A/N: it's not Father's Day anymore, time to sin! I was going to write more but @stylespresleyhearted guilt tripped me into posting so blame her. Inspired by @elvisabutler and her Selkie AU. Maybe part 1/?
Pairings: Selkie Elvis Presley x AFAB Reader
Warnings: mommy kink, breastfeeding kink, mentions of infant death
"Mama," he breathes out, eyes big and black as the nighttime sea, stars reflected off their waters.
You don’t touch him just yet. This is what you get, for wandering the shores at nighttime, a pallid ghost in your flowing house dress. Abandoned by your husband, shipwrecked or nearly. This hazy, dreamlike state has you questioning everything—did your seal pup, so soft and pretty with big blue-black eyes really turn into a man? He’s laid in the sand, sprawled half on his side, held up by both arms, legs tucked under him. Your eyes catch on the wiry muscle in his forearms, the flex of tendons in his hands as the moonlight plays between his fingertips.
The gentle roundness of his belly and face betray his youth, betray, too, the seal in him. There are strong shoulders and strong hands digging into the sand you refocus on, a dichotomy of hard and soft lines that are angelic, that make you question. You stare at this apparition in awe, in uncertainty, in wrenching grief because it would truly break you apart if he wasn’t real. Like letting an injured animal come to you, you hardly dare to move, to breathe, for fear of facing cruel reality.
But—he makes a whimpering bark you have come to recognize, inky hair falling in wide sea-storm eyes, and you just… know. This is your seal pup, this is him showing you that he’s not just a seal. He’s a man, too. His legs squirm, an impatience in how he kneads at the beach, leaning forward towards you. His lips part, and you can't help but notice the flash of too-white, too-sharp teeth peeking from between their plushness. He can—can be everything you have ever missed since your baby joined with the Lord above so soon into his life. You step closer, letting yourself sink down into the surf a bare few feet away. He could complete you, as your absent husband never did, as nothing else could.
Your eyes are locked when he offers his pelt to you—you hadn’t noticed it around his shoulders, too busy looking at miles of tanned skin washed pale in the starlight. You take it in a daze, unthinking, and the feel of his pruned fingers makes you nearly gasp because it drags your attention back into clarity. He’s real. You grip his skin in shaky hands that steady as soon as you truly feel what is in your grasp. It—it feels like him, like his seal-self, only it thrums with an otherworldly something that makes you want to keep and hold and harbor him from the cruel, crashing waves. Still, his eyes are unwavering on your own. He’s real.
Your chest clenches, drenched in love and drowning as you hold out his skin to him—it’s his, not yours. He shakes his head, squirms under the loop of your outstretched arms, still slippery as his seal-form. When he snuggles into your chest, nosing at your plump breast nearest to him... you ache. You gasp out as wet hands wrap around your waist, burning hot through the thin fabric of your dress. His thumb digs notches between your third and fourth rib.
He gazes up at you and you are worn down like the tide that laps at your knees, seaglass polished smooth. You throw the pelt around your shoulders, and he makes a noise you associate with scratching just so at an itch, all pleased, rumbling satisfaction. It thrums through your soul. Still, you can't look away.
You unbutton the soft cotton of your day dress slowly, measuredly, careful not to spook but entranced by those eyes. You know, instinctively, that he wants skinship. Lulled by the smell of the sea, the warmth of the fur mantle on your shoulders, and the sound of lapping waves, you don’t question this knowledge, only force cold-stiffened fingers to work open your placard.
You don’t recognize that he’s “Elvis Presley” at that moment. That would come later, the knowledge of identity within the realm of bright reality. No, at this moment he’s just your seal pup: yours, a dark voice in you croons, all yours. You shuffle the fabric out of the way, perfectly manicured fingers lacing into wet, charcoal dark hair. Petting it away from that heartbreaking face, your chest heaves in anticipation. Yours, yours, yours.
He looks up at you with wide pupils and fluttering lashes, parted lips wet with his growing panting. He wriggles in the sand, leans over your lap, naked as any other babe. There’s a subtle scratch of his chest hair catching on your skirt. His hands are still branding you, cradling your fragile heart. He latches onto you, slick mouth sucking even as you and he stare unblinking at each other, a game of who might break this dreamed delusion in the dead of night first.
“Mama?” he asks again, that whine edging his voice even while it’s deep and dripping with a southern drawl. This time you have an answer.
“My baby,” you confirm, a confession to the moon, the stars, and your seal-pup. Tugging him closer, drawing him to your reddened nipple, you feel your nose sting and eyes water. Milk has already started to dribble the moment you heard his seal-song cry, so very much like a human babe. You would know—had known those cries for a few short days before they’d gone. But now your baby was here, and you cradled his spine with your free hand as gently as you might a newborn.
You mewl, finally shattering, closing your eyes and feeling tears slip down chilled cheeks. The heavy weight of milk and grief is swallowed down, washed away with every slow, languid pull of his mouth at your tits. You are panting yourself, now, squirming in the surf that surges over both of you every once and a while, the coolness slithering between your legs to that heated space between them. You—you weren’t sure if you should be feeling like this, and you pet at your baby’s hair in an effort to self soothe. He comes up for air with a gasp, eyes dazed, before you tug and coax him to your other breast, still full and heavy. He goes easily, snuffles and settles in to suck with perfect ease.
You startle when you feel warm, damp hands clutch higher, thumbs edging to the underside of your breasts. Even as you know with sure certainty he’s your baby, your pup, you also are distinctly aware he’s a man with the way his grip is so sure, how it spans almost the entirety of your torso. His body is furnace-hot, despite the crispness of the nighttime seaside. You curl closer, tip your head back to moan into the forgiving dark as you cradle his head tighter to your dripping breasts. His mouth turns ravenous at your noise, his hands tightening further. You can feel your heart pound where he has his palms. The sting of a bite makes you yelp, surprise turning to shock as you’re shoved back, his pelt cushioning you against the sand your back meets with a muffled whump.
“Mama,” he breathes out for a third time, crawling over your prone form, heavy tits spilling out of your open placard and to either side of you. Your nipples harden further, so cruelly exposed to the biting air while dripping. Your hands are still wound in his hair, but now—you can see the predator, the fish-catcher, the hunter as his glistening skin, free of goosebumps, shimmers as he stalks up your body.
Things are going pretty good!!! I'm cuddling with a dog in my sisters room at the moment (it's a long story of why I have to do this) and I'm having fun relaxing!!!
"Mama," he breathes out, eyes big and black as the nighttime sea, stars reflected off their waters.
Your chest clenches, drenched in love and drowning as you hold out his skin to him. He shakes his head, squirms under your arms, still slippery as his seal-form. When he snuggles into your chest, nosing at your plump breast nearest to him... you ache. He gazes up at you and you are worn down like the tide that laps at your knees, seaglass polished smooth.
Some Selkie E vibes because someone (cough @stylespresleyhearted cough) yelled at Ally and then Ally yelled at me. So. Fuck you both
When is that selkie fic coming out bc… *slams credit card on the table, showing you all the numbers on the front, the expiration date, and the three funky numbers on the back*
Is this the point where I see if I can get that fancy donate button to work or no 🤔
But in all seriousness idk man is this a "write it Smitty" or a "yell at Ally @elvisabutler until I get access to a doc and write 4k words on it anyway" sort of thing??
#project hail mary
#lana del rey
#f1
#intersex
