night out like this and make a slick mess of his face.
He doesn't stray away from what he's doing in the event that you're approaching your climax. His tongue stays buried inside of your pussy and his fingers thumb circles into your inner thighs while he encourages you to grind helplessly against his nose. When he's drunk, his efforts know no bounds.
"Are you gonna cum for me?" He breathes out, taking in a breath before continuing onward like before, persistent, "cum on my tongue, baby, I got you. 'm right here."
His erotic words combined with everything else is enough to send you into your fourth orgasm of the night, and all you've done is lie there and look pretty. The waves of pleasure rush over your senses, flooding them all too quickly and making your thighs tremble in his grasp from the power of it. Power you didn't even know your body had after the last three.
Cursing under your breath throughout it all, your babbling slows and words fail you. You're completely worn out.
But, restlessly, and relentlessly—he starts at a slower pace with his lazy tongue pressed flat against your clit, slowly lapping at the sensitive bud as if setting you up for another orgasm you didn't think you had in you. A mix of his saliva and your slick have coated his lips, a mess matching the way he sloppily eats you out. Nevertheless, he's trying. Hard.
"Finnie—" your eyes shut tight and you grip at his messy hair once more, trying to pull him from between your thighs.
"One more, one more, I promise." He pleads, eyebrows furrowed convincingly as he ogles up at you with wide, puppy dog eyes. He's begging, half gone, and you're weak. Not to mention, he lacks much of a filter with the alcohol coursing through his system, and he's far more persistent, too.
"Baby..." you whine, as if he'll even consider it unless you're pulling him away and stopping him for good. So long as you're playing along, he sees no harm in indulging.
"I know, you're probably so sensitive, aren't you?" He mutters, almost muffled against your skin, "it's just one more, 's gonna go away. I've wanted this all night, honey, please." Those pleads combined with that puppy dog look in his eyes has your resolve weakening.
Biting your lower lip, you feel the overstimulation take over as you instinctively sit up to try and pull away from his mouth. He looks up at you through long lashes, as if checking on you, before following you up with uncoordinated movements.
He just won't stop, and you're not sure how alcohol alone could've caused this. With every swipe of his tongue on your clit, your body twitches, and with every breath he lets out, the smell of beer runs through the air. That mixed with the heated aroma of sex... Intoxicating. Invigorating. For him, at least.
"Just one more and we can go to bed... But I wanna go down on you again in the morning, baby." He slurs, finally opting to circle your clit with his thumb when words find him, "god, I love you. All of you." Sighing, he replaces his thumb with his lips and stares up at you with those wide eyes.
"Love you more—oh, f-fuck, that's—" too much, you wanna say. But you don't want him to stop. Not when you finally feel that fifth orgasm ebbing weakly in your core even though it's so far from you, nor when he looks like a lovely mess.
"...One more." You reluctantly agree, body relaxing back into the bed, sighing as if you'd both lost and won. Lost the short-lived feud, won another few orgasms into the morning.
Without a second's delay, he licks his way between your thighs eagerly, the noises he's making as he does downright pornographic. But you'd be lying if you said his devotion wasn't turning you on. So long as he stays just as drunk on your pussy as he is now, you'll be his indulgence any day.
But god, is he a messy eater.
a/n i can't believe i messed up the original version i made of this but here it is bc i refused to let tumblr win... IM GEN SO SORRY!!! but bro he is so fineee im gonna be sick give me allat NOW. thank u anon for coming back omg ily ;( #WeUp
<𝟑 .ᐟ synopsis: neteyam returns from a raid, refusing any "healing" but yours.
<𝟑 .ᐟ content warnings: NSFW (MDNI), aged up characters, fem!reader, cheeky! neteyam, serious!reader, blood and minor injuries, arguing, cunnilingus, kissing
<𝟑 .ᐟ word count: 3.7k
<𝟑 .ᐟ author's note: based on this request!! guess whose back in neteyam purgatory... 😭
Lights from the link shacks flicker against the stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows that mimic the frantic beating of your heart. You catch sight of him leaning against a supply crate, his blue skin shimmering under the glow of the overhead flora, but his posture is all wrong. He is tilting to the left, one hand pressed firmly against his ribs, while the other grips his bow with white-knuckled intensity.
"Neteyam, you are bleeding," you state, your voice tight with a frustration that tastes like copper on your tongue. "Go to Tsahìk. Now."
He looks up, a lopsided, exhausted grin spreading across his face—the kind of look that usually makes your knees weak but currently only makes you want to scream. His eyes are bright, rimmed with the fatigue of the raid, but they focus on you with an intensity that ignores the dark, viscous fluid seeping between his fingers. It trails down his muscular forearm, dripping onto the packed earth in rhythm with his shallow breaths.
"I am fine," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly rumble. "It is just a scratch from a branch. I did not want to see my grandmother. I wanted to see you."
"A scratch? Neteyam, you are literally leaving a trail across the floor!" You step closer, your hands hovering near his chest, wanting to touch him but afraid of causing more pain. The heat radiating off his body is immense, a furnace of adrenaline and stubbornness. "You went out with your sempul (father) and Lo'ak, and instead of reporting to the healers, you come here?”
He chuckles, a sound that quickly turns into a pained hiss as he shifts his weight. "You are very beautiful when you are angry. Your eyes... they spark like the Great Mother is looking right through me."
You don't give him the satisfaction of a blush. Instead, you grab his uninjured arm and begin hauling him toward your sleeping quarters. It is a small, secluded nook shielded by heavy woven tapestries, filled with the comforting aroma of dried herbs and the faint, sweet smell of the tea you’d brewed earlier. You push him toward a low-slung bench covered in hexapede skins.
"Sit. If you will not go to the healers, you will stay here while I fix your stupidity," you snap, turning to rummage through your basket of medicinal pouches. You pull out a bundle of crushed teylu paste mixed with heyoang leaves, known for its numbing properties and ability to knit flesh back together.
Neteyam groans as he pulls his chest guard off, letting the leather straps fall to the floor with a heavy thud. The injury is worse than he’d admitted—a jagged tear runs across the breadth of his shoulder blade, likely from a stray piece of shrapnel or a sharp ridge of rock. The wound is angry and red, the edges weeping as the cool air hits the exposed tissue. His back is a map of muscle and sinew, his shoulders broad and powerful, though they sag now under the weight of his bravado.
You sit behind him, your knees brushing against the backs of his thighs. The proximity is overwhelming; you can smell the woodsmoke on his skin and the underlying musk of him.
"Hold still," you command, scooping a generous amount of the green paste onto your fingertips. The moment you touch the edges of the wound, his entire body jolts. A sharp, guttural sound escapes his throat.
"Sss-ah! Watch it," he gasps, his fingers digging into his own knees, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief.
"Stop being a prrnen (baby)," you mutter, though you soften your touch, spreading the cool mash over the raw skin. "If you had gone to Kiri, she would have been much less gentle. You deserve the sting for being so reckless. What was Lo'ak doing? Why did he let you just walk away?"
Neteyam turns his head slightly, looking at you over his shoulder with a mischievous glint that defies his physical state. "Lo'ak was busy being lectured by my father. I took the opportunity to disappear. I knew you would be waiting. I could feel your worry from the forest floor."
"I wasn't worried. I was annoyed," you lie, your thumb tracing the uninjured skin near his spine. His skin is smooth but firm, the texture of a river stone warmed by the sun. You can feel the slight tremor in his muscles, the way he is fighting to stay upright for the sake of his pride.
"You were terrified," he counters, his voice dropping to a low, teasing hum. "You think I do not know your heart by now? It beats faster when I am near. Even now, I can hear it thumping against your ribs like a trapped ikran."
He shifts, rotating his torso so he is facing you more directly, despite your protests. The movement causes a fresh smear of blood to ruin the work you had just done. You huff, your brow furrowing as you try to push him back into place.
"Neteyam, stop! You are making it worse!"
"And you are making it better," he whispers, his hand reaching out to catch your wrist. His grip is large, his fingers wrapping nearly all the way around your arm. His palm is calloused and warm, a stark contrast to the medicinal paste on your other hand. "I missed you today. Every time we went into the brush, I thought about the way you look in the morning light."
"You are such a skxawng (idiot)," you say, your voice losing its edge, replaced by a weary affection you can't quite hide. "You go out there and risk your life, and then you come back here and try to charm your way out of a scolding. It is manipulative and dangerous."
"Is it working?" He leans in, his face inches from yours. You can see the golden flecks in his irises, the way his pupils also dilate in the dim light of the tent. His breath smells of mint and the wild air of the mountains.
You press the remaining paste firmly into the center of the cut, causing him to wince and pull back with a sharp intake of air. "No. It is not. You are going to sit here, you are going to let this dry, and you are going to sleep. No more raids for a week."
He laughs, a rich, vibrant sound that fills the small space and makes the shadows retreat. "A week? My father would have my head. And you... you would miss me too much."
"I would enjoy the peace and quiet," you retort, though your hands remain on his shoulders, your fingers instinctively kneading the tension out of his muscles. The heat between you is rising, a heavy, electric pull that makes the air feel thick and hard to swallow.
Neteyam reaches up, his hand cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his gaze dropping to your mouth. The teasing smirk vanishes, replaced by a look of raw, unadulterated hunger that makes your heart skip a beat.
"You talk too much when you are scared for me," he murmured.
Before you can respond with another sharp remark, he lunges forward, capturing your lips with his. The kiss is a desperate, crushing contact of a man who has stared death in the face and needs to feel the pulse of life beneath his fingertips. He tastes of salt and sweetness, his tongue seeking yours with a confidence that leaves you breathless.
You melt against him, your hands moving from his shoulders to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his dark, intricate braids. He groans into the kiss, a deep, vibrating sound that rumbles in his chest and echoes in yours. He pulls you closer, his uninjured arm wrapping around your waist to haul you flush against his heated body.
He breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, his forehead resting against yours as you both pant for air. He is smiling—a genuine, triumphant smile that reaches his eyes.
"Better?" he whispers.
"I still hate you," you breathe, even as you pull him back down for more.
"I know," he says against your skin, his teeth grazing your jawline before he finds your lips again.
You moan in the kiss, a soft, involuntary sound that vibrates through your chest, and for a second you totally forget he’s injured. Then, his weight shifts, his wounded shoulder catching the edge of the bench, and he lets out a tiny, pained grunt.
You break the kiss with a gasp, your lungs burning, and your eyes narrow as you glare at him. He’s still smiling stupidly, that lopsided, arrogant grin that says he’d do it all over again if it meant getting another taste of you. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the gold of his irises.
"Stupid!" You hiss, your voice cracking with a mixture of arousal and genuine fury. You grab him roughly by the uninjured shoulder, shoving him back into a seated position. Your hands are shaking as you reach for the bowl of teylu paste. "Sit. Still. If you move again, I will leave you to bleed out on this floor and tell your sa’nok (mother) you were being a nuisance."
Neteyam ignores the threat entirely. As you lean in to inspect the jagged tear on his back, he tilts his head, catching your cheek with a quick, wet kiss. The contact is unexpected and warm, making your skin prickle.
"Watch your language," he teases, his voice a low, vibrating hum that makes the hair on your arms stand up. "Is that any way to speak to the future leader of the clan?"
"Pxasìk (fuck) the clan leadership right now!" you snap, the curse word feeling sharp and jagged in the air. "You are acting like a child. You could have lost enough blood to pass out in the forest. Do you have any idea what that would have done to your mother? To me?"
He laughs, a rich, melodic sound that bounces off the cave walls. The sound is infuriatingly carefree. "But I did not pass out. I found my way to you. And you kissing it... it makes the pain go away.”
"That is not how medicine works!" You glare at him again, your teeth gritting so hard your jaw aches. You dip your fingers into the cool, thick paste and smear it across the weeping wound with more force than necessary. "It does not matter how many times you kiss me, your flesh still needs to knit back together. You are not invincible, despite what your ego tells you."
He winces as the herb stings the raw tissue, but he doesn't pull away this time. Instead, he turns his head just enough to catch your eye. "I never said I was invincible. I said your touch heals me. There is a difference."
"The difference is that one is a lie and the other is a poetic excuse to be reckless," you counter, your fingers working the paste into the deep crevice of the wound. You can feel the heat of his blood, thick and viscous, mixing with the herbal mash.
"You worry too much," he says, and before you can protest, he’s twisting around, his hand snaking out to cup the back of your head. He pulls you down, his lips crashing into yours again. This kiss is shorter, punchier, a punctuating mark on his argument.
You push him back, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Stop! Neteyam, I am serious. You are losing blood. The paste needs to set."
"Then let it set," he murmurs, his eyes dark and hungry. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone, his touch light as a feather but heavy with intent. "But we can talk while we wait. Tell me more about how much you hate me."
"I hate that you don't listen," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper as you try to refocus on his back. You pick up a strip of clean linen, starting to wrap it around his torso. The fabric is rough against your palms. "I hate that you think every mission is a game. I hate that I have to sit here and wonder if the next time someone comes to my tent, it will be to tell me you are with Eywa."
"It is not a game," he says, his voice suddenly grave. He reaches back, catching your hand and bringing it to his lips. He kisses your knuckles, his gaze never leaving yours. "I know the stakes. But being with you... it is the only time I do not feel the weight of the sky on my shoulders. Can you blame me for wanting to be here?"
"I blame you for being a martyr," you argue, pulling your hand away to tuck the end of the bandage into place. "You try to carry everything. You try to be the perfect son, the perfect warrior. But you are just a man, Neteyam. You bleed just like anyone else."
"Do I?" He grins again, the gravity vanishing as quickly as it appeared. He leans closer, his chest brushing against your knees. "I thought I was special. You certainly treat me like I am, even when you are shouting."
"I am shouting because you are a skxawng!" You throw the leftover bandage roll into the basket with a huff.
"A skxawng you love," he points out, his hand sliding down from your shoulder to your waist.
You are so busy formulating a scathing rebuttal, so focused on the way his brow furrows when he's being particularly cheeky, that you don't notice the subtle movement of his other hand. His fingers, calloused and dexterous from years of handling a bow, hook into the waistband of your loincloth.
"I don't—" you start, but the words die in your throat as you feel the sudden, cool draft against your hip.
You look down, eyes widening as you realize he has partially tugged the fabric down, exposing the curve of your thigh and the dip of your hip. The blue of your skin looks vibrant against the dark shadows of the tent.
"Neteyam!" you gasp, reaching down to pull the garment back up, but he moves faster, his hand pinning yours against your leg.
"You were saying?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, dangerous purr. His eyes aren't on your face anymore; they are tracked on the skin he's uncovered. "About how much you hate me?"
The air in the tent suddenly feels like it’s been sucked out. Your breath hitches in your throat as his thumb begins to trace slow circles against your hip bone.
"You... you are injured," you manage to choke out, though your protest sounds weak even to your own ears.
"The pain is gone," he lies, his smile widening as he watches the way your pulse jumps in your neck. "I told you. Your touch heals everything."
You’re about to flick his forehead due to his audacity, your fingers already coiled for the strike, but he moves with that fluid grace that makes him one of the best hunters in the clan. Before you can even blink, he slips off the hexapede-skin bench and drops to a crouch on the packed earth. The height difference puts his face directly in front of your cunt, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the view he just forcibly revealed. You squeal, a sharp, undignified sound that echoes off the stone walls, and your legs fly up, heels aiming to nudge his head away roughly.
"Neteyam! Move!" you bark, your face burning a deep violet.
His hands, large and calloused from a lifetime of bowstrings and forest climbing, reach out and catch your thighs. He anchors you in place, his grip firm but careful not to bruise, though the strength behind it is undeniable. You can see the fresh, dark blossoms of red leaking through the white linen bandages on his shoulder—a vivid, wet stain that mocks your attempt at being a healer. You whine, a low sound of distress vibrating in your throat, and try to pull your legs back together.
"Stop it, you are bleeding again! Neteyam, please, look at your shoulder," you plead, your voice cracking.
He doesn't look. He doesn't even flinch. Instead, he leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive, damp folds. The air is cool in the tent, making the sudden warmth of his exhale feel like a brand.
"You are surprisingly wet for someone who is supposedly scolding me," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly rumble that vibrates right against your clit. He looks up at you through his lashes, his expression a devastating mix of arrogance and adoration. "Your mouth says one thing, but your body... it tells a much more honest story."
"I... it is just the humidity! And the... the adrenaline from you being a skxawng!" You stammer out the excuses, your hands fluttering uselessly at your sides before you grip the edge of the bench so hard your knuckles turn white. "You are dirty, Neteyam. You are being filthy and you seriously need to rest. If your father walked in—"
"My father is busy. And this?" He gestures with his chin toward your opening, where a thick, glistening bead of your desire is clinging to the tip of your hood. "This will make me feel wayyy better than sleep ever could. Better than any herb you have in that basket."
Before you can protest again, he lunges forward, his tongue darting out to swiped across your clit in one long, firm stroke.
You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle the shriek that wants to tear out of your throat. You’re squirming, your hips bucking instinctively against his hold, your thighs tightening until they are practically crushing his head. Your tail is going wild, thumping against the skins of the bench like a frantic heartbeat, and your ears are pinned flat against your skull in a mix of overwhelming pleasure and acute embarrassment.
Neteyam makes a loud, wet slurping noise on purpose, his eyes tracking your reaction to further humiliate you. He wants you to hear it. He wants you to know exactly how much he’s enjoying the taste of you. He begins to eat you out like you are the last meal he will ever have on this moon, his tongue working with a clinical, relentless precision. He find the most sensitive spots with ease, his tongue curling and flattening, alternating between broad strokes and sharp, flicking motions that send sparks of white-hot lightning up your spine.
The sound is so graphic, so unrepentantly carnal, that you feel like you’re going to shatter. You can feel the vibration of his throat against your inner thighs as he moans into you, a deep, satisfied sound of a predator who has found exactly what he was hunting for. He’s thick-tongued and greedy, his nose buried in your folds, inhaling your scent.
"Mmmph," he grunts against your skin, his hands sliding up from your thighs to grip your ass, pulling you even closer to his ravenous mouth.
You can feel the shape of his mouth, the way his lips wrap around your clit as he begins to suck, creating a powerful vacuum that makes your vision blur. The suction is intense, focused, and utterly devastating. You feel the build-up starting deep in your core—a heavy, aching pressure that demands release.
"Neteyam... stop... I can't..." you sob into your palm, your eyes squeezed shut.
He doesn't stop. He doubles down, his tongue darting deep inside you, tasting the slick walls of your entrance before returning to the swollen nub of your pleasure. The bandage on his shoulder is half-unraveled now, a strip of bloody linen trailing on the dirt, but he is lost in the heat of you, his own breathing coming in ragged, wet gasps between his laps.
The smell in the tent is intoxicating now—the copper of his blood mixing with the heavy, floral musk of your climax, a scent combination that is primal and overwhelming. You can feel the sweat slicking your skin, making you slide against the leather of the bench.
"Please," you whimper, your fingers tangling in his braids, alternately trying to push him away and pull him closer.
He looks up for a split second, his face smeared with your juices, his eyes glowing with a dark, triumphant fire. "Say it," he commands, his voice a low hiss. "Tell me you want me to make you come."
"I... I want... please!" You cry out, your resolve finally snapping like a dry twig under a heavy boot.
He grins, a flash of white teeth, and then he dives back in. This time, he doesn't hold back. He uses his fingers to spread you wide, his tongue a blurring muscle of pure sensation. He laps at you with a ferocity that borders on violent, his head bobbing as he devours you.
The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, a sudden, ecstasy contraction that starts in your toes and washes over your entire body. You arch your back, your muffled whines dying in your throat as your thighs clench around his face.
Neteyam doesn't pull away. He stays there, lapping up every last drop of your cum, his hands holding you steady as you ride out the storm. He is a mess—bloodied, bruised, and covered in you—but as he finally sits back on his heels, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, dragging a smear of your slickness over a fresh split in his lip that begins to weep a bead of dark, indigo blood, yet he looks entirely reborn.
"I told you," he murmurs, his voice a satisfied rasp as he stands with a fluid strength that defies his injuries, "your medicine is the only kind that actually works."
edward fell in love with you slowly. not all at once like the stories say, but painfully, excruciatingly slow.
over long looks and accidental touches, over the way you smiled without knowing what you did to him.
he tried to stay away. of course he did. but every time you said his name? he unraveled a little more.
“you shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“like what?”
“like you really see me… and you still want to stay.”
gentle, overwhelming protectiveness.
he’s always quietly placing himself between you and anything remotely dangerous, even if it’s just a fast-moving car in the school parking lot or someone walking too close to you on the sidewalk.
his hand will ghost over your lower back or hover near yours, ready to pull you close. you’re never out of his reach.
“i know I’m being ridiculous,” he’ll whisper, forehead pressed to yours, “but i’d rather be overprotective than ever risk losing you.”
he memorizes everything about you.
the sound of your footsteps. the way you breathe when you’re nervous. the rhythm of your heartbeat when you’re happy, and when you’re lying.
he knows the titles off your favorite books and the way you stir your tea without looking.
he notices it all and it makes him impossibly soft.
“that sweater,” he murmurs one day, eyes on your collar, “you wore it the first time you let me hold your hand.”
he writes you lullabies on the piano.
there’s one piece he only plays when you’re in the room. you don’t realize it’s yours until he finally admits it one rainy evening, fingers lingering on the keys.
“i wrote it the night i realized i couldn’t imagine eternity without you.”
if you’re his bloodsinger? oh god.
it’s unbearable at first. he’s a wreck.
he disappears from school. then he comes back, tense and haunted, trying to talk himself out of needing you. but it only makes him more obsessive.
he doesn’t trust himself, and yet he’s drawn to you like nothing else.
“you don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, voice raw. “i’d burn the whole world down just to keep you safe. that’s not love. it’s something far more dangerous.”
he gets jealous… and hates himself for it.
he’s old-fashioned, so he won’t say anything right away, but if someone flirts with you, it shows. his jaw tenses. his posture goes rigid.
and if you so much as laugh at another guy’s joke?
“was he… important to you?” he’ll ask later, eyes lowered.
you have to take his face in your hands and promise there’s no one else you’d rather have eternally holding you in the moonlight.
he’s always giving you his coat.
even when it’s not that cold. even when you have a jacket. he just likes seeing you in it. and the way it hangs off your shoulders? yeah. he’s not immune.
“i could’ve worn my own, you know.”
“i know,” he says, barely hiding a smile. “but mine looks better on you.”
he absolutely struggles with texting.
this man is 100+ years old. texting is not his thing. he’s formal and overly proper. no abbreviations. full punctuation. and he apologizes for sending “too many messages” even if it’s only two.
you: “miss u”
edward: “i miss you more than language can express. eternally yours, —e.”
he loves the sound of your heartbeat when you sleep.
edward doesn’t sleep, but he’ll sit beside your bed every night, listening to the steady rhythm of your heart like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world. if you ever wake up and catch him?
“don’t be afraid,” he whispers. “i just needed to be close to you.”
he’s terrified of hurting you.
even after you’ve been together for a while, that fear never fully fades.
he’s constantly restraining himself. always making sure you’re okay, pulling back when you get too close, kissing you with trembling reverence like he’s scared to want you too much.
“you don’t understand what it takes for me to hold you like this and not lose control.”
you take walks together at night, his favorite time.
he listens as you talk, asking you soft questions, stopping only to kiss your knuckles or tuck a flower behind your ear.
he’s absolutely in love with the way you talk about human things like stargazing and campfires and hot chocolate like they’re sacred.
“you make this world feel so… alive,” he tells you one night. “even to me.”
he wants forever.
eventually, he starts dropping hints about forever. eternity. a future that doesn’t end.
he’s scared of what it means, scared of what you’d lose… but his voice nearly breaks when he imagines a life without you.
“i’ve lived a hundred years without you,” he says, brushing your hair from your face. “i’m begging you, don’t ask me to do it again.”
edward fell in love with you slowly. not all at once like the stories say, but painfully, excruciatingly slow.
over long looks and accidental touches, over the way you smiled without knowing what you did to him.
he tried to stay away. of course he did. but every time you said his name? he unraveled a little more.
“you shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“like what?”
“like you really see me… and you still want to stay.”
gentle, overwhelming protectiveness.
he’s always quietly placing himself between you and anything remotely dangerous, even if it’s just a fast-moving car in the school parking lot or someone walking too close to you on the sidewalk.
his hand will ghost over your lower back or hover near yours, ready to pull you close. you’re never out of his reach.
“i know I’m being ridiculous,” he’ll whisper, forehead pressed to yours, “but i’d rather be overprotective than ever risk losing you.”
he memorizes everything about you.
the sound of your footsteps. the way you breathe when you’re nervous. the rhythm of your heartbeat when you’re happy, and when you’re lying.
he knows the titles off your favorite books and the way you stir your tea without looking.
he notices it all and it makes him impossibly soft.
“that sweater,” he murmurs one day, eyes on your collar, “you wore it the first time you let me hold your hand.”
he writes you lullabies on the piano.
there’s one piece he only plays when you’re in the room. you don’t realize it’s yours until he finally admits it one rainy evening, fingers lingering on the keys.
“i wrote it the night i realized i couldn’t imagine eternity without you.”
if you’re his bloodsinger? oh god.
it’s unbearable at first. he’s a wreck.
he disappears from school. then he comes back, tense and haunted, trying to talk himself out of needing you. but it only makes him more obsessive.
he doesn’t trust himself, and yet he’s drawn to you like nothing else.
“you don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, voice raw. “i’d burn the whole world down just to keep you safe. that’s not love. it’s something far more dangerous.”
he gets jealous… and hates himself for it.
he’s old-fashioned, so he won’t say anything right away, but if someone flirts with you, it shows. his jaw tenses. his posture goes rigid.
and if you so much as laugh at another guy’s joke?
“was he… important to you?” he’ll ask later, eyes lowered.
you have to take his face in your hands and promise there’s no one else you’d rather have eternally holding you in the moonlight.
he’s always giving you his coat.
even when it’s not that cold. even when you have a jacket. he just likes seeing you in it. and the way it hangs off your shoulders? yeah. he’s not immune.
“i could’ve worn my own, you know.”
“i know,” he says, barely hiding a smile. “but mine looks better on you.”
he absolutely struggles with texting.
this man is 100+ years old. texting is not his thing. he’s formal and overly proper. no abbreviations. full punctuation. and he apologizes for sending “too many messages” even if it’s only two.
you: “miss u”
edward: “i miss you more than language can express. eternally yours, —e.”
he loves the sound of your heartbeat when you sleep.
edward doesn’t sleep, but he’ll sit beside your bed every night, listening to the steady rhythm of your heart like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world. if you ever wake up and catch him?
“don’t be afraid,” he whispers. “i just needed to be close to you.”
he’s terrified of hurting you.
even after you’ve been together for a while, that fear never fully fades.
he’s constantly restraining himself. always making sure you’re okay, pulling back when you get too close, kissing you with trembling reverence like he’s scared to want you too much.
“you don’t understand what it takes for me to hold you like this and not lose control.”
you take walks together at night, his favorite time.
he listens as you talk, asking you soft questions, stopping only to kiss your knuckles or tuck a flower behind your ear.
he’s absolutely in love with the way you talk about human things like stargazing and campfires and hot chocolate like they’re sacred.
“you make this world feel so… alive,” he tells you one night. “even to me.”
he wants forever.
eventually, he starts dropping hints about forever. eternity. a future that doesn’t end.
he’s scared of what it means, scared of what you’d lose… but his voice nearly breaks when he imagines a life without you.
“i’ve lived a hundred years without you,” he says, brushing your hair from your face. “i’m begging you, don’t ask me to do it again.”
Why are you not re-blogging? You think the fandom is dead, that no one’s interacting anymore, no one’s doing anything, no one’s writing, no one’s posting. ‘Everyone was so hyperfixed on that character, Where is the writing?’
People are writing. People aren’t reblogging. People aren’t giving some good feedback to motivate the writers that are putting their hard work, time, effort into making this piece that you were reading.
‘oh, it’s just too much work. You don’t wanna click that button and then click a few tags.’ Then you’re gonna have to suffer and not see a lot of writing from a lot of people because the only way this fucking app works is if you reblog.
I see so many pieces of work with 59 likes and 1 blog, I just saw one that had 690 likes and it had 9 reblogs. Even 1,000 likes and only 59 reblogs too. It’s devastating to see for the community of Tumblr. And I’ve been here for like five years, the way this app works is if you re-blog.
There’s so many people that are writing. There’s so many amazing things that I see and I try my best to reblog every single one that I read. That’s what I love doing because sharing someone’s piece of work is just beautiful because it allows me to show it to more people.
I reblog. And the beauty of it is;
I get notifications that this person liked it and this person liked it, and then that post continues to get more views, more likes and reblogs. All just because one person, reblogged it.
so please, if you are a part of Tumblr and you love reading your favorite writers fics, or love reading about your favorite character, please do your job and reblog it.
And if you don’t like re-blogging because you don’t want to do that on your account, then you can make another account and put all of the things that you read on that account. You can do separate things, like fic recs.
You can figure it the fuck out if you want people to actually be writing for a character you love. The writers are writing, you ain’t helping them share their work.
i’d like to take this opportunity to once again reiterate that this is not a place for zionists, pro-ice and MAGA supporters
the amount of people celebrating the bombing of iran is insane. this is absolute fucking insanity. over 80 schoolgirls have been killed. over 200 people have been murdered in the last 12 hours alone. this is not liberation. this is NOT freedom.
israel and united states have no interest in liberating anyone, they’re just after political and economic gain. liberation comes at the hands of the people themselves not the hands of western and zionist forces that violently displace and martyr. this is a distraction from the epstein files against trump like do we not see this for exactly what it is, how the media is censoring us and flooding the news cycle to drown it out?
i feel like i’m losing my fucking mind from the discourse online. please educate yourselves, this is critical.
i’d like to take this opportunity to once again reiterate that this is not a place for zionists, pro-ice and MAGA supporters
the amount of people celebrating the bombing of iran is insane. this is absolute fucking insanity. over 80 schoolgirls have been killed. over 200 people have been murdered in the last 12 hours alone. this is not liberation. this is NOT freedom.
israel and united states have no interest in liberating anyone, they’re just after political and economic gain. liberation comes at the hands of the people themselves not the hands of western and zionist forces that violently displace and martyr. this is a distraction from the epstein files against trump like do we not see this for exactly what it is, how the media is censoring us and flooding the news cycle to drown it out?
i feel like i’m losing my fucking mind from the discourse online. please educate yourselves, this is critical.
theartofmadeline
germansingergirl
kaledo-art
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
blakekathryn
snowghoul
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dededos
