#That's Brandi's new husband

[charmandersims]

Only completed this LTW for the first time recently, and now I've completed it for an adult! I'm getting good at this game (only taken a bazillion years...)

[fayes-fics]

Eden

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband...

I couldn't resist using a Season 3 gif cos hello.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, breeding kink, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, creampie, ie filthy babymaking. Also, the smut is bookended by fluff; yeah, that probably needs a warning, lol.

Word Count: 4.2k

Authors Note: This is a very belated request fill for @victoriaholland (HERE) and Anon (HERE) about Benedict with a touch of baby fever. I decided to combine the asks as I saw a way to weave them together. Sorry for the delay, but well at least babymaking seems appropriate for spring hehe. Thank you to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta, as always. Err, Enjoy! <3

Daphne’s latest child is beautiful; you delight in his joy as he bounces on your lap, learning the strength of his sweetly chubby legs, little fists wrapped tight around your fingers. 

Looking up, you catch your husband's eye from afar, his stare intense across the gardens of Bridgerton House as you sit under a tented shelter upon a picnic blanket. The rest of the family are scattered around, playing games or chatting, but you are quite content minding the little one while his nanny takes a few moments to eat lunch.

“Is everything alright, my love?” You inquire as Benedict draws closer. 

“Yes… I….” He seems a little flustered. 

“Are you sure?” 

You pull a funny face for the infant, who breaks out into the most adorable infectious giggles that has you grinning from ear to ear and hugging him into your body, swaying with him. 

“Are you alright? Minding the child?” He checks, his voice a touch odd.

“Oh yes. We are more than happy, are we not, my little prince?” You talk in a vaguely silly baby-talk voice, addressing the child in your arms as much as Benedict. 

Again, the child peals with delighted noises and spit bubbles enthusiastically, looking up at Benedict eagerly as much as you do.

“Well, that is wonderful news,” he blusters, and you could swear he is out of sorts, breathless almost. “I shall… leave you to it,” he adds, giving you a bow and then withdrawing as the little one wiggles out of your arms.

“Ignore your Uncle Benedict; he is being a silly billy,” you whisper conspiratorially once the man in question is out of earshot.

The response is babbled nonsense as the child bashes one wooden brick against another.

“I quite agree,” you state sagely before breaking into a goofy grin.

——

“Please?” Hyacinth wheedles.

“No, Hy,” you sigh without even looking up.

“Ugh, you are no fun!” she scowls, crossing her arms defiantly.

“What is all this?” Anthony clips as he strides into the drawing room, Benedict on his heels, as Hyacinth flounces dramatically across the room. 

“Your little sister is angry at me because I will not allow her to drink the punch; it has brandy in it,” you explain cooly.

“Quite right, too!” Anthony chimes as Hyacinth rolls her eyes.

“Listen to y/n, Hyacinth, and do as she says,” Anthony lectures, and you feel grateful for his support, effectively neutering her rebellion. “Despite a temporary lapse of judgment when choosing a spouse, she is otherwise one of the most sensible people in this family.”

“Hey…!” Benedict protests.

“Please…” Anthony withers, twisting towards him. “Brother, if there is one thing us Bridgerton men know how to do, ‘tis to marry a woman entirely too good for us. And well done on that, by the way.”

You smirk at Anthony’s hilarious way of putting his brother - your husband - in his place, catching Kate’s eye with a wink as she enters the room carrying her baby. 

“Y/n, come and meet the future Viscount; he’s awake at last,” she calls to you. 

You are immediately on your feet and grinning, taking the tiny bundle from her arms and cooing at the sweet little boy. The baby opens his enormous brown eyes and observes you for a second before breaking into a one-toothed grin and happily waving his fists at you.

“Oh, he really likes you!” Kate enthuses, delighted.

“As I do you, little one,” you smile, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

You look up to see Benedict with that same look on his face as earlier. A tempest, almost an energy over his being. It’s almost as if he is… aroused?! Which is most odd.

As you hand the baby back to Kate, giving him one final kiss, Benedict is suddenly by your side. Announcing to the family that there has been a change of plan and, regrettably, you will not be able to stay for dinner, his arm an insistent tug around your waist.

——

“Why did we not stay for family dinner as originally planned, my love?” 

Your question is soft, only just audible over the noise of the carriage as you trundle over the cobbled streets of Mayfair a few minutes later. 

“I decided that we should perhaps dine at ours this evening…” his voice adopting that deeper edge which always causes butterflies in your tummy. His hand lands on your knee, a heavy weight that feels portentous. He slides closer on the bench seat.

“Why might that be?” your ask turns breathy, entirely without you meaning it to.

“I want to be alone with you,” he murmurs, unmistakably pitched to arouse. 

The carriage seems to notch up a few degrees as the rocking motion presses your side rhythmically into his. The sound of the wheels and hooves is so loud. He twists to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pulls your back against his flank. 

“All day today, I have watched you,” he rumbles, hand warming the skin around your clavicle, fingertip brushing in circles. “You are so very good with children, darling. Seeing you so naturally with the babies and how you handled Hyacinth… you would be the perfect mother.”

You blush a little at his praise. “Thank you, my love. I would like children one day. Your children. Imagine a child with your eyes. They would be quite the most beautiful,” you sigh wistfully, leaning back into him, his hand feeling heavier on your skin.

Benedict chuckles modestly. “And what of your beauty? Would a child version of you not be the most fetching?”

You giggle and turn your head sideways to nuzzle against his jaw. “I think we would indeed make beautiful babies together, Benedict.”

“I agree,” his voice a tempting lilt, fingers skating downwards over the swell of your breast now, slipping inside the fabric and making you gasp as he tweaks your nipple. “And I think we should start as soon as we get home.”

“Did seeing me with babies suddenly make you want your own, Mr Bridgerton?” Your hand flexes on his knee as he toys with your breast.

“Oh yes darling, it made me want to take you right there…” he asserts, finally admitting those looks he gave you were indeed pure arousal.

You reach up and run your hand into his hair, fingers flexing on his warm scalp as you pull his face to yours.  “And suddenly, it appears I am no longer hungry for dinner…” you whisper flirtatiously, your cupid's bow brushing his stubbled upper lip.

He groans, and his passionate kiss is plundering, a tingle running over your limbs, just as your carriage comes to a shuddering stop outside your townhome. 

Uncaring of the neighbourhood or any prying eyes, Benedict sweeps you out of the carriage in his arms, carrying you bridal style over the pavement and through your front door.

“My wife and I are not to be disturbed,” he announces crisply and loudly to the staff as you enter the hallway.

Leaving no room for doubt about his plans by pulling you into a searing kiss for all to see before ascending the stairs rapidly. He practically growls as he kicks open the door to your master bedroom door and slams it shut again with his foot. 

“Benedict…” you stammer, heart pounding at how overwrought he is. 

You have never seen him like this. Commanding, crackling with an energy that has your body simmering. He is usually so sweet, affable, and kind. Every time you have been intimate since your wedding night a few weeks ago, he has been a complete gentleman: loving and so very tender. The grip he has had on you tonight feels different. This is something primal—like a switch has been flipped at a basal level in his being.

He places you down onto your feet before the roaring fire, his face intense.

“Wife…” The way he says it makes you feel a flush creep over your skin.

“Husband…” you respond in kind, belly fluttering with excitement.

“Take off your dress,” he orders, his dilated pupils shining in the firelight.

This is new. Usually, he is the one to remove it slowly and softly from your body. 

“I cannot, the buttons…” you confess, signalling behind you. You would need your ladies' maid to unhook them from between your shoulder blades.  

He moves closer, seeming so much taller; his ragged breaths dance in the tendrils of your hair as he reaches around behind your shoulders. With a rough tug that makes you startle, he tears the fabric asunder, the sound of tiny pearl buttons skittering across the polished wooden floor behind you as you gasp in surprise.

“There…” he smirks dangerously, “problem resolved.”

You are speechless as he withdraws a pace, looking at you expectantly. You follow his order, a slight quake in your hands as you push the frayed dress down your body, still a little shocked by his strength. Then you reach for the crisscross lacing of your stays, feeling the weight of his stare as each loop relents, his eyes hungry, his body heaving with deep breaths his fitted jacket taut with each inhale. You peel the item away, leaving just your thin white cotton chemise.

“Rip it too,” you plead before you realise it, enthralled by this assertive demeanour.

With a noise in the back of his throat, he takes a pace forward again, and you stare up at him, enchanted. He grasps the fabric above your breasts and then rips it loudly from your chest all the way to your ankles, the sound echoing up the walls. Again, his strength has your knees weak. As the torn pieces flutter from your body, you want to bathe in the hungry sound he makes as he realises you are clad only in white knee-high silk stockings, no underwear to be seen, the warmth from the fireplace swirling around your intimate area. 

As you stand almost naked before your imposing husband, him still fully dressed, there is a knot low in your gut. But it’s not fear; it’s something else entirely—desire. Trembling, breathless and wanting. An elemental wish to be thoroughly taken.

He steps forward, eyes glittering, and his fingers plough roughly between your legs, making you gasp.

“Eden,” he proclaims, his fingers snagging over your swollen pearl of a clit with almost rough strokes, the callous where he holds his paintbrush abrading your folds. “A wonderful, lush, wet garden. Just waiting to be planted.”  His words are hypnotic and low, questing fingers being coated with a dewiness that is entirely of his making.

“Please…” you whimper, squirming on his touch, captivated by this version of your husband, wanting to submit to him, a burning need low in your belly. His fingers slide faster, making a lewd, wet noise. 

“Are you going to let me?” Benedict croons. “Plant my seed inside you?”

Until now, he has always been careful to complete outside your body. A slightly bereft feeling every time - the wonderful moment cut short as he leaves you suddenly empty, a warm splash upon your thighs, tummy or spine. The idea he will stay inside you is alluring in a way you don’t fully comprehend.

“Yes, please, husband,” your nipples puckering almost painfully against the wool of his lapels as he crowds into you. 

“Good. Get on that bed right now,” Benedict orders roughly, pointing at your four-poster bed as he tugs off his jacket.

You scramble to obey. Feeling under a spell. Being naked save your stockings feels illicit as you lay back into the soft pillows and watch as he undresses, staring you down the whole time. 

You slide a hand between your legs instinctively as more of his toned body is revealed. He growls at the sight, you biting your lip and watching him, his torso bare, his trousers clinging to his shapely legs, to his swollen cock. He bends to remove his shoes, and the sight of his broad shoulders flexing is enough to make you moan. As he stands back up and hooks his elegant fingers around the trouser buttons, a smug look on his handsome face that he is doing this to you.

“Husband…” you call out to him, writhing on your fingers shamelessly now, one hand shooting up to brace your movements against the headboard, flushing warm down to your toes.

With a few dextrous flicks, the buttons relent, and his trousers drop to the floor. His naked body is always a delicious sight, but tonight feels more, every sense heightened, moaning again as he takes a step towards you, thigh muscles flexing, his cock standing proud to attention.

Again, a soft plea falls from your lips, your eyes raking every plain of his tempting form, feeling yourself swell under your fingertips.

“Not yet,” he clucks, the arrogance somehow more beguiling as you bite your lip. “I think I want to watch you come, my darling. All by yourself. I hear female pleasure can aid with conception after all.”

“Will you not touch me?” you petition, reaching your other hand imploringly towards him.

“No darling, I shall watch,” his lopsided grin deadly. 

He wraps a strong fist around his own cock, pumping slowly, a bead of moisture gathering at his tip, glistening in the candlelight as he does. 

“Now, use both hands, please. Place your fingers inside yourself,” Benedict instructs as you blindly follow, a languid buzz in your brain—you would do anything he told you to right now.

Planting your feet squarely on the bed, you drag your ankles up higher towards your bottom, letting your legs fall open wider to give him a better view as your other hand slides down. You plunge two fingers into yourself, your hips canting off the mattress with a staccato breath at the sensation of yourself, so hot and tight.

“That's right,” he endorses, a leisurely movement of his hand up and down his cock as he watches you from a few feet away. “‘Feel yourself, darling. Tis paradise, is it not?” that trademark rumbling voice skittering over your skin, goosebumps raising down your arms just at the tone. 

“Come closer,” you appeal breathily, wanting to smell him, feel his heat, his flesh—anything.

He shakes his head, smirking wider as his refusal spurs you on, desperate to come. Mewling as your fingers speed up, one circling your clit, the others buried as far as you can, wishing instead it were his long, graceful fingers reaching places you are unable. Watching him squeeze his own cock hurtles you fast, already aroused from the moment he slid a hand into your dress in the carriage. 

Unable to fight the tide in your body, you screw your eyes shut and call out his name as your pussy starts to convulse around your own fingers, toes curling into the sheet, your muscles all going stiff, your hips again raised as you feel the tide break. A gush of wetness runs down your palm and your bottom cheeks as your mind floats away. Distantly, you can hear him speaking, but it’s fuzzy as you flop back down, sated, your legs going flat, too shaky to balance.

You startle as a warm hand circles the wrist of your fingers still inside yourself, bringing you abruptly back into the room. Benedict looms over you, his chest heaving, that power still there.

“What was that?” your query drowsy, lips dry.

He chuckles richly. “I said that was spectacular,” he repeats, bemused. “But also that I want you to paint your nipples with your arousal, my love, for me,” he commands, tugging your hand so your fingers slide out of yourself.

You do as bidden, still floating down from the high, smearing your own warm juices onto your puffed areolas.

“Perfect..” he intones.

In one swift, athletic move, he mounts the bed. You cry out as his warm mouth encloses your left nipple, groaning lewdly as he licks you clean of your arousal, his tongue a heavy, warm, wet weight curling around your sensitive bud, his lips tugging gently, reawakening those synapses only just recovering from your orgasm. 

“Why do you always taste like heaven?” his dusky question is rhetorical, his breath gusting over your sternum as he swaps to your other breast to meter out the same treatment. He has you moving under him again as he settles his body over you more firmly, your hips tilting up to feel his hard cock graze your inner thigh. “I wonder if you will still taste like heaven when you are heavy with my child?” he hums thoughtfully as he teases your nipple with the tip of his nose, one hand cupping your empty belly. “I dare say even moreso, ripe like a vine, bearing fruit…” That sonorous voice teases over your skin as he moves slowly upwards to nuzzle your neck. “My fruit….” he adds, possessive as he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, so loud now right by your ear.

His hands wind around your thighs as he shuffles position so he is kneeling between your legs, his ropey thighs spread wide under yours…

“Are you ready for that, my love?” he pauses until you nod almost imperceptibly; you squeak as he suddenly hauls you down the bed, hips onto his lap, your pelvis now higher than your head upon the sheets. Your stockings unfurling down your legs where he quickly plucks at the ribbons holding them aloft.

“Good, because I am more than ready for you,” it almost sounds like a warning.

Then, with a solid thrust, he spears into your body, the invasion toe-curling, your fingers grasping his muscular forearms that are clamped around your waist. It is a primal position, and he begins to thrust with no mercy, his cock feeling huge and heavy, a strong weight that drags heavily over your walls as your pussy clings to him. Your eyes flutter closed as you whimper his name, powerless to do anything but take his thrusts, draped across his lap as you are.

“Look at me,” he demands raggedly. And you do, his handsome face contorted with effort as he slams into you, a little bead of sweat forming on his brow. “Look at me while I fuck a baby into you, wife.”

He’s never spoken to you like this before, clipped, harsh. It seems appropriate that he would be almost desperate in an act so elemental, so of the earth—to create life. Stoking a fire deep in your core that is a clarion call for him, a frisson running over your skin at the idea you are being impregnated. Bred.

You know neither of you will last long with this almost frenzied coupling, the tendrils of your arousal already swirling so soon after your last, his near-brutish handling precisely what you need, your swollen pearl slammed into his flat abdomen with every stroke he takes. The sheets roll under your shoulder blades as he keeps the same position, your hips high, a mounting that you cannot and do not want to escape, knowing he is leaving fingertip bruises around the dip of your waist, marks you will carry secretly with pride just for him.

You moan his name, so close again to that ephemeral bliss, thrashing your head from side to side as if willing the pleasure to break and wash over you.

“Come on, come for me, milk me, darling. Take what you need, take my seed,” his voice a deep wrecked purr, the lines of his body tense, craving release as much as you.

That command is what breaks the dam for you, an almost violent ricochet fanning out from where you clench around him, his cries muffled behind the rushing noise in your ears, every part of you convulsing in a pleasurable wave. And then, in a floating haze, for the very first time, you feel your husband come inside you, a warm bloom that coats your walls. It's an intoxicating feeling; you never want him to come anywhere else ever again.

“That's it, well done, my love,” he croons, eyes still shut as he shudders with little aftershocks, not leaving your body—as if he wants to stay inside you always.

——

As the embers in the fireplace glow white, you lay in post-coital bliss, bodies dewy from exertion. Benedict rests his head upon your stomach as you card your fingers leisurely through his hair.

“Do you believe we may have made a baby, darling?” he hums, pressing his ear to your belly button as if listening for a heartbeat.

“I am certain of it, husband; you were so very thorough with your attentions,” you assure as he takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “I hope our baby has your face,” you opine.

“Even if it is a girl?!”

“Thou art as pretty as thou art handsome, Mr Bridgerton,” you quip.

He laughs, carefree, crawling behind you and pulling you into a spooned embrace. “Be careful with such provocation, wife; I may not be done with you after all,” he jests idly. “I, on the other hand, hope our child looks like you, even if it is a boy.” he posits, crowding into your back, his lips warm on the shell of your ear.

“Why?” you laugh, frowning, twisting to look back at him.

“So that I may love them as much as I do you,” he breezes nonchalantly as if what he says is not the sweetest thing you can imagine, causing a tart, sudden spike of want through your body, even as you lay sated.

“Be careful, husband,” you volley back, coquettish. “Or I may not yet be done with you.”

There is a sharp, approving intake of breath, and his hand slides low from your belly into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.

“Is that a promise” he rumbles, your gasp loud as his fingers expertly drag against your clit.

“It is whatever you want. Just do not stop,” you rush out, your hand curling around his bicep, feeling a rigid mass slide hot against your bottom. “Again, husband,” you appeal breathily. “Impregnate me again.”

“With pleasure, wife,” he growls, surging into your body with a force that again steals the very breath from your lungs.

The pinkish light dawn is streaking over the ceiling above when you both finally succumb to sleep after many more vigorous attempts at babymaking. The last one, perhaps the most desperate, you pinned against the headboard, him fucking into you so hard from behind that a jagged crack appears, spidering up the wall from where the bedframe slammed into it. A flaw which he steadfastly refuses to get fixed, claiming it to be the most profound art—a souvenir and ode to a momentous night.

——

9 months later

Benedict’s lips mash against your sweaty brow as he keeps lauding you with praise, excitement and pride evident in his every word. You flop back onto the bed, exhaustion deep in your bones, your body turned inside out, hurting in a way you have never known.

But it was all worth it.

What feels like only moments later, in your shattered, addled state, the doctor and nurses depart. Your husband perches on the bed next to you, his face a picture of wonderment. Holding not just one but two bundles of joy in the crooks of his arms. One girl, one boy—fraternal twins.

“My love, we have created the most beautiful creatures on all of this earth,” he attests partisanly, his voice profound with emotion, his eyes pinging from one swaddled face to the other as they sleep soundly.

You shoot him a watery but ironic smile. “I suppose, dear husband, that is what happens when you spend a whole night impregnating me. You succeed twice over.”

His brow raises pointedly, his tongue shooting out to pass over his bottom lip. “Are you suggesting next time around, wife, we keep going for three days straight? So that I may have a brood of eight by the time we are done?” Deploying his bedroom voice that he knows full well makes your knees weak.

“Do not say such things in front of the children!” you chide, swatting his knee where it touches your thigh. “And no, I am not carrying six of your progeny at once; that is simply preposterous!”

“Four?” he petitions with a wink.

You roll your eyes affectionately, settling back into the mound of pillows. “A maximum of two at a time is my final offer, Benedict Bridgerton,” you respond drolly.

“Entirely reasonable,” he chuckles contentedly, dropping a kiss onto each of their foreheads before handing both to you so delicately, as if they are the most precious bundles in the world. 

Which to you both, they are.

Join my taglist HERE

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[lodgersims]

As a Sims 2 player one of the most eerie things about playing the original game isn't necessarily the creepy/more liminal aesthetic or the repetitively endless gameplay, but the fact that almost all the pre-made Sims from the original game are inexorably doomed by the narrative.

There's something odd about Pleasantview specifically, where the majority of the returning Sim families live (save for Tara Kat, who seems... relatively fine). Like, the concept of the game is that twenty-five years have passed, and all of the returning characters are pre-baked into character arcs that communicate an unavoidable truth: You, the player, failed.

Bella Goth will disappear. Her brother (though in the original Sims we aren't aware that Michael Bachelor is her brother) will die, possibly murdered. Mortimer will be lost and alone. Cassandra will be stuck in an unloving engagement. The Newbie's daughter will be impoverished, a single mother whose husband died young, with two boys and another on the way. Daniel Pleasant will grow up to be a cheater. Jennifer Pleasant will never be an athlete like she wanted (her brother will). And though poor Johnny Burb never mentions Tucker anymore, you know that old dog died years ago. The Roomies, the Mashugas, the Hicks, the Charmings - all leave town... or worse, die out.

I think about Jeff Pleasant's bio in the first game: "Jeff and his family are new to the neighborhood. Can you help Jeff provide for his family and fulfill his lifelong goal of being the first man to walk on Mars?" And how it contrasts to Daniel's in the second: "Since his father Jeff died without achieving his dream of going to Mars, Daniel has felt an overwhelming guilt."

And sure, you can save the families of Pleasantview. You can choose for Mary-Sue to not go to work that day, or maybe Daniel never pursues Kaylynn Langerak again. You can give Cassandra a happy marriage, tame Don Lothario's womanizer ways. You can financially save Brandi Broke. You can get John Burb another dog. You can get Jennifer the career she always wanted. You can defy the scripted in-game prompts and say "No. I don't want to play like this." You can break the cycle, every time you play.

And yet, at the end of the day, no matter what you do... uninstalling the game and reinstalling it, maybe just deleting that Neighborhood folder, they are reset back to exactly where they were again. They're doomed to repeat it forever.

The game makes it clear that there are some things you aren't meant to change. A genie lamp or a Resurrect-O-Nomitron can bring back sims like Michael Bachelor, but you will pay for it in your neighborhood deteriorating to corruption. And no matter what you do, no force in the universe can bring Bella Goth back. The one in Strangetown isn't even really her, after all. And maybe she isn't. They say they deleted her in development, replaced her with a clone. Maybe that's what Bella Goth in Strangetown is. A clone. Maybe we were wrong, after all. Maybe she was never abducted by aliens. Maybe Don Lothario killed her. Maybe Dina Caliente killed her. Maybe Mortimer did. But you can't bring her back, no matter what you do. Recreate the original Bella, pixel by pixel, extract her data, make your zombie Bella. Build your own monster. Create a sim. But she will never recognize her family. Never see them as her own.

And she was never meant to.

[haologram]

stairway to the stars ☆ l.jh [m]

⤷ part of 'a very seventeen christmas' secret santa event! synopsis: your husband has always been supportive of your dreams - from the sidelines. he stays to himself, he keeps his mouth shut. it's you that can't stop running yours when your co-star is all over him. genre: established relationship au, tiny bit of angst, fluff, smut? pairing: husband!lee jihoon x actress!fem!reader word count: 1.5k...it pained me to stop it here. rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: mentions of jealousy, ideation of infidelity, general relationship dynamics. clit play, kissing, in the backseat...you know the vibes. what to listen to: stargirl interlude - the weeknd, lana del rey ; never lose me - flo milli ; the boy is mine - monica, brandy. author's note: hi baby @monamipencil ♡ i hope you enjoy my little segment for you! i did 1000% pull this out of thin air but please let me know if there is ever anything else i can write for you. much love from your secret santa. ♡

"Don't forget about me, sweetheart." It was one of the few phrases your husband burned in your brain when your career really started taking off. He'd only been your boyfriend then, trying his hardest to prove himself worthy of your affections and time. You promised you wouldn't, over shared bottles of heady Cabernet and stolen kisses. The following years proved most difficult – from fighting over not spending enough time together because of your jobs, to vacationing for months on end without repercussions – you were rising to the top way too fast for him to wrap his head around it.

But never once did his love, loyalty, or respect for you falter. He watched quietly from the sidelines, silently supportive of all your endeavors. He'd grimace inwardly a bit if your lipstick stained anyone else's lips on the big screen, he'd clear his throat one too many times if you shed any tears during a scene. He held your waist at events, a silent reminder that your ascend up the stairway to the stars was in good company.

When you finally got a bit of time for yourself, he made it his priority to become someone more permanent in your life. With eyes that never strayed and a heart that only beat for you, he proposed softly as the two of you took a midnight stroll for the first time in a long time. He apologized for not making it something grand, promising your wedding would be to die for and he'd pull every string possible to give you the honeymoon of your dreams – only for you to stop his rambling with a teary kiss to his lips. Telling your friends the news of the proposal was an exciting feat, until it fell on the ears of multiple of your co-stars. You hadn't ever even spoken of a boyfriend (you had, they just didn't remember), and a few of the men you'd worked with questioned the validity of your engagement, of your relationship – and it eventually got back to Jihoon. Whispers of the startup CEO dating an actress filled his office, side-eyed glances made him uneasy in his own skin and he hated it – he hated that people wouldn't mind their own business.

Needless to say, it pissed him off. He'd never been openly possessive, but a part of him knew that neither of you had an issue understanding where you stood in each other's lives. From dating, to girlfriend, to wife – you'd always been open about who Jihoon was to you and what his presence meant. You never shied away from answering his questions if any, and you proudly presented him as your significant other if he managed to attend any of your events. This alone was enough for the two of you to realize that people in your industry didn't take relationships too seriously, and enough for you to hard-launch your relationship by posting your wedding photos on social media.

The industry did not like that, but you didn't care. You and your agent continued to book role after role, your husband continuing to grow his business and make a name for himself in the world of music production…a stepping stone for him, and the first moment of blood-boiling jealousy you'd ever experienced at the side of Lee Jihoon.

Her hand was on his shoulder as they spoke music, and he swiftly moved out of her grasp, sure. The dance floor was full of couples, a dance floor you'd intended to whisk him onto after reapplying your lipstick in the washroom. Someone Like You by Van Morrison played as you stood a few feet away, your face contorted in a fit of envy as you saw your husband push her hand away, the words I'm married, please don't touch me falling from his lips. The woman grimaced – the same woman you'd starred alongside for three seasons of the very same show you were all celebrating a renewal for tonight – and she shrugged her shoulders, before the dreaded words fell from her own red lips.

"So? She doesn't have to know."

Jihoon looked taken aback, and it was almost like he was a moth drawn to a flame – his eyes landed on you, and the way your jaw was tight with anger as you made your way over.

"Soyoung, nice to see you. Did you lose something here, dearest?" You speak softly, staring at your co-star with eyes of fire. She gave you a sleazy smirk, shaking her head. "Not at all, Y/N. Enjoying the party?" "It's lovely, isn't it? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm feeling a bit under the weather." You gave her a tight smile, your hand wrapping around Jihoon's wrist watch as you pulled him away. He'd never seen you in such a state, eager to get him out of the venue and into the backseat of the black car waiting for you. Your arms were crossed as you sat facing away from him, before he made eye contact with the driver. He raised his brow, and the driver nodded, swiftly raising the partition as Jihoon turned to face you.

"Something bothering you, sweetheart?" He saw the way your shoulders tensed under the wine red straps of your dress, your legs crossed at the knee baring the skin of your thigh under the slit of the skirt. You gave him a glance through the corner of your eye, your lip jutted out in a pout as he cooed at you, making you huff in embarrassment.

"I don't like her." You mutter, "I don't like what she said and I don't like how she was all over you. She's literally my co-star. She knows we're married." "As much as I like your little pout and think you're adorable, I don't like that you're upset. You know I'd never wrong you, especially not like that." He tilts his head at you, making you pinch the bridge of your nose. "I know, Ji. I know." He's not satisfied with your answer, his hand reaching over to graze your knee, biting back his smile at the way your shoulders lose their tension at his touch. Your jaw remains tight, shaking your head in disbelief. "We've been co-stars for three years. You'd think she'd have some fucking respect for me." You were always so calm and collected, never too outwardly expressive of your disdain for people or their actions. He feels almost guilty for the growing tightness in his pants as you click your tongue, facing him as his fingers trace circles into your skin. "You're literally my husband. That's how I introduced you. My husband, Jihoon. Not Lee Jihoon, not the CEO of Ruby Productions, my husband. She's so shameless, I almost pity her." You tongue your cheek with a humorless laugh, and he can't help but feel his cheeks heat at the visual. He's silent as you run a hand through your hair, your earrings swinging as you shake your head again, giving him a pitiful smile.

"I'm sorry, I know this is out of character." You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder. He nods, shifting slightly as your hand splays across his thigh. You press a kiss to his cheek, stamping your lipstick on his pale skin when you notice the flush on his cheeks. He clears his throat as you stare at him, a look of disbelief glossing over your eyes as you gape at him.

"You liked it?" "In my defense, you're hot when you're mad." He scoffs embarrassedly, making you huff out a laugh. "Jihoon." "I'm sorry." He presses a kiss to your temple as you roll your eyes. "Are you?" "No." He smiles against your skin, and you feel your cheeks heat as he trails his lips down your neck. "I love you, sweetheart. Just you." "I know, Ji." You sigh, feeling a bit of heat pool in your lower belly as he nips at your shoulder with a hum. "I don't think you do. Maybe I should remind you." Your cheeks grow hot as he gently pulls your thigh over his, his teeth nipping at the shell of your ear as he snaps the waistband of your underwear against your hip. "Now you know how I feel. Everyone always has their hands all over you, like you're not spoken for." You shudder as he slips his fingers under the cotton fabric, smirking against your skin as your hand wraps around his watch. You bite down on your lip as his finger traces your clit, your nails barely digging into his wrist. "Ji, not here." Your body betrays your words, your grip on his wrist loosening as he pulls your thigh higher on his lap. "Why? Aren't you mine?" His voice is sultry as you shiver against him, slim fingers collecting your arousal while he nips at your ear.

"Yes, but-" "Oh, there's a but?" He slides a finger inside you easily, your words getting caught in your throat as you whimper. "Hoonie…" "Tell you what, pretty." He slips his hand out as the car slows to stop, the front of the hotel you're staying at coming into view. "We're going to go upstairs and you're gonna take this dress off for me, and I'll show you who the brightest star in my sky is. Go."

You nearly stumble as your husband walks out behind you, his arm wrapping around your waist as he bids the driver goodbye. You feel his teeth on your shoulder, his voice low as he speaks into your ear.

“And keep those heels on for me."

haologram © 2024 || no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[melancholicstation]

HUSBAND JACK SCHLOSSBERG HEADCANONS 𓍼 𓇢𓆸

taglist: @remotewatch @bloxholden35 @kennediva @h-l-vlovesvintage @absurdlyvintage @chemicalw0rld @fortheloveofjos @kimcrystal123 @astro-vibes-bro @tsloverr-13

might make this into a couple of one-shots??

imagining WIFE!READER as an orion carloto type, who balances modelling and writing, and makes tiktoks in the same vain of alanabananaxox on tiktok (she's been my no.1 tiktoker since 2021) and sotce.

met wife!reader at a runway after party of an up and coming new york indie brand ( sandy liang, khaite, bode etc. )

proposes to you with the blythe doll you had been obsessing over, dressed in a wedding dress and hand-customised by a popular etsy dealer with quite a high rate like this girl on tt

encouraged by jack to do a ‘what’s in my ( miu miu joie leather ) bag’ video on tiktok to help campaign for kamala akin to this video of anne hathaway but with a different vibe.

jack is ultimate embarrassing hard launcher bofy, leaving in all his girlfriends giggles that come from his chaotic antics when filming his videos.

wife!reader loves to slather jack’s face in biologique recherche’s “masque vivant”, he complains that it smells like rotting meat😹😹😹😹😹.

jack would be always on that damn phone during your runway shows, recording each time you pass him by in the catwalk.

would be the absolute opposite of marriage-shy.

unpopular opinion this man would be asking about marriage, a solid 3 months in ( jfk and jackie married in a YEAR )

fucks UP a rotisserie chicken.

forwards you his tweets before and asks if they’re good enough to post.

smells like aesop musk and of herbal deodorant.

wife!reader buys rick owen’s black and white t-shirts and slacks for jack, and jack’s absolutely baffled when he learns the price tag.

love language is buying wife!reader drinks whenever and wherever they are: hot chocolate in central park, home-delivers you a sab benedetto sparkling water because he had a meeting at cipriani downtown, and always orders a polo bar punch for you prior to your arrival to your shared weekly dinner date at the polo bar on 55th st.

instigates a24 marathons on friday nights, much to the dismay of your prior night plans ( you are more of a criterion collection girl and have held a subscription since you were a freshman in college )

( clumsily ) slips lana del rey lyrics into sexting and dirty talk.

husband!jack and wife!reader texts go like this:

jack is horrific at low impact pilates, he needs to be near a body of water.

he wears your prized doublesoul x orion caroloto ‘lamb’ socks around your woodfloored high-rise despite your varied attempts at hiding them from him.

constantly frets over you during society galas, which is quite convenient due to your tempered social anxiety and your forgetful memory of high society etiquette.

immediately brings you to meet the family, for which you were completely unprepared for ( i’m imagining something reminder of that one story of meghan markle meeting princess kate middleton in ripped jeans and bare feet )

jack loves to wear your 100% cotton brandy melville pointelle tanks despite them being comically tiny for his frame.

would have an innocence kink.

he gets intensely flushed when called his proper full name: john bouvier kennedy schlossberg, wife!reader abuses this to the HIGHEST degree!!!

the first time he entered you apartment he was constantly paranoid of breaking anything because your house was littered with ceramics from brooklyn under-ground designers and clay lamb figurines.

he NEEDS his beauty Zzzzzzz or else.

plays with your very expensive westman atelier blushes like a toddler.

sickly devoted to you.

you both want to adopt a lamb despite living in a HIGH-RISE apartment.

sends pics captioned with anaïs nin lewd quotes.

he would think whole foods was stupidly over priced but would purchase his groceries there in spite of his opinions.

has hyperfixations on old-hollywood women which causes you to be snippy at him for exactly 2-3 hours ex. jack’s current hyper fixation on audrey hepburn being his doppelgänger.

wife!reader definitely participated in that egg cracking trend where girls would crack an egg on their boyfriends head.

would love caring for your hair and doing your curly girl hair routine if you had one.

wife!reader does small yet viral shoots for brands like mirror palais, the row, and loewe.

manhandles you ( lovingly ) without even trying.

mans is a chronic diptyque candle lighter.

loves to be coddled and cradled as a grown man…

plays with your van cleef stack before stage when he’s nervous about his speech landing correctly

uses his family connections to get his girl courted by the high-ticket fashion brands: schiaparelli, chanel, dior, yves saint laurent etc.

[enhaeil]

PAINT THIS HOUSE ! ☆ 박종성

"and I want these stairs, those walls, kitchen counters, and those chairs to remind you of how good it feels. and all of these floors and ceilings and every hallway, yeah. not and inch will go untouched... let's paint this house with our love.."

paint this house - brandy

c/w: suggestive, fluff, husband!jay per usual

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

you set down the last box from the moving truck, jay following behind you with another one.

"i can't believe we finally own our own home. i never would've thought..." you say breathing in the scent of fresh paint and cardboard.

"i wouldn't have chosen to do this with anyone else." he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead and then one on your lips. the kiss is slow and passionate, and leaves you longing for more... but you know there's work to be done, so you pull away.

"we have plenty of time to play around in our home. right now, we should focus on unpacking and decorating," you rub his arms, which had gotten buffer over the years and walk over to a box.

by the time you and jay finish unpacking, the sun sets, and before you know it, it's night.

"it looks amazing here. like home. like us."

you walk over to the pictures hanging on the wall. ones from your wedding, your honeymoon, and even your first date with jay. next to them were baby pictures of the both of you, and hopefully, soon, there would be pictures of your own child.

he comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist while pressing a kiss on your shoulder.

"i swear you've gotten even more beautiful since our first date." he says, spinning you around to face him.

"impossible. i look a mess right now." you say eyeing the dried paint on your shirt and your sweat-ed out hair.

"a very sexy, attractive mess. one that i'm glad I married."

you can't help but stand on your tippy-toes and press a kiss onto your husband's lips.

the kiss quickly becomes serious, breaths and quiet moans falling in between the two of you.

what was just a kiss, quickly escalated into something more, a night full of intimate lovemaking.

the two of you blessed every part of your new home, painting every surface from the counter to the hallway, with the love you two shared.

you ended the night bare in his arms, dozing off knowing you'd repeat the same process in the morning.

[versupital]

Stuffed Full 'a Rubber!

you've been a naughty little thing - and if you thought you deserved his cock, well, your stupid is showing.

content. degradation, dumbification, masochism, dacryphilia, overstim, impact play, toys, gn!reader (sukuna, gojo)

word count. 2.3k

incl pairings. sukuna, gojo, nanami, geto.

‧₊˚ʚ :: ꒷꒦ 🌸 ˖˚˳⊹

A RIVER IN EGYPT. | r. sukuna

Sitting above you, high and mighty, is your new husband. He’s in one of the black hotel chairs, his suit jacket discarded, tie loose, buttons popped. A clear rocks glass of brandy swirls lazily in his fingers, and his eyelids hang low as he stares at your tear-streaked face.

“Can I please—”

“No.”

Your little cunt slides up and down on a lilac-colored rubber cock. You’re dripping so sloppily that your previous rounds of cum are all over the hotel room floor as you plead for mercy. 

But Ryomen does not know remorse.

Your legs begin to slow. Your hands are bound tightly behind your back by your own underwear, so all you can do is lean your chest against Ryomen’s pant leg and whine hopelessly onto his knee.

He sits up, taking another swig of his drink, before he cracks a harsh palm across the side of your already sore cheek.

“My stupid wife, keep it up,” he says, palm cupping your jaw as he spits in your face, “I'll bet you waited the whole reception for my cock, and now look at you. Stuffed with a fake one.”

You whine, but your cunt throbs in response to the spit and contact of his hand. You’ve been at this for thirty minutes at least, riding your toy for your husband’s viewing pleasure while his cocks bulge against his suit pants.

He’s so incredibly drunk and you’re a different kind of intoxicated. You want to be in a mating press with both holes filled, but he’s torturing you instead, forcing you to please yourself with a skinny piece of rubber instead of his double dicks.

The dildo slides up into you angrily, bending and curving deliciously into your g-spot while Ryomen degrades you for how fucked out your face looks.

“You understand how pathetic you look?” he grunts. “You’ll never look this way for anyone else, Mx. Sukuna.”

“Mmh,” you cut yourself off before making a bold move. 

You slide off of the toy and use your chin on Ryomen’s knee to pull yourself into a standing position. His back flies off of the chair, but you’re already grabbing the little purple toy with your bound hands and whirling on him.

He falls into your trap and grabs your waist harshly, “Brat, what the hell do you think—“

You use his grip on you to slide back against him until you have the dildo placed on his clothed lap. Now, all you have to do is stick the landing.

You hear Ryomen gasp; you suspect he hadn’t intended to, but when you’ve perched yourself on his thighs with the dildo back inside of you, he can’t hide his noises of surprise.

“Shit,” he zips through his teeth. His brandy crashes to the floor, brown liquid running across the carpet and pooling around the feet of the chair. Neither of you care.

His hands have no choice but to fall on your hips, sharp nails digging into the crease of your thighs. You expertly begin to pounce like a cagey little bunny, toes digging into the wet carpet for stability between Ryomen’s large dress shoes.

“Hmm, keep it up, cunt,” he groans maliciously, making sure his nails draw blood from your soft skin. "Two more orgasms. Then I'll consider fucking you, pathetically."

It takes everything in you not to jerk away. You fight the pain by hissing through your teeth and focusing on the rubber cock that fills you. Even as overstimulated as you are, feeling Ryomen’s heartbeat pound into your back and his breath glide along your spine turns you on all over again.

“H-Hate you s’much,” you whine, knowing it couldn’t be farther from the truth. You aren’t sure why you spit out that corny lie each time you fuck your husband, but you’re reminded when his next words come from his mouth.

“You hate me, huh, stupid bitch?” His laugh is demeaning and chilling. “Now you owe me three.”

“But–” “Nah, brat,” his fingers come up and tangle themselves in your hair, “eventually, you’ll learn to stop talking back to your husband. I own you. You are below me. And you will remember,” he yanks your head back, arching your spine painfully against him as you keep gliding the dildo against your slick walls, “your place.”

HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! | s. gojo

Your one leg that remains on the ground is about to give out. Your knee bends each time your boyfriend’s cockhead rams itself into your cervix, sending painful signals up through your belly and down the nerves in your body.

You only have one free hand, and it’s splayed flat across the mirror in front of you that’s now covered in fingerprints and smears from drool. Your head goes back and forth from resting on the reflective glass to being yanked back against your boyfriend’s chest.

He holds one of your legs in the air. Red marks litter your thighs from the events previous to the two of you landing where you are now. Bite marks, claw marks, slaps.

And with his free hand, he holds your tiny red rose against your clit. Air vibrates over the bud and makes your toes curl while you’re simultaneously getting stuffed up like a holiday turkey. 

“Oh, it’s so drenched, pretty thing,” Satoru grunts deeply into your ear. His breath rides down the pulse in your neck and stops on your chest, making you shiver. “Covering me like a good slut, yeah? Sucking me up with your tight little hole.”

“I-I can’t,” you whimper, unsure what it is exactly you can’t do. Your brain is so jumbled, you don’t understand the words flowing out of your own mouth. 

“Can’t what?” Satoru purrs. “Can’t say you can’t handle it, cause you’re taking me so well. I’m so deep, feel me?” 

You do; buried deep in your guts is his fat, pink cock that threatens to shred you apart. 

The rose alone has taken you through two orgasms, and it seems Satoru and his cock pumping into you from the other side are determined to guide you through two more. He holds the toy to your clit with intention, dipping his head over your shoulder to get a better look at your arched body in the mirror.

Sweat sticks his hair to his forehead and his blue eyes are nearly illuminated with lust, all for you, staring at the way you drool and contort your face with every stroke, knowing it’s bringing you closer and closer to the finish line. 

“Being so good, aren’t you?” he whispers needily, “Unlike earlier. Though you could walk around naked and I would just ignore you?" He cuts himself off to whimper. "You’re gonna pull the cum right out of my cock so I can fill you up. Isn’t that right?”

“Ngh- yes, Satoru,” his name comes out breathy and soft, and you watch the effect it takes on him in your reflection.

His knees nearly begin to buckle as he applies more pressure to the toy, which is all covered in your slick and his precum. His thick balls are abusing your taint as he picks up his pace to drive his own orgasm out - but it’s not his first, either. 

Yet feeling his hot, salty semen shoot into your cervix makes your own orgasm come, filthy and hard, legs shaking you nearly to the point of collapse as he forces you to ride it out on him, his strokes still long and steady.

“Satoru, no,” you whine, but you know you don’t want him to stop, that much is evident in the way you keep throwing your hips back to fit his rhythm. 

“Yes, baby,” he replies softly, “hold it right there - just like that.”

NO, YOU HANG UP! | k. nanami

“Miss you s’much, pretty.”

The words are lost under your moans as you shake. Your knees are angled in the air, your laptop open to the video call that displays your husband’s face from thousands of miles away.

His damned business trips were always terrible, but him insisting on torturing you with a vibrator that he could control in another country was even worse. 

“Ken…” you begin softly, knowing when you whimper out his name, he turns unnervingly obedient.

Not this time, though.

“You almost had me, darling,” he mutters into the mic. "Sending me such a naughty photo when you know I can't do anything to you. Tsk, tsk."

You watch as his thumb circles his screen, taking the vibrations from the lowest to the most extreme in mere seconds. He repeats this, even despite your legs shaking, or your cries for him. 

“The moment I get back, you wanna give me a reason to start decorating the spare bedroom? Hmm?” He coos your name softly, “Wouldn’t a crib look lovely in there, honey?”

In your cockdrunk stupor, all you can do is agree. He could fill your womb twenty times if he wanted with the way the toy is massaging your walls, draining you of all common sense. 

“I-It… yes, Ken.” Your head spins.

He lifts the phone higher to show you exactly what he’s doing, dragging the scale up and down, strategically stopping before he gets to the point that he knows would make you cum. 

“Really?” he questions slowly, leaning further into the screen as if that would give him a better view of his pussy - splayed out before him. “How would we decorate it?”

“We- uh…” your voice trails off. Of course you can’t answer at a time like this. Your brain feels smooth and mushy. And for fuck’s sake, you miss your husband.

“I’m listening,” he yawns, but you can hear his belt buckle moving, and see his shoulder shifting as he reaches into his pants to take himself out. His arm muscles start to flex as he strokes to your pathetic, whiny moans. 

“B-Bees and,” you stutter and struggle to find words, “flowers and…”

“Mm, a little honey for my honey?” Nanami questions, punctuating it with a grunt. He’s clearly working hard to pump his fist over his needy cock. 

“A-As many little honeys as you want,” you whimper, feeling the vibrations go back up, just so Nanami can hear you let out a cry. Just so he can use your pathetic noises as fuel to fuck his hand. 

“As many as I want?” Nanami echoes, voice still soft and guiding, even as he tortures you with the vibrator controls, even as he takes himself towards his own edge. “J-Just like, you’ll cum as many times as I want, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Mmh- d-dunno if I can, sir,” you say, knowing the nickname is enough to drive him mad.

“I think you can take it,” he says, finger rotating back to the very highest vibration setting that his phone will allow, making you scream and leak spurts of clear liquid all over your couch. 

Nanami watches in silence, aside from his wanton moans, eyebrows furrowed over the brim of his blue-light glasses. 

“So fucking beautiful. I need you,” he complains, voice deep and begging.

“Hurry up and come home so w-we can start painting the walls,” you mumble, eyes rolling to the back of your head, “y-y’know, of the nursery.”

“Right. The nursery.”

AYE AYE CAPTAIN. | s. geto

“I can’t hear you,” Suguru purrs from above. “You said, what? Stop? Speak up.”

Your thighs are forcefully parted by a heavy, black bar that cuffs to your ankles. Your boyfriend has an iron grip on it while he flushes a thick, curved toy in and out of you as you stare up at him hopelessly. 

You’re gagged. Tears are covering your sore cheeks. You keep trying to connect your thighs, but it’s no use with the bar. Meanwhile, he keeps pushing the toy inside of you. In and out, with the same smooth rhythm he usually pumps his hips.

Well, it would have been his cock, had you not decided to tease him all evening at the meeting. Taking a little longer to kiss him, dragging your tongue over his bottom lip, dropping your hand so that your knuckles accidentally grazed his dick through his robes.

“G-Geto, please, I can’t take another,” you breathe around your cloth gag, approaching your third orgasm already. He always recognizes it in your breath pattern, the way your moans pitch themselves up, so he knows exactly how to respond.

“Sorry, I wish I cared,” he fakes a yawn before quickening his wrist to fuck the cum out of you that much sooner.

Your back is off of the mattress, arching to the ceiling as you fight the spasming that has overcome you all over again. You break into a sweat and more tears brim your eyes, but there’s nowhere you’d rather be, than under him as he takes advantage of your cunt.

“This is what you wanted,” Suguru reminds, “this is what you spent all evening punishing me for, isn’t it?” He smiles, and laughs inaudibly, “You look fucking awful.”

You bite down on the wet cloth and let out a cry, some noise between fighting back and displaying how good it feels to be made fun of while there’s tears coming out of your eyes. 

“You look so helpless and stupid,” he coos, “and desperate and used.” He takes his hand off of the toy momentarily to crack his palm on your sore clit. “As if you deserve to not have your orgasm ruined. Hm. The nerve.”

And he cracks his palm down again, and again, and again - before he starts stroking the toy again, which at this point is being swallowed up by your abused hole.

You plead with him through the cloth, but the lack of remorse in his eyes is doing unnerving things to you. 

“Cum again and show me that you deserve to feel me,” he spits, and you obey immediately, flooding the bed and his wrist while he watches in disgust. “Nasty little monkey. All wet for me now.”

He pulls the toy out and examines your pulsing hole with his bottom lip between his teeth. You make eye contact for all of two seconds before he smacks your cunt again. 

“Stupid you for believing me.”

‧₊˚ʚ :: ꒷꒦ 🌸 ˖˚˳⊹

hello guys, long time no see <3

sorry for flaking in October i was in the trenches, mentally and also with my lack of creative juices but

we are so back. I have a few things planned for this next holiday season and i hope I don’t disappoint <3

love always!

~ pennjammin

[budgieflitter]

WELCOME TO STRANGEVIEW

oh hey its budgieflitter and her swap aus obsession again descriptions are under the cut 🔽

CALIENTE + LOTHARIO = BEAKER When Don got a date with the Caliente sisters, he thought he won a jackpot. What he did not expect, though, was to wake up next morning on an operation table in their basement. Will this test subject last or the sisters will have to look for a replacement soon?

GOTH = SPECTER Turns out not only relatives are buried in local oligarch's graveyard. Ever since Mortimer's wife Bella mysteriously disappeared, he became more reclusive than he already was. She was not the only victim - all of his daughter Cassandra's fiancés seemed to disappear one by one. Will Alexander get used to living with ghosts? Can Cassandra ever find love again?

BROKE + DREAMER = GRUNT Brandi and Darren found comfort in each other after a terrible tragedy struck their families, however it seems this comfort is about to crumble. Darren is determined to reach the stars someday, and Brandi would rather stay close to the ground. Will Dustin and Dirk ever get along? Will little Beau follow his stepfather's footsteps?

PLEASANT = SMITH

Daniel has been fascinated with space ever since his father's Mars expedition hit the news. Good thing he found a woman whose eyes reflect the beauty of the universe itself. Will Mary-Sue get her long-awaited promotion, and can Angela and Lilith make the right choices when it comes to love?

BURB = CURIOUS Jennifer is interested in the vastness of universe, but for a different reason her brother is. Where is she from? What really happened on her father's Mars expedition? Was it anything like the experience her husband went through during his abduction? Maybe the answer is much closer than she thinks.

OLDIE

Oldies have been a long-time residents of Strangeview. Unable to fulfill her role as a Birth Queen, Coral escaped with her beloved with a tiny alien aboard. Will Herb realize that the result of his last mission as a Pollination Technician is somewhere nearby? okayyyy i had so much fun making this. the idea hit me literally yesteday and i was on the rideee hope u enjoy ^_^

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Precious Truths: Part 4

Fandom: Bridgerton

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!Reader

Summary: After your father finds out you’ve been writing under a male pseudonym, he threatens to marry you off to an atrocious man unless you find yourself a husband within a month’s time.

A/N: I will not be taking tags for this series!

Series Masterlist

The next day, your Aunt Eliza takes you to the modiste for new dresses. The ones you had gotten earlier in the season "wouldn't do anymore" according to her. Now, you had to stand out more, make yourself look more appealing. Corsets were tighter, hugging your figure more and making you breathe less.

Your aunt is holding up some fabric against you when Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton enters the shop with an annoyed Eloise following her.

"Good afternoon, Lady Bridgerton," you greet the woman with a kind smile.

She observes the fabric held against you, "Well, that is a beautiful fabric. It goes well with your eyes."

"Thank you," you give her a small nod.

Violet clears her throat, "I assume things are...well now?" The dowager does her best to be discreet.

"As well as they can be, Lady Bridgerton," you respond.

After Aunt Eliza brought you home, your father was asleep, still cradling a bottle of brandy in his hand.

You confessed to Aunt Eliza about your secret identity, about your writings. She was proud to know that you never truly gave up on poetry as well as how famous your words were becoming. However, she was saddened that you felt the need to hide your ongoing love for poetry from her. She expressed that she would have helped you, that you didn't need to hide that love from her, especially since she also loved your mother like her own sister.

Aunt Eliza became even more determined to help you out of the situation.

Although your father and Aunt Eliza are siblings, none of the luxuries of your father's lordship well onto her. She also never found someone to marry, becoming a spinster and learning to become content with it.

She can only do so much to help you, given that your father still has the funds to help. Thankfully, your Aunt Eliza had stepped in to help manage the finances.

"Remember, dear, if there's anything you need, you let me know. We are happy to help," Violet says as she places a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Thank you, Lady Bridgerton. Your family has always been so kind to me."

Violet gives a smile and greets your aunt, the two moving towards a shelf of silks that catch their eyes. You move to Eloise with a grin, whose face is the complete opposite of yours, "Everything alright, El?"

She groans, "You disappoint me. Mama, says you're taking this season more seriously now and that I should do the same. I blame you for this!"

You let out a deep breath, "My condolences, but, trust me, this wasn't the plan either."

The young Bridgerton steps closer to you and whispers, "What happened? Anthony and Benedict were talking about you this morning when we were breaking fast."

You blow air out of your mouth, "My father threatened to marry me off to my dreadful cousin if I am unable find a husband within a month's time."

Eloise makes a pondering face and then asks, "Is it the cousin that visited a few summers ago? He tried to best Anthony in everything?"

You scrunch your face in distaste, "The very same."

Eloise shudders, "God, he was...appalling."

"Yes, and there is absolutely no chance I am marrying him. So, you see, I'm lacking a choice." You give her a pointed look and she nods.

"Oh, Y/N," Eloise hugs you, "We shall both get through this together."

Aunt Eliza calls from the door, "Y/N, make haste! We must continue!"

Your shoulder slump forward, "I'm coming!" you give Eloise a wave and follow your aunt out.

______________________________

Benedict's in the sitting room, sketching in his notebook. He's sketching a pair of eyes, ones soft and full of wonder. The very pair that belongs to you, the eyes that he loses himself in.

"Here," parchment falls over the sketch and Benedict sits up, looking at Anthony, who's given him the paper.

"And this is...?"

"The list of eligible men for Y/N."

Benedict gulps as he reads of the names, sitting up to read the list "No to Harris," he says with a shake of his head and then grimaces, "Absolutely not to Woodrich."

"What's wrong with them? They're from good standing families, no scandals-"

"That you know of. I hear Harris has been visiting the brothels far too often lately. Woodrich apparently invested in the empty mines that Lord Featherington spoke of last season. So he has no money."

Anthony gives his brother an annoyed expression, "I shall cross them off the list, but the rest of them?"

Benedict hands the paper back to his brother, "I suppose they're alright. But Y/N gets the final say, obviously."

"So you have truly decided you won't do anything about this whole ordeal?" Anthony asks his brother in disbelief.

Benedict stands with a sigh, "Yes, brother. I have. I won't do anything but assist in Y/N's search for a husband. That is final." He steps aside, striding out of the room in annoyance.

Hyacinth, who sits with Gregory playing a game of chess, shakes her head, "I always thought Y/N and Benedict would get married."

Anthony nods, "As did I, Hyacinth," he murmurs and also exits the sitting room.

____________________________

No longer were you able to be a wallflower when it came to balls, soirees, luncheons, etc. You and Penelope had been wallflowers together since both of your debuts. However, now Penelope is on her honeymoon with Colin, so you are left to fend for yourself.

You now stood more towards the front, more accessible and noticeable. You hated it. You hated how people looked at you when you attended the next ball with your new gown and different hairstyle.

When you saw the Bridgertons, you immediately rush up to them, clinging onto Benedict's arm.

"Please dance with me," you beg in desperation, yearning for some sense of familiarity.

"Of course," Benedict takes your gloved hand and leads you to the dancefloor. When he looks over his shoulder, Kate is winking at him and he rolls his eyes.

You curtsey as Benedict bows before the next dance, a waltz. With the strings, you and Benedict move as one. Swaying to the melody, bringing each other in close.

"Thank you, Ben, for dancing with me."

"Of course. It is tradition at this point, is it not?" he gives you that cheeky grin that always makes your heart flutter.

You sigh, "Might be the last time I get to dance with you for a while. I should probably prioritize potential suitors."

Benedict's smile slowly fades, "Yes, well, Anthony came up with an impressive list. I overlooked it as well. You might find some of them...agreeable."

You hum as you circle Benedict, "Are any of these men here now?"

Benedict takes a quick glance around the room, "A few of them. Shall I introduce you?"

You shake your head, "No. Thank you, but it is probably best I do that myself. You might scare them off," you give him a smirk and he chuckles.

"That is a fair argument. If I am quite honest, I don't think any man will truly be worthy enough for you."

You arch a brow at him, "Oh?"

He nods, "You're...everything and so much more."

The way he says those words, you feel like there's something more to them. He relayed them to you so breathlessly and he's looking at you with a gaze that makes you feel as though you two are the only ones in the room.

As the dance nears its end, you and Benedict are face to face, so close to lips touching. However, when he inches closer to you, you pull away and curtsey.

"Thank you for indulging me, Mister Bridgerton," you walk away from him without another word, fanning yourself as you grow warm.

[libraryofloveletters]

Oh Well

Kimi Raikkonen x Fem!Reader

Warnings: alcohol and the consumption of, kimi has a heavy hand, nonchalant kimi per usual, seb cameo!, being drunk.

Word Count: 502

Author's Note: would it even be kimi if he didn't have a care in the world?

--

Prompt: “Isn't that a bit too much rum for that much egg nog?"

Kimi had convinced you to host a new year party this year, much to your surprise. It was just an excuse for him and his old teammates to get together and drink. You didn't mind, you missed the chaos and noise they brought.

You had set up everything already, Kimi had been helping you all day but you left him to put the bar cart together while you got ready. You had also tasked him with putting the eggnog together. It wasn't hard, you gave him very specific instructions on what to do; two bottles of eggnog to one bottle of brandy.

How hard was that to do?

Checking your hair in the mirror once more, you head downstairs to check on your husband. It had been a little too long since you heard a peep from him.

"Kimi?" You called, walking into the kitchen. There was a pitcher on the counter, one empty bottle of eggnog and two empty bottles of brandy. Your brows furrow, you hadn't even gotten next to the counter and you could smell the liquor in the eggnog.

Holding your hair back, you leant over the glass pitcher and smelled it. He had in fact put two bottles of brandy in there.

The footsteps come from behind you, your husband walking into the kitchen. "You are aware I gave you specific instructions as to what to do with the eggnog."

"Something wrong?" Kimi asks, arms folded as he leant on the counter.

You nod towards the two bottles of brandy. "Two bottles?"

"That's what you said."

"I said two bottles of eggnog. Didn't you stop to think hmm one bottle of eggnog to two bottles of brandy.. isn't that a bit too much rum for that much eggnog?" 

Kimi shrugs, "it's New Years."

"So you want everyone drunk and belligerent before the ball drops?"

He shrugs yet again. "They're adults. Also why are we even serving eggnog? It's New Years."

"Because I like eggnog. If anyone gets pissed drunk, I'm blaming you."

He smiles, looking at you as if he didn't have a care in the world; he didn't.

The night goes on, your guests arrive and make themselves right at home; singing, dancing, drinking and eating.

You were making the rounds, gathering everyone before the clock struck midnight. You headed upstairs, knocking on the doors and peeking into the rooms to see if anyone was in there. As you approached your bedroom, you could hear faint snoring.

Pushing the door open, you find Sebastian fast asleep with his face buried in the pillows, likely drooling all over them as he snored.

You left the man, shutting the door quietly behind you. Kimi was coming up the stairs as you were headed down.

"Why is Sebastian drooling all over our bed right now?" You asked your husband, stopping a few steps above him.

Kimi looks away, trying to think of what to say before he finally looks at you. "Too much eggnog."

"What did I tell you?"

[moongreenlight]

Mafia!Price is NOT your fucking aesthetic. A full comprehensive list as to why.

He cooka da pizza!

He goes to church every Sunday. A massive Roman Catholic Church downtown. Ancient building with floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows depicting the life and loss of Christ. Full two hour masses that he always wears a suit to. At first it starts as some last-ditch attempt to absolve him of his guilt, but then it became habit. 

And maybe it was his wife. Her parents were devout and just about keeled over when they found out their only daughter was married by a quick ceremony in the courthouse to a man they’d never met. Her mother was the worst, though it was to be expected. Likely didn’t know John had won his new bride when her husband didn’t have the funds left to pay off his debt. Fucking miracle she hadn’t yet done the math and realized his first child was born seven months later. He’d be persecuted to no end.

There was a target on his back since the wedding. Always put him in the hot seat on Sunday evening dinners while his wife was trying to wrangle their children into eating their vegetables. Drilled into him about work and life and why he always seemed too busy to prioritize “something worthwhile” in his life. Mother sets in on him like she’d been waiting for the opening all evening.

“So, John. Remind us what you do for work.” Accusatory. Glaring over her barely touched plate of roast at him.

“Contracting. Bit of this and that.” He fights the urge to roll his eyes, if only barely. 

“Hm. And what does that entail? Can’t keep you as busy as you swear you are.” She’s unabashed. Her husband doesn’t share the sentiment. He sighs into his glass of brandy and tries to catch her eye. 

“Don’t do much hands-on these days. Project management and bookkeeping for me now. Brought on a few guys to do the grunt. You remember from when we did your bathroom, I’m sure.” He doesn’t shy away from the challenge. Principled. 

“Boys would do well to have some structure. Bet they haven’t been in a church since they were baptized.” She ignores his parry and switches to what she really wants to talk about after looking over to her daughter who is all but force-feeding them florets of broccoli. Typical.

He finally wore down after a Christmas where the only gift he got from them was a deep brown leather-wrapped bible. Used. Split down the spine, dog-eared pages.  Like they’d stolen it from the shelf in the pew for the dolts who weren’t well-mannered enough to bring their own. 

From then, it had become a welcome escape from reality. Church in the morning. 8am service, because he was up before the sun anyway. Sipping coffee in the kitchen beforehand, pouring over a heavy binder with the title ‘family finance’ scrawled in his wife’s delicate handwriting across the front.

He could hear her wrestling with their two boys in the bathroom upstairs. Their indignant screeching clueing him in that he should probably get up and help, but he always tried to steal a few more moments to himself. Calm before the storm.

The boys have sour looks on their faces when they stomp down the stairs not five minutes later, though they’re nothing in comparison to their mother who’s only a few steps behind. They get the deep furrow in their brows from him, the bitter curl of their lips from her. 

“Glad you’re enjoying your slow start, John. Really.”

He should feel worse for not helping. Tries to lay her hackles back down by snapping the binder shut and pressing a chaste kiss to her temple. She barely pauses to accept it before pushing past to pack her purse. Four bibles, his ratty one, her perfectly white one with different colored sticky notes poking out the sides, and two smaller children's bibles that she’d shove in their laps for appearance sake. Snacks for the boys, and a flash of the handle of her small handgun- safetied and then shoved into the bottom of her tote.

“Should’ve shouted f’you needed help. Can’t hear a thing down here.” The boys snicker when he winks over at them. They’re outfitted in their Sunday best. Slacks with damp finger marks on the thighs from where she’d tried to smooth out wrinkles. Buttoned-down shirts that they were already tugging at the collars of. Hair gelled back, no doubt the reason for their griping earlier. 

She doesn’t find it nearly as funny as they do. Shoots him a nasty look over her shoulder before disappearing into the spare room to grab a pair of low heels. 

“We’re already late. If we have to sit in the back again, you’ll never hear the end of it.” It’s not an empty threat. They’d missed one service and some aunt had told her mother in passing. Took three months to get her to stop bringing it up.

“S’not even half seven. Takes fifteen minutes to get there.”

It’s supposed to mollify her, but it has the adverse effect. She looks ready to throw a shoe at him when she sits on the bottom stair to tug them on. He raises his hands in surrender.

“Easy.” 

Somehow all four of them make it to the car in one piece. He sends a message to Kyle before they leave telling him to save them a space toward the front to err on the side of caution.

[pilfappreciator]

Been seeing lots of Bruce x Reader content which is fine! Great even! But I've seen absolutely NOBODY acknowledged the existence of his fine ass muppet wife so I went ahead and DID IT MYSELF 😤😤😤

Bruce/Brandi x Reader

Includes: GN! Reader, polyamory, lots of MILF/DILF appreciation (as there should be), Vacay Lovers

🧡 Chances are you first met them while visiting Vacay Island. Bruce welcomed you with open arms and that charming attitude of his, got you nice and situated for your stay. Eventually he introduced you to his lovely wife Brandi and the kids

💜 The couple warm up to you pretty quick. You've got a great personality, you never hesitate to help them out around the island, their kids adore you (not to mention you're pretty cute)

🧡 These two are honestly couple goals. Literally soulmates. They're super devoted to one another and its pretty obvious to everyone around that they're meant to be. I mean they literally have a gaggle of kids so yknow they're in it for the long run

💜 THAT BEING SAID!! It'd probably be a while before you three actually got together

🧡 Bruce and Brandi only have eyes for each other (at least at first). Introducing someone new into the relationship probably wouldn't even occur to them unless they got to know that person really well, and even then there'd still be long discussions between the two about whether they're really ready for that kind of change. What it would mean for the relationship, how it might affect them, their family and business, ect.

💜 These two never half-ass things. Both are the type to pour their entire souls into what they deem important so if you're gonna be with them, then you bet your ass that it's gonna be for the long haul. The three of you WILL retire and grow old together okay they will PERSONALLY see to it

🧡 But eventually, after you've known them for a year or two and once they've both come to terms with how they feel about you?

💜 BABES PREPARE TO GET SWEPT OFF YOUR FEET

🧡 These two are the perfect team (comes with co-owning a business and running a family ig)

💜 After years of being the heartthrob of BroZone, Bruce is an expert at putting his natural charm and good looks to use. This man is constantly making time to come over and strike up a conversation. And I think it's universally agreed that the guy is not shy or subtle once so ever, so expect a lot of compliments/winks/charming smirks thrown your way. This man is fully leaning up against the wall beside you, giving you that signature Casanova Smoulder(tm), all while telling you how he and Brandy are planning to add french fries to the bar menu

🧡 "But it's supposed to be a surpise until then so let's just keep this between the three of us. Okay, beautiful?" He says with a wink, raising a finger and briefly pressing it against your lips

💜 You probably shouldn't get so flustered over French fries... unfortunately Bruce is sexy and knows it 😔

🧡 Brandi isn't as on-the-nose as her husband but that doesn't mean she's any less effective. She managed to snag someone like Bruce afterall so you KNOW she's got game

💜 Definitely gives you just as many compliments and praise but she's very like... very nonchalant about it?? Like the two of you will be mid convo and she'll just randomly go "wow you are literally so gorgeous haha. Are you sure you're single?"

🧡 You have about five seconds to respond before she's moving on and telling you all about how one of her sons keeps getting stuck in ketchup bottles

💜 It's kinda hard to tell if she's actually flirting with you. She's pretty laid back compared to her husband and at certain times she seems like a bit of an airhead, so whenever she says something nice, it tends to come off as a casual compliment...

🧡 But then there are times where she'll like? Brush a strand of hair outta your face, or wipe some food from the corner of mouth unprompted, or point out a piece of jewelry you have on by running her fingers over it?? Her skin grazing your own just the barest amount??? All while she's giving you that look??????

💜 This woman is sneaky as fuck ngl

🧡 Expect to hear these two gush about each other on the daily. They are CONSTANTLY hyping each other up whenever they're apart (they're in love what do you expect?), but when you've got the BOTH OF THEM in front of you??

💜 They are a well-oiled machine. You are absolutely getting tag teamed by this duo. By the time you leave their company expect to be red in the face and your heart skipping a few beats

🧡 You get invited to a LOT of family meals. Mostly dinners, but sometimes lunch and even breakfast too. And believe me, there is no such thing as a quite meal with this family. They have 13 chaotic kids who are always getting into shit so expect to come outta the whole ordeal with a few food stains on your clothes

💜 look out for Bruce Jr. cuz that kid will for sure try to start a food fight

🧡 Bruce and Brandi are always super apologetic about any messes that occur (they know first hand how exhausting their gaggle of kids can be), but then you just smile and seem genuinely unbothered? Maybe even amused by it all??

💜 "Babe what's their ring size?"

"Brandi, honey, pretty sure we have to at least take them on a date first."

"I'm just asking for a friend!"

"...Am I the friend?"

"You know you are, babe."

🧡 Yeah if these two catch you hitting it off with their kids and showing a genuine interest in their hobbies/interest/lives?? They are SWOONING, vows are being MADE, rings are being CHOSEN—

💜 If at any point you recognize Bruce from BroZone, or if Brandi brings it up in conversation in an attempt to boost her man's rep, then prepare yourself because Bruce will most definitely start putting on a show

🧡 Under normal circumstances he'd be wayyyy more hesitant. Performing anything from his past doesn't bring up the best memories... but he's willing to bust out a good bop if it earns him brownie points in your book (and it better considering that his wife is always telling him how hot he looks whenever he's doing his "boy band thing" lol)

💜 OUTINGS WITH BRANDi!! This woman is taking you shopping or out to the nearest cafe/restaurant that just so happens to serve your favorite, what do you know! Sometimes she brings you along to meet her friends, all of whom are well aware of your existence wink wonk

🧡 Will swoon and fan herself whenever you offer to pay for things, but like as a joke!

💜 (not)

🧡 Chances are the kids already know what's up with the three of you. Maybe it doesn't click immediately but Bruce Jr. notices that how his parents treat and act around you is the same as they treat and act around each other, he goes blabbing to his siblings and soon enough they're all in on it. They don't entirely understand the complexity of the situation... but they're aware that one extra parent potentially means more presents for christmas sooooo

💜 These little shits are mischievous as hell. They are asking you what your favorite color is just to subtly drop the answer while Brandi is out shopping for trinkets. You mention what kind of music you're into and suddenly Bruce is looking up playlists

🧡 You better believe all 13 of them have started a betting pool going about who will confess first, you or their parents.

💜 Brandi's friends might be in on this betting pool. The other vacationers too

🧡 Eventually (after lots of pining and a fuck ton of patiently biding their time), Bruce and Brandi decide to take the leap and invite you into the relationship

💜 They invite you to dinner. It is a WHOLE ordeal and they've been planning months in advance. The kids are off being babysat by one of Brandi's friends (both parties were suspiciously cool with this sudden course of action). Their business is put on pause with little complaint from their customers (again, suspicious)

🧡 You're immediately drowned in compliments the second you show up at the door. You could legit just be dressed in your pj's and they're like "wow those sweatpants really make your eyes pop 😀" sjsjskakaka

💜 You are being waited on hand and foot the whole time. Bruce is manifesting every ounce of romanticism he can— flower petals everywhere, candles are lit, he's got a ukulele tuned and ready for when he eventually serenades you. Meanwhile Brandi has cooked you a feast made entirely of all your favorites and is tucking little flowers into your hair every now and then. At some point she hands you a cute piece of jewelry she saw while out shopping the other day. Just a little somethin somethin that immediately made her think of you <33

🧡 Overall, dinner is going great! The three of you are having a blast in each other's company and it's refreshing to be able to have a conversation without worrying about rambunctious kids or another pink eye outbreak. The atmosphere is quite yet intimate. Their hard work is not going to waste. You are thoroughly wooed

💜 And just when dessert is about to be served—

🧡 "We think you're really hot."

"Wha— BRANDi! My song!"

"Hmm? OH, was I supposed to wait till after—?"

💜 Yeahhh they kinda fumble the confession ngl. You'd think they'd be smoother but they are both: 1) very excited, and 2) very nervous

🧡 Nevertheless, their point gets across. For a moment they kinda panic because of how quite you are afterwards, but really you're just? Absolutely flabbergasted?? These two hotties wanna date YOU??? FR??????

💜 Of course once you manage to form a coherent response (hopefully a positive one), the couple is literally over the moon

🧡 Brandi's flapping her lil muppet hands all excited like "OMIGOSH THEY SAID YES?!"

💜 And Bruce is just smirking and all like "of course they did, honey, did you seriously think they'd say no to the two of us?" all while simultaneously releasing the death grip he had on his ukulele (this man is a fraud)

🧡 Victory dessert follows shortly after. Your hands become absolutely useless for the next few minutes because these two are DEFINITELY TAKING TURNS SPOON-FEEDING YOU AJSHAKAKAKA

💜 The night ends with the three of you hanging out on the couch, either with Bruce serenading you and Brandi or the three of you just cuddling in a pile (probably both ngl)

🧡 Cue the next morning. The kids come back just to find you all fast asleep in the living room, you in the middle with their parents on either side

💜 Pictures are 100% being taken

I love these two a lot, could you tell?

Thinkin about doing a PART TWO!! Lemme know what you guys think 👀

[msbigredmachine]

Power Couple: The Aftermath (Roman Reigns)

When the Tribal Chief falls, no one helps him back up better than you do. Set after the epic main event of Wrestlemania XL.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/OC

Warnings: Excess fluff and of course, smut.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Yes, I'm still in my feelings, and there was only one pairing I could properly convey my feelings with, because this has also been their story all along. For new readers, I strongly suggest reading the first two one-shots before delving into this one. Hope you enjoy!

Banner made by me. Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs

--------------------

1,316 days.

All wiped away with three slaps of the referee’s hand to the hard canvas.

Even after Cody rolled away from him, Roman could not move. Hell, he couldn’t breathe. Not when the air had been punched out of his lungs, literally and figuratively. It was only when Dwayne pulled him out of the ring by his pants leg that his body managed to kickstart itself into some sort of motion. And even then, all he could do was turn his head to look back and watch as Cody celebrated in the ring with his wife Brandi, holding his title belt aloft for the whole world to behold as the ultimate symbol of his victory. 

It should have been you and him up there. It should have been him. Again. But it wasn’t. Because the one time he got careless in battle, it cost him everything. Throwing years of hard work down the drain.

And it made him sick to his stomach.

The sound of ‘Kingdom’ blaring through the Lincoln Financial Field Stadium was torture to the former champion’s ears. His legs felt like lead as he dragged his battered body up the ramp, ignoring Dwayne’s baseless, performative complaints about nothing, as he put distance to the tableau of triumph of his opponent. The weight of this defeat was heavy, suffocating even, and he was desperate to get the fuck out of there, to get out of Philadelphia, out of Pennsylvania and all its environs. As he reached the top of the vast WrestleMania stage, pain surged through his abdomen, forcing him to recoil into himself and double over in pain. 

His Wise Man noticed his plight and paused to observe his charge. "My Tribal Chief, are you alright? Do you need-"

Roman shook his head. "I'm fine,” he snapped, willing himself to keep walking until he made it past the curtain. He leaned against the wall and bent over, resting his hands on his knees.

“What can I do, my Tribal Chief?” Paul implored.

“Just…get my wife on the bus and make sure everything’s ready to go. I’ll be there soon."

“Right away my Tribal Chief,” Paul replied eagerly, scurrying off to do as he was told.

It was a good long minute before Roman managed to pull himself back upright, staggering towards his locker room. Walking was so hard, his body hurt so much, but none of it hurt as much as the gut punch of failure. Much worse than any of the bumps he took was the shame, the disappointment engulfing him; so much so that he couldn’t bear to look anyone else in the eye right now.

Because he had failed everyone who cared about him.

He had failed you.

----------------

All good things come to an end. That’s how the saying goes, right? The interesting part of that was that on the surface, it was a throwaway little trope, harmless and benign, until something that meant a great deal to you got taken away in the blink of an eye, or in this case, a three-count. The moment the bell signaled the pinfall that confirmed your husband's time as the Undisputed WWE Universal Champion had come to an end, you knew he would never be the same again.

It wasn't unlike Roman to be a little on edge weeks before a big premium live event. And given the nature of the two main event matches he was locked in for the fortieth annual WrestleMania, you expected he would be grouchy. But this time around seemed different, and not in a good way. He’d been surly towards everybody, including you. He disappeared for hours working out obsessively. He’d even thrown out a female member of the press who had dared to boo him at the press conference on Saturday night. Now, despite the final match of the weekend concluding nearly an hour ago, Roman was yet to return to his tour bus. That only meant one thing; he was not taking this defeat well, and it was up to you to lift him up, like you always did.

When you found the door boasting your husband's name, Heyman was outside, pacing back and forth. The Undisputed title, which you had grown accustomed to seeing on his shoulders on behalf of his Tribal Chief, was missing; a stark, prickly reminder of the outcome of tonight’s proceedings. 

"That bad, huh?" you asked, reading the Wise Man’s expression in a second. In fact, he looked on the verge of tears, his shoulders sagging with despair. The weekend had taken an emotional toll on him, too.

"He won’t come out," he informed you, his usually confident voice shaky and helpless. “He won’t let anyone in and he won’t speak to anyone…”

You raised your index finger to cut him off. "Correction, he won’t speak to anyone that’s not me," you stated, shooting him a warm smile, one among countless others you had shared with him since burying the hatchet after years of friction between you. "Go be with your family, Paul. I’ll handle my husband.”

“He’s my family, too,” he declared softly, the conviction in what you used to call his beady eyes, palpable and heartbreaking, “Both of you are.”

Touched and at a loss for words, you could only look on as he turned around slowly and made the lonely walk down the hallway. Turning back to the locker room door, you sucked a breath between your teeth and blew it out, mentally preparing to confront this task head-on.

You knocked timidly and stuck your head inside. If Roman was in as foul a mood as Paul let on, even you did not want to be there. It had taken a few unfortunate incidents over the years for you to learn that even a kiss from his wife wasn't enough when he got too stressed. It never stopped you from trying, though. Kissing was one of your favorite things to do with him after all.

"Knock, knock," you called out softly, listening for signs of movement as you stepped inside and closed the door. The room that was bustling just a few hours ago was now stripped bare and cloaked in dead quiet. It was an eerie contrast to the majestic, sweeping grandiosity that encompassed his entrance to the ring tonight. “Babe?”

Venturing further inside the room, you found him on the couch, his strong, broad back to you, his shoulders slumped dejectedly. An open bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the coffee table in front of him. His ula fala was draped over the headrest, where his title belt would surely have been. 

This was the reality no one warned you about after a monumental loss. It plunged you into a cold, dark abyss, wrought with biting silence and dreary loneliness now that the show was over and the lights were no longer bright. The what ifs, buts and maybes crooning in your ear like a morbid symphony. It was an experience all too familiar to you unfortunately, and recently, too; you and your husband had traveled down this terrible road following the tragic miscarriage of your son in the summer of 2022.

Stepping in front of him, you wiggled into his personal space and made yourself at home on his lap. Gently wrapping your arms around him, you sighed with relief when he instantly melted into you and his huge arms enveloped your waist, holding on to you like his life depended on it. 

“My baby,” you cooed soothingly, the sound of your lips meeting the side of his head piercing through the emptiness of the locker room. “My love.” 

The audible hitch of his breath at your soft words was expected. In the course of your lifetime, those two little phrases had garnered a poignant significance. As words of comfort and solace first uttered by your mother when you were a child, you murmured those words regularly to Roman between sweet, playful kisses when he was courting you, basking in the bliss of newfound love, and again as part of your wedding vows as you became man and wife. They were the first words you whispered to Laleia the first time she was placed in your arms. They were the words that you had cried yourself to sleep with as you mourned the baby boy you had lost. You and Roman had seen each other at your absolute best and worst, and now, in the isolation of this room, with just the two of you and nobody else, this was another bad moment you had to overcome.

“On Matt’s birthday, too,” Roman finally spoke, wiping at his nose with a sniffle. “Fuck, man.”

“I know,” you replied, running your hand comfortingly up and down his upper arm. As he met your gaze at last, you saw that his eyes were bloodshot. Seeing him like this broke your heart afresh. You held him as close as possible, willing all his pain and his hurt into your soul, wanting nothing more than to take it all away.

"I fucked up," he breathed, his voice raw and choked with misery, "I fucked up out there, babe...I let Dwayne down...I let y'all down. I lost the title and I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what? Over thirteen hundred days as champion?" you countered, "Nine WrestleMania main events? Billions of dollars in revenue? A roof over your child's head and three square meals a day? One loss will never wipe any of that away, don't ever get it twisted."

He exhaled tiredly as he hugged you tighter, resting his head on your shoulder. "I really wish I felt that way right now," he mumbled.

"It'll take some time, but you will," you asserted, running his fingers through his loose hair before tugging it lightly, making him look at you again. "Roman, you changed the industry, just like you said you would when we started this. No one will ever, ever forget what you've done these past four years. Be proud of all of it. You've been through so much, you sacrificed too much to not be proud."

Roman nodded in understanding. He just wished he didn't feel so down. "Baby, I...I want you to know how sorry I am. I know how much you wanted this. And I've been such a dick to you lately-"

You kissed your teeth and waved his apology away. "Nah. That don't matter no more. And I don't care that you didn't win. All I care about is you being safe when you're out there. Being healthy for our family and our daughter, who will be very happy to have her Daddy home, by the way. So we took an L. Okay, we'll only come back stronger. We had one bad night. Guess what? I plan on giving you a better morning, if you know what I mean." You rounded off your words with a wink, your heart blooming when he chuckled in response. "See, there's that smile I love so much. Keep your head up, baby. You did so good tonight. I couldn't be more proud of you."

Roman leaned into you, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in and filling his head with your scent. It was like breathing fresh air. “I love you, Y/N. I love you with all of my heart. I don’t deserve you, I never have.”

The tears you'd been fighting all night resurfaced, but you blinked them away as you captured his lips with yours, your hand sliding over the back of his neck. He clung to you, a different emotion quickly overtaking him as he returned your kiss with a bit of aggression, his tongue whipping hungrily against yours, savoring your mouth as though he was tasting it for the very first time. You surrendered to his every whim, your other hand raking through his hair then caressing gently down to his chest, resting your palm over the spot where his heart pumped for you. You could feel how much he needed this moment of intimacy, and you had no qualms giving him anything he asked for.

With one quick tug of your legs, Roman had you straddling him on the couch, bringing you chest to chest with your lush backside resting on his growing bulge. He paused for a moment to take a deep breath, then sealed your mouths again, his tongue invading, probing, a moan rumbling in his chest when you matched his energy, the emotions take over this loving embrace. He could never get enough of you, of the passion that overwhelmed him by your mere presence, immersing him in a love and gratitude he would always feel for you no matter what state of mind he was in.

Eventually, you pulled away from each other, breathless, panting, lips glistening with each other’s saliva. His heart raced at the familiar gleam in your darkened eyes. You weren’t done with him, not just yet, and this was confirmed as you slowly slid off him and sank to your knees between his spread thighs, pushing the front of his shirt up to expose his newly honed six-pack abs.

“Do you know how fucking hot you looked tonight, Daddy?” you purred to him, leaning in to run your tongue over the ridges of muscle on his taut belly. “Last night? All week? Do you have any idea of all the nasty shit I’m gonna do to you on the bus?”

Roman’s dick jumped in his joggers as his imagination ran wild. He squirmed in his seat, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth as your tongue lapped at his belly, your mouth warm on his skin, all while you rubbed the fullness of his bulge straining eagerly against your touch. “Baby girl…” he choked out, as your fingers peeled the waistband of his pants, unveiling his big, beautiful brown dick. 

“Hmm, commando. I like it,” you commented with a smirk, curling your fist around his turgid length.

“Babe, wait…ain’t Paul outside?”

“I sent him home. Plus, won't be the first time he's seen me suck you off.” Your small hand massaged his blunt, plum-shaped head as you licked a trail along the underside of his dick, enjoying the gasps of pleasure that he made. Licking up the pre-cum that had gathered at the tip, your mouth opened wider to take him in. He stared you down with an intense look in his dark irises, which soon fluttered shut as your lips wrapped tight around his flesh, his stomach tensing as he felt himself slide deeper inside. “Awww, fuuuck,” he moaned.

Pulling back for a second, you held his lust-filled stare and stroked his dick a little harder, giggling when it twitched in your grip. A defiant look clouded your eyes as you licked at his tip before pushing him back into your mouth. It was enough for him to nut by just watching you, the visual of your lips sliding slowly up and down his length, that sexy mouth of yours making sweet love to his dick. It felt so good that he sank further into the plush leather of the couch, his head rolling back lazily against the headrest, his toes curling inside his brand new Air Reigns sneakers. All the pain and punishment his body had endured tonight melted away and was replaced with much more pleasurable sensations.

“I love the way you suck my dick, wifey,” he praised you, forcing himself to observe you through his barely open eyelids. “Mmm, that slutty little mouth is warm as fuck…You so sexy, baby, keep lookin’ up at me like that...” 

His raspy growls had you glancing back up at him, batting your pretty eyelashes as you sucked him off. Wetness pooled between your thighs at his famished expression. Completely aroused, you picked up the pace as your hands and your mouth worked in tandem, sucking and stroking his dick, pleasuring him from tip to base. His breathing became heavier as he throbbed against your tongue, his hands finding the back of your head as he got lost in the paradise of your warm, wet mouth. 

“Damn, baby. I bet that pussy leakin’ for me right now. You gettin’ wet sucking Daddy off, beautiful?” he taunted, his tongue swishing over his bottom lip at the same time your tongue swirled around the base of his shaft. The little moan that escaped your throat told him he was right. Of course he was; he knew his wife better than anybody else. “Good girl. Keep goin', I want that pussy extra wet. I’ma lick all that shit up when we get on the bus.”

With another soft moan, you crawled closer to his body and bore down on him, bobbing your head up and down that long, fat cock. Scooping your hair up into his large fist for leverage, Roman rocked his hips upwards from his seated position, thrusting in and out of your mouth. You relaxed your throat to take him deeper, moaning around his dick and letting him know how much you were enjoying him fucking your face. You rolled his balls in your hand, caressing the heavy, tightened sac to send him over the edge. It was working, as he began thrusting faster, his husky groans of pleasure amplifying as he neared his release.

“Unnnhh, baby, here it comes…Fuck, open your mouth,” he gasped, not waiting for you to do so as he yanked you by your hair to free himself from your intoxicating mouth. You quickly opened wide as he grabbed his cock and jerked it desperately against your tongue. He caught sight of the glazed-over quality of your gaze, and he knew that your panties were completely ruined, your pussy dripping with your need for him. He planned to take care of that very soon.

It was a show more spectacular than Mania, the sight of his gorgeous face contorted with pleasure, his head thrown back, eyes rolled to the heavens as his orgasm washed over his big body. Your moans harmonized together with each spasm of his cum down your throat, making you swallow every drop he unleashed. His grip on your hair was tight and almost painful, but you were turned on anyway, aroused by the knowledge that no one brought him to this state of paramount pleasure like you did. Licking your lips, you scooped him back into your mouth to clean him up, released him with a soft pop when you finished, and tucked him back inside the confines of his joggers. You giggled as he stared dazedly at the ceiling, licking his lips to catch his breath, his big frame slack and helpless as he recovered from the intense orgasm.

"Goddamn, baby...Shit," he groaned.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you stood up and sat back on his lap, welcoming the gentle press of his mouth to yours in a sweet, grateful kiss. “You feel better, Daddy?” you asked.

"Much better. I needed that so much. Thanks, baby," he smiled up at you, his stomach doing flips as you smiled back. He truly was the luckiest man in the world.

“Mm-hmm. Luckily, there’s more where that came from,” you assured him with another kiss before getting to your feet and pulling him up to his. “Come on, Daddy. Let's go home. We got a toddler to take care of. We'll figure out all the other stuff when it's time."

He nodded in agreement and squeezed your hand. “Okay, baby. Home it is.”

A new chapter in your story had been opened tonight, and the path ahead seemed uncertain and even scary. But you both took pride in the fact that as long as you kept writing it together, your love story was going to remain as beautiful as it already was.

But make no mistake about it; Roman Reigns was going to rule the wrestling world again. That was one story that was never going to end.

THE END

--------------------

Thoughts? How sappy was this😢Was quite cathartic for me, loved writing it.

Thank you all so much for reading and commenting!

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[lathalea]

Entangled 4/10

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x Dwarf OFC (The Hobbit) Rating: G (subject to change) Warnings: ANGST Summary: Arranged marriages are common among the dwarven nobility. After reclaiming the Lonely Mountain, the Kingdom Under the Mountain needs to be rebuilt. Thorin agrees to marry a lady from the Blue Mountains, securing a mutually beneficial alliance with the Broadbeam Dwarves. Lady Mista is said to be a practical and hard-working dwarf-woman, willing to give him an heir who would secure the line of succession. A decent queen material, his advisors say. If only Thorin could let go of his past… You can find this fic on AO3 (search for lathalea).

A/N: First of all, sorry it took me so long to update this story but your comments and messages kept me going! TRSB and Real Life™️ hit me hard, but I haven't forgotten about this story. In fact, I have a treat for you: an XXL-sized chapter as a thank you for your patience 💙 Special thanks to @legolasbadass and @absentmindeduniverse for your help. You are amazing and you made this chapter so much better than it originally was! 🤩🙏💙 -*-*-*- KHUZDUL: ‘Urdêk - ereborean variant of Lonely Mountain (referring to the Halls within the mountain) Nadad - brother Nan’ith - little/young sister Zabdûna - the Queen Zabdûna undu ‘Urd - Queen Under the Mountain Khagal'abbad - Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains Azsâlul'abad - the Lonely Mountain (both the mountain and the dwarven kingdom known among Elves and Men as Erebor) Tumunzahar - an ancient dwarven city in the Blue Mountains rebuilt by the Broadbeams in this story. The Elves call it “Nogrod”. Gabilgathol - an ancient dwarven city in the Blue Mountains rebuilt by the Firebeards in this story. The Elves call it “Belegost”. Thorinuldûm - Thorin’s Halls, the settlement of the refugees from the Lonely Mountain in the Blue Mountains Iglishmêk - the sign language widely used by all the dwarves -*-*-*-

✨ Chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4... ✨ Entangled Masterlist

Thorin opened his eyes with a gasp. That cursed dream again. Those eyes…

Several deep breaths helped to banish the haunting afterimages from his mind for good. Deep inside the Mountain — much deeper than the Royal Chambers — the mine bell struck eleven times. One hour before noon. It was later than he expected.

Thorin’s head was pounding, and the bitter aftertaste of rowanberry brandy in his mouth made him yearn for a mug of water. Slowly, he rose, noticing that he was not in his bed but in his armchair, still wearing some of yesterday's clothes. His finely embroidered undershirt and similarly adorned trousers — now crumpled. Parts of his wedding attire. His wedding.

He truly needed a drink.

The only thing he found in his chamber was an empty brandy bottle that lay forgotten on the floor. For a moment, Thorin wanted to ring for a servant, irritated at the fact that he slept so long — and his usual breakfast tray was nowhere to be seen. Had they overslept in the kitchens as well? What could have been so important that… Of course. His wedding.

He grunted. There was not going to be any breakfast tray and no servants. Not until he rang for them, at least. No one would disturb him in the morning after his wedding night. Frowning, Thorin managed to recall that a celebratory dinner was scheduled later that day — not only for the people of ‘Urdêk, but also for the whole royal family and the family of the bride. His wife.

Thorin ran a hand down his face. He was a married Dwarf now. A husband. Years and years ago, in another lifetime, that thought would have made him enormously proud — and happy. And yet, on this very morning, the only thing he felt was that bitter taste in his mouth — and shame; his foolish dreams of youth long forgotten. The weight of a new braid in his hair, the marriage braid, was not a symbol of perfect, eternal love he had foolishly envisioned as a youth. This braid only denoted the contract between the two dwarven houses: the Longbeards and the Broadbeams. 

A memory from the previous day appeared in his mind: pale, small, pale fingers nervously sliding through his hair, braiding a pattern that was unfamiliar to him. The personal pattern of the lady who now occupied the adjacent bedchamber — Lady Mista. The woman he had barely met and knew nothing of. His wife.

He should have felt something about this image, anything — sadness or perhaps the satisfaction of yet another duty he fulfilled as the King; hope or disenchantment. There was nothing — only a gaping hole deep inside him where his feelings should be. He stared with disappointment at the empty brandy bottle in his hand, and placed it on the table beside him with a clank. 

Perhaps everything was as it should be. His was an arranged marriage, after all. The Kingdom Under the Mountain needed an heir to the throne. The future and prosperity of the realm depended on it. It was Thorin’s duty to fulfil, and time was of the essence. As the ancient scriptures stated, only the firstborn son of the firstborn son — of the current king — had the right to the throne of this realm. The Book of Law emphasised that it had to be the direct descendant of Durin — as the line remained unbroken since the beginning of time. If the direct line was to be lost, the next in line was the second son and his progeny. Thorin closed his eyes and Frerin’s kindred face appeared before him — and quickly disappeared. That future perished more than one hundred and forty years ago beneath the East Gate of Khazad-dûm before it even had a chance to come to fruition. As for the other possibilities… they were just as painfully non-existent.

“Is there truly no legal way to name Fili or Kili as my heir apparent, Master Maldur?” Thorin crumpled a piece of parchment in his hand.

“I am afraid not, Sire.” The elderly scholar adjusted the emerald pince-nez on his nose. “They are both the sons of a daughter of Durin.”“Besides, since Fili is married to Lady Fridvi of the Firebeards. According to the treaty between our houses, their firstborn child will rule in the Blue Mountains,” added Balin with an apologetic smile.

“Aye. Even if it’s a daughter,” Thorin said and added, as if to himself, “I have always thought the Firebeards to be more sensible when it came to the laws of succession.”“Yes, well, Your Majesty…” Master Maldur cleared his throat in ill-disguised disapproval, shuffling some parchments in front of him. “The Longbeard laws, however, clearly state that if no male heir is procured by the current king before his 200th birthday, the next Dwarf in line — albeit one who is not a direct descendant of Durin — would be the grandson of your Grandfather’s brother, Grór, the firstborn son of his firstborn son, Nain, your…”

“I do know the lineage of my cousin, Dain Ironfoot, quite well, thank you,” Thorin remarked curtly. Genealogy, lineages, and recounting endless familial connections always made him irritable.

“And hypothetically speaking, if your revered cousin was not there to claim the crown of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, may Mahal give him long life,” Maldur spoke in his hoarse voice that made Thorin think of crumbling stones, “the next in line would be, of course, Lord Balin, the firstborn son of Fundin, the firstborn son of Farin, who, in turn, was the firstborn…”

“Thank you, Master Maldur.” Thorin nodded to him, having heard enough, and then turned to the firstborn son of Fundin. “Balin, how would you feel about becoming the next king?”

“I would rather not. Unless you and Dain plan to drink your way to the Halls of Awaiting together anytime soon?” Balin chuckled, shaking his head. “I have other plans, laddie, and besides, I’m not getting any younger.”

“And yet your wit is as sharp as it was one hundred years ago,” Thorin offered him a half-smile.

“Your Majesty, may I take this opportunity to point out how crucial it is that a direct descendant of Durin sits on the throne of Azsâlul'abad?” The frown on Master Maldur’s forehead deepened. “Additionally, the unfortunate discord between Your Majesty’s Grandfather and his brother, Grór, is vividly remembered by your subjects. Sadly, because of this, Lord Dain is quite an unpopular personage here. Not a favourable position to be in for a prospective ruler. If such an event were to happen, of course.”

“Of course.” Thorin sighed. “Any more ideas, Balin? Lord Bori?”

Balin slowly shook his head.

“May I remind you, Your Majesty, that we have received several offers of alliance through marriage?” said the white-haired chancellor, who — until that very moment — remained silent. Lord Bori always picked the perfect moment to strike.“Very well.” Thorin stood up, signalling that the meeting was adjourned. “It seems that we have run out of heirs. Balin, would you be so kind as to discuss the matter with my sister? I entrust you both with choosing a suitable royal consort for the King Under the Mountain.”

A thud brought him out of his reverie. It came from the adjacent bedchamber. Thorin heard two distinct voices, although he could not quite make out the words. It must have been Lady Mista discussing something with her maid, he suspected. He clearly recognized the soft lilt of his spouse’s voice, so characteristic among the Broadbeams. Perhaps she was readying herself for the day, as he should as well. Thorin was about to ring for his servant when a resonant voice reached his ears despite the thick door between their rooms.

“Why doesn't it surprise me, Mista?!” The voice was definitely feminine. “You had one job…” “Let me explain…” That was Lady Mista speaking. Thorin was able to recognize only one or two words.

“There is nothing to explain!” The first voice returned. “It was your wedding night, for Mahal’s sake! Couldn’t you have made an effort? Just look at yourself! For once in your life…”

“Mother, you don’t understand, I…” Lady Mista’s words trailed off. She sounded tense.

The pounding in Thorin’s head intensified. He glared at the door.

“Have you forgotten how hard your father and your uncle worked to achieve this?! Is that how you repay your family, Mista? By ruining everything? On the very first night?”

Without thinking, Thorin placed his hand on the door handle and pressed. He had heard enough.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he demanded.

In the silence that filled the room, just after he stepped into Lady Mista’s bedchamber, he saw Lady Mista sitting in her bed. Her face was as pale as the bed linen, her eyes wide, and her quilt pulled up to her chin. She looked at him as if she wanted to disappear underneath it. With her hair tousled and her slightly skewed spectacles, she looked more like a defenceless young maid than an adult Dwarf-woman.

Next to her bed stood a corpulent red-haired matron in a fashionable green-and-gold gown, her hair immaculately dressed, her neck and wrists adorned with elegant jewellery, her fisted hands resting against her hips.

“Your Majesty.” The matron executed a customary curtsy, offering him a sweet but artificial smile. “What an honour to see you in my daughter’s bedchamber. I believe…” “Lady Milva.” He gave her a curt nod of recognition and graced her with a cold stare. “You will have to forgive me, madam, but I do not intend to reciprocate. I, for one, cannot understand why you would choose this particular time to visit Her Majesty the Queen.”

“Ah, but Your Majesty would surely understand that I wanted to see to my daughter’s comfort on the very first day of her rule.” Her smile widened.

“Do you wish to imply that I am incapable of such a feat, madam?” Thorin hissed.

“Oh no, Your Majesty, not at all!” The matron attempted a giggle. “On the contrary, I believe it is my daughter who failed to see to your comfort.”

Thorin’s head seemed to be pounding even more than before.

“Mother, please…” He heard Lady Mista’s strained voice behind him.

“Enough, Mista, you should be apologising to His Majesty for disappointing him!” Lady Milva turned to her daughter and Thorin decided that he had heard enough.

“My lady, you are disturbing me and my spouse in our private chambers. Only because you are my wedded wife’s mother, My Lady, I am going to ask you kindly.” Thorin hissed. “Leave now.”

Silence filled the chamber for several heartbeats. Lady Milva’s gaze moved between her daughter and Thorin before she spoke again. 

“Very well, Your Majesty,” she replied stiffly, abandoning her insincere manner. “Mista, I will return later, to prepare you for dinner.”

“Is that what you wish, My Lady?” Thorin turned to Mista.

“I… Thank you, Mother,” Lady Mista’s words were a mere whisper as she clutched the quilt, “but I think I will manage on my own this time.”

Her mother stood there for a moment longer, her brow furrowed, and then she replied, “If that is what you wish.”

She made another curtsy to Thorin, and then, in a swift flurry of her opulent gown, she stormed out of the bedchamber.

“Forgive me, My Lord, have we woken you up?” The bedclothes rustled, making Thorin gaze at Lady Mista — the woman he wed yesterday. As she left the bed, he caught a glimpse of her bare feet, so much smaller than his, and so dainty. Her sleeping gown flowed elegantly down her body, hugging her figure and revealing patches of smooth skin that only a husband was allowed to see. Quickly, he looked away. He did not feel like one.

“I was already awake,” he offered, glancing around the chamber. “Have you broken your fast yet, My Lady?”

“No, My Lord,” she replied. “I’m afraid I lost track of time. I was reading.”

Thorin followed her gaze to the thick tome that lay open on the bed. It looked like something from the Royal Library of Erebor, but he did not recognize the cover.

“I’ll ring for breakfast for you then. You must be famished,” he offered. 

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Lady Mista replied, her words barely audible, like the chirping of a frightened little bird. “Would you… would you like to join me?”

Thorin shook his head decidedly. 

“I am expected elsewhere. The meeting of the Guildmasters is going to be held quite soon,” he was amazed at how easily this half-truth slipped out of his mouth. That meeting was on his general agenda, but no one expected him to join it, not so soon after his wedding.

“Oh, I see,” Lady Mista’s voice wavered, but she continued after a pause. “In that case, allow me, My Lord, to thank you for your… intervention. My Mother can be tempestuous at times, but she means well.”

“Forgive me, My Lady, but her behaviour was out of place,” he said, attempting to ignore the insistent pounding in his head. “You are not only her daughter but — first and foremost — the Queen. No one is allowed to treat you so, no matter the circumstances. No one. Not even her.”

Thorin took a deep breath in order to rein in his temper. He was abrupt, his words far from courteous, but his patience was wearing thin. The last thing he was willing to endure was a lady on the verge of tears, bullied by her own kin. A half-forgotten memory surfaced in his mind: those sobs, that lavish but abhorred wedding dress, and his sister’s words: “You can’t help it, nadad. This is women’s lot in life.” 

This time, unlike that other time, Thorin could help it — and so he did. That was the least he was able to do for this terrified woman. His wife.

He did not find the strength to look into her face once more and see those glossed-over eyes and those trembling lips. Instead, he excused himself under the pretence of procuring breakfast and left her bedchamber.

He found his reward in the form of a full jug of water in the adjacent parlour. Quenching his thirst, he rang for a servant. Katla, Lady Mista’s new maid, arrived soon after. She was one of the maids who worked for their family when they lived in the Blue Mountains. Now, however, Dis decided that Katla was exactly the person Lady Mista would need. The girl was unusually agitated, and as soon as Thorin asked about Lady Milva’s presence in the Queen’s bedchamber, her countenance wavered. 

“Forgive me, m’lord,” she curtseyed, her gaze lowered reverently. “I had no means to stop Her Ladyship, I asked her not to disturb Your Majesties, but she said that she was the Queen’s mother and the Queen would dismiss me right away if Her Ladyship was not allowed to enter, and I thought…”

“Thank you, Katla, I understand,” he said. “You are not going to be dismissed. However, Her Majesty does not need such disturbances. Should someone attempt to storm into Her Majesty’s private chambers without her consent again, do not hesitate to call the guards.”

“Of course, m’lord,” Katla nodded stiffly. “And… Thank you. For not dismissing me.”

“My Mother, the Dowager Queen, always spoke highly of you. Now, I need you to take care of the new Queen in a similar manner. This is her new home, and we need to make her feel like it. Can I rely on you?”

“Always, m’lord.” A hopeful smile appeared on her face. “Does the Queen need anything now, m’lord?”

“She is requesting a hearty breakfast,” he ordered.

“I’ll be right back with her tray! Shall I bring one for you as well, m’lord?”

“No, thank you. I have matters to attend to.”

With these words, Thorin directed his steps to the Royal Baths. Hot water and steam were exactly what he needed at that very moment. A sizable pile of documents waited for him on his desk, but he needed to clear his head first.

***

“Here you are, nadad! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Dis’ voice made him raise his gaze from a parchment.

“Where else should I be?” Thorin tilted his head, observing his sister as she approached his desk. There was only a handful of braids in her modest hairdo — her wavy strands as dark as his own — and she wore a simple day dress. Yet, Dis looked more elegant than many other ladies in their finest gowns. She inherited her noble bearing and facial features from their paternal grandmother, after all.

“Where should you be? Let me see…” she tapped her mouth with her index finger and then asked innocently. “Perhaps with your wife?”

Thorin cursed inwardly. Dis inherited their grandmother’s wit, too.

“If only those trade licences could somehow sign themselves…” he grunted.

“And while you are drowning in parchments, your newly-wed wife is halfway through the second volume of The Golden Age of Azsâlul'abad,” she grunted back.

“The second volume?” Thorin’s eyebrow rose as he recalled the size of that monstrous twelve-volume work. He never managed to make it past the first one.

“Yes. Apparently, Mista finished the first one during lunch. Which she ate alone.” Dis folded her arms on her chest. It had never been a good sign when Grandmother Birgit folded her arms like that.

“I ate my lunch alone as well.” He pointed at a plate with a forgotten piece of dark bread left, half-covered by a couple of documents.

“On the first day of your marriage,” Dis retorted.

“These licences are vital for…”

“Thorin…” His sister rolled her eyes.

“Dis…” He sighed. “You know what I mean.”

“Some things need time,” he heard himself say.

“I know, Thorin,” Dis stepped to him, placing her hand on his forearm. “Of all the people in the world… I know.”

“At least you knew Vili before your wedding,” Thorin put his quill aside.

“Vaguely. While you managed to spend a whole evening with Mista in Tumunzahar.”

“Which apparently happened a long time ago — and of which I remember nothing.” He admitted with a frown and then drummed his fingers on the desk. “Nan’ith, I may have made an utter fool of myself yesterday.”

Dis sat heavily on a chair beside him, “Let me hear it.”

“Lady Mista was convinced that I remembered meeting her at a feast. Apparently, we danced and talked, and she expected me to…” He sighed. “I don’t know. The problem is that instead of playing along with it, I told her that I did not remember it at all.”

“Nadad, I have always admired your disarming honesty, but…” Dis paused and then grinned. “Well, it looks like you have figured it out yourself. You are an utter fool.”

When she elbowed him, as if they were smooth-cheeked youths again, Thorin simply had to elbow her back.

“Thank you, dearest sister. I know I could count on you.” He let out a lukewarm chuckle.

“How did she take it? Is that why you are hiding in here?” Thorin shook his head, “Lady Mista did not seem offended. I’d say she was perhaps… surprised? Disappointed?”

“I would be too if my future husband first sent me a letter in which he spoke fondly of our meeting years ago and then admitted to not remembering it at all,” Dis waved her hand in despair.

“A letter?” Thorin’s frown deepened.

“The letter. Don’t tell me you haven’t read it.” A frown appeared on her face as well. “Balin and I spent half a day composing it before it was sent along with the marriage contract.”

“For which I am very thankful. I have no head for this sort of letters, as you know.” “That was precisely why you were supposed to read it before it was sealed, Thorin.” She rolled her eyes.

“I knew I could trust you with its contents. Dis, we were rebuilding the Forges at that time! I barely had time to eat or sleep; that letter was hardly on top of my agenda.” 

His sister let out a long sigh.

“It is not me you should explain yourself to. What happened, happened. Tell me, do you truly not remember anything from that meeting?”

“This was one of many feasts I was obligated to appear at. Amicable relations with our allies, and all that,” he offered.

“We were there together, you know.”

“Were we?” Thorin searched his memory. To no avail. All those feasts seemed like a blur in his mind.

“Balin was there, too. And Dwalin, I think.” Dis added. “And Mother. She wore that emerald green gown.”

He tried once more. Still nothing.

“There was lots of food, lots of political scheming… Oh, and there were quite a few mothers flaunting their offspring at me and you. Mostly at you, the Crown Prince,” she snickered.

“You have just described most of the feasts I have attended in the past.” He ran a hand over his face. “Every time I felt like game during hunting season. Did I really spend the whole evening with Lady Mista?”

“Quite a bit of it.” Dis nodded. “You were seated next to a matron who insisted on making you dance with each of her daughters — I think she had two or three of them — and then you did what you usually used to do. You disappeared. When you returned, Mista was with you already, and then you danced. That matron, together with her cronies, was of course appalled, because you never even looked at anyone else. And Mista was not even formally out, she was maybe a few years over half battle-age at that time!”

“It seems that I scandalised the matrons of Tumunzahar and nearly robbed a cradle. What an achievement. And I cannot even remember it.” Thorin smiled wryly, although an image or two flickered before his eyes. A handkerchief with his monogram in a lithe hand. Grey-brown hair adorned with pearls.

“At least no one bothered you afterwards,” she put her hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Now, I hope you find a way to make amends with your wife, nadad.”

Thorin gave her a nod, “You and me both. I simply do not have the slightest idea how to talk to her. I feel as if she is afraid of me.”

“We both know that you are not the greatest charmer when it comes to the matters of the heart,” she offered him a smirk. “And neither am I. I can only tell you what Mother told me once. Marriage is like the endless forging of a sword. If you want to make a great blade, you have to keep the fire going, and work the metal every single day. Draw it, shape it, and then keep on tempering it so that it never breaks.”

“She knew her way around the forge,” Thorin admitted fondly. He liked to think that he inherited his bladesmithing skills from their Mother.

“She knew how to deal with Father, too. I took her words to heart, and it worked for me — for us. Vili and me…” Dis cleared her throat. “We had nothing in common — or so I thought at first.” 

A sad smile softened her features, and Thorin covered her hand with his. 

“He was even younger than me,” she continued, “so rowdy and boisterous, and talked only of mountain goat races and throwing knives. Remember how terrified I was when I had to braid his hair?”

“You? Terrified? You were as decorous as Grandma Birgit would,” he said.

“That was because I knew Grandma Birgit would have been appalled if I fainted halfway through the ceremony. You cannot believe how mortified I was before the wedding night!” His sister chuckled.

“You asked me for two pints of the strongest malt beer we had,” Thorin offered lightly. It was good to see her smile.

“I only wanted to take the edge off things!” Dis grinned. “How was I supposed to know you spiked it with Dwalin’s horrible brandy?”

“You weren't. And you and Vili were supposed to drink them together. How should I know he would down them both at once?” He shrugged as if he had not seen it coming.

“I think I was the first bride in the history of Arda who spent her wedding night listening to her new husband’s loud snores.”

“You should talk with Bombur’s Ronja,” he quipped.

“Nadad! I shall not discuss their wedding night with her!” Dis feigned outrage only to burst out in laughter.

“Be glad that you did not hear his snores during the Quest. Every. Single. Night. He even made us think a storm was coming! And once, in the Misties…” It was so easy to fall back on the anecdotes from the past, and Thorin was awarded with another bout of laughter. Since Dis arrived back to the Mountain — their home — for the first time in years, it was easy to make her smile. There was a new spark in her eyes too, one that Thorin saw in countless eyes these days. A glint of hope for their reclaimed homeland they were rebuilding — and for their future. Was the same glint present in Lady Mista’s eyes last night? He could not say.

“Thank you”, Dis startled him, pecking him on his cheek.

“For what?” He met her eyes.

“For many things… like not terrifying your bride too much.”

Thorin swallowed, “What do you mean?”

“You know how you can be sometimes.” Dis patted his hand.

“Are you going to tell me once more that I scare others away with my ‘brooding’, or whatever you call it?” He rose from his chair and looked down at her.

“Not at all! Brooding is not as loud as snoring.” Tilting her head up, she winked at him. “Do you know you sometimes come off as quite intimidating?”

“I have never heard of such a notion,” Thorin let his lip curl up. “Especially from you.”

“What about that agreement you managed to hammer out last week with those stubborn donkeys, the Guildmasters?” Thorin knew better than to offer a reply.

“I heard your voice all the way to the warehouses! And when the Masters left the council chamber, they were meek as lambs, even the fiery Master Karg!”

“I simply reminded them that the world did not revolve around their coin pouches. Loudly.”

“I am glad you made use of it this morning.”

“You heard about what happened,” Of course. His sister had a knack for knowing things that did not happen in her presence.

“A word or two.” “Lady Mista’s mother needed to be put in her place,” Thorin quickly recounted his confrontation with Lady Milva. 

When he finished, Dis pressed her lips in a thin line.

“What a viper,” she huffed. “Now I know why Mista looked so shaken today. But we are in luck. The whole Broadbeam delegation is leaving in a week or so. We will manage.”

“We have managed worse.” He finished the thought, their private saying, one that they used since the vile Smaug ravaged their kingdom. Last time they spoke it happened just before the Quest to reclaim their homeland. Now, both the current circumstances and stakes felt vastly different, and Thorin could not help but wonder — would he manage?

“I must say you did wonders with the Queen’s bedchamber in such a short time.” Thorin admitted in a hasty attempt to change the subject. “It looks quite… comfortable. Especially with that tapestry from Grandmother’s chambers. And to think it survived Smaug almost untouched…”

“Oh, so you did spend some time with Mista after all?” Dis raised an eyebrow, her eyes twinkling. “Were there two pints of malt beer involved or not? Don’t you make that face at me, nadad! This was your wedding night and everyone will jest about it, whether you like it or not!”

Sadly, she was right.

***

Dis’ prophetic words proved true in the evening at the celebratory dinner. It was held in the largest cavern under the Mountain, the Great Hall. It was as tall as several levels of the Dwarven kingdom, making it easy for people to freely join and leave the festivities, catch a glimpse of the royal family or listen to the music while feasting in their local quarters. Thorin remembered that this natural formation in the depths of the Mountain was where all the largest festivities happened when his Grandfather, King Thrór, ruled. He himself did not expect to celebrate his royal wedding in these legendary chambers as well. After all, marriage had not been a part of his plans for the future.

Upon entering the Great Hall, it was difficult not to notice all the lavish adornments he remembered from the day before, countless tables filled anew with various dishes, lanterns and candles that cast their golden glow on the walls, brightening everyone’s faces — and the fact that all the eyes were now set on Thorin and his new royal consort. They were both clad in matching attires made especially for this occasion; every detail, pattern, and jewel on those black, silver, and gold garments was supposed to symbolise the imperishable beauty and opulence of the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Judging by the reactions of his subjects, the newly-wed royal couple made a favourable impression on them. 

Casting a sidelong glance at Lady Mista, Thorin expected to see the joyful or perhaps even triumphant smile of a new queen. Instead, he noticed the strained lines of her face, the paleness of her cheeks, and her bespectacled gaze set somewhere above the heads of the guests. Only the crown over her temples softened the solemn impression somewhat and lent her a regal air. Lady Mista’s palm rested stiffly on his forearm as Thorin led her through the chamber towards the royal table. He could feel how stiff her muscles were, as if she was a wooden doll controlled by an invisible puppeteer.

Thorin made an effort not to look at Lady Mista’s kin, who had already gathered at their side of the royal table. After what he experienced with the members of this family so far, it was not at all difficult to infer what face — or rather, faces — that puppeteer bore. 

That poor, terrified girl. His wife. The new Queen Under the Mountain.

“Our people are curious about you, My Lady,” he whispered just as they walked onto the stone dais where the royal table was placed.

“Oh?” Quickly, she turned towards him, her eyes wide. “About me?”

“They do not know you yet, and many of them are wondering what they can expect of you, their new Zabdûna,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer to her.

“Of… of course I will do my best to care for them,” she lowered her gaze and a blush darkened her cheeks. Then she added, “There is no Kingdom without its people.”

The last time Thorin heard those words, he was barely a youth, and his days were filled with endless studies and training. One of his Grandfather’s sayings — words of Dagur Sture, an ancient philosopher from Khazad-dûm — spoken in the trembling voice of a Broadbeam lady from the distant Khagal'abbad, the Blue Mountains. 

“Indeed,” he said, shaking off the surprise as they both turned towards the guests, an endless sea of faces before them . “Pray, show it to them, My Lady.”

“But how?” Lady Mista blinked, adjusting her spectacles on her nose. “I do not know what to do…”

“Simply greeting them will be enough,” Thorin attempted to say these words with an encouraging smile. “Acknowledge your new subjects.”

Lady Mista nodded slightly and swallowed, lifting her gaze upon the crowd. He felt her right hand tighten on his forearm, but then her left hand rose into the air, and she waved to the gathered crowd. An avalanche of cheers went through the cavern; some of the guests responded to her greeting in turn, their faces brightening.

Thorin chose this moment to greet the gathered Dwarves in the same fashion, enhancing their jubilation even further. All it took was a wave. A simple trick his Grandfather taught him a lifetime ago, but one that never failed.

When he glanced at Lady Mista’s face again, there was a new glint in her eyes and a timid smile on her lips as she took in the enthusiastic response to her gesture.

“They like you already, My Lady,” he whispered, nodding to her in approval and seeing her features finally soften when her lips curled up slightly. A welcome change, he thought. People needed to see their rulers glad, especially on such an occasion. Appearances mattered more than one’s true feelings; he had learned that bitter lesson well.

After the customary welcoming speech — Thorin somehow managed to keep it short — he led Lady Mista to their chairs at the centre of the table, and then the feast began. Soon, he found himself in a lively conversation with Glóin, Dwalin and Lord Taran, Lady Mista’s uncle, discussing the strategy applied in the siege of an Orc stronghold that happened during the Great War. Various pieces of golden tableware turned into numerous units of dwarven troops, a nearby platter with fruit acted as a mountain range, the octagonal brass salt cellar became the stronghold, and leftover pheasant bones served as Orcs.

“What a battle it was! We hadn’t slept for three days in a row!” Glóin announced as the culinary re-enactment of the battle came to an end. “When we were done with the Orc scum, Thorin looked every bit as tired as he looks now after one night with his bride!”

Thorin grunted.

“Aye, he does, but can ye imagine his state after three nights of storming her stronghold?” Dwalin roared with laughter.

Thorin glowered at his friend, who, in response, laughed even harder.

“With such a meek lass like our Mista, he doesn’t have much storming to do!” Lord Taran bellowed, the tattoos on his cheeks stretching in a wide grin.

Thorin clenched his fist. 

Dis threw him a meaningful glance from across the table. We will manage. Mahal, give him strength. Casting a fleeting look at Lady Mista, Thorin saw that she was deeply immersed in a conversation with Balin, who at that very moment patted her on her hand.

“May Your Majesty strike a gold vein quickly so we have a new reason to celebrate soon, a naming ceremony!” Lord Tair, the new Queen’s father, raised his goblet, meeting Thorin’s gaze. “May Mahal bless this union with many children!”

Other cups shot into the air, and the toast echoed across the hall, countless eyes set on the royal couple. Thorin gritted his teeth. This was not a purely well-meant wish, not in Tair’s mouth. The Broadbeam lord, who negotiated the marriage contract himself, alluded to its crucial clause: children from this union meant prosperity for both of their houses. On the other hand, no offspring by Thorin’s 200th birthday meant the dissolution of the marriage, the end of the vastly profitable trade agreements for the Broadbeams, and the end of the direct line of Durin for the Longbeards — and Thorin. The stakes were high for both houses.

Decidedly, Thorin grasped his own goblet and returned the gesture. A quick glance to his left told him that Lady Mista followed his lead, her fingers stiffly holding her goblet’s stem. He felt her eyes on him, but he found himself unable to reciprocate her gaze.

Another toast came after the first. This time, it was Dis wishing the newly-wed couple a long and happy marriage. A couple of toasts full of platitudes followed, and when everyone in the Great Hall drank their fill, conversations returned. Thorin’s sister was talking with Lady Mista now; he thought he heard them speak of a library when a sonorous voice reached his ears.

“Such a match happens once in a lifetime, Lord Balin, wouldn’t you say?” Lady Mista’s mother gave the older Dwarf a charming smile.

“As you say, Lady Milva. And it is a prosperous one, too,” Balin nodded with a twinkle in his eye.

“I am truly overjoyed that I had this idea! I told my husband: ‘Remember that winter feast we had in Tumunzahar, love? The one when Prince Thorin — for His Majesty was merely a prince then — danced only with my dear Mista?’ He only had eyes for her that night! So many mothers had fits of jealousy, because he did not even spare a glance for any of their daughters!” Lady Milva chuckled.

“That must have been quite an event,” Balin admitted. 

Thorin gritted his teeth, acutely feeling the weight of his crown on his head — and the eyes of his subjects on him. Instead of addressing a few curt words to Lady Mista’s mother, he took a large gulp of wine.

“So it was, Lord Balin, so it was! If you only had been there to see it!” She dabbed an invisible tear from her eye. “They danced, and danced, and afterwards my sweet daughter would sigh, and dream away, and ask if Prince Thorin would attend the next feast! So when the Lonely Mountain was finally reclaimed, I told my husband: ‘My love, if you are not going to send that marriage proposal to King Thorin, I am going to take her to Azsâlul'abad myself!’. And do you know what he said?”

Thorin’s old mentor declared, “I have not the slightest idea, My Lady.” 

Neither had Thorin. He refilled his goblet. Beside him, Dis asked Lady Mista a question he did not quite hear, but she received no answer. Lady Milva’s daughter, the new Zabdûna undu ‘Urd, sat unmoving, staring at her empty plate, her lips pressed into a thin line, while her relentless mother kept on talking. 

“Well, my dear Tair said ‘No need to do that, my dearest, for I have already sent the proposal!’. I swear, we act and think as one, is it not so, my lord husband?” Lady Milva turned to her spouse and loudly pecked his cheek.

“You speak the truth, my dove,” her husband replied, running his hand down his thick silver beard braid with clear contentment. “It was a great honour that His Majesty agreed to our offer this time!”

“Oh, hush, my gem, no need to bring that up, it happened such a long time ago,” Lady Milva waved her hand. “It is of no consequence now.”

“May I ask what you mean, My Lady?” Óin put his fork aside and brought his hearing trumpet to his ear. “Is there another layer to this charming love story?”

“Indeed, there is! I can tell you in confidence,” Lady Milva clapped her hands, leaning towards Óin, although Thorin noticed that she did not bother to lower her voice, “that we sent a marriage proposal to Thorinuldûm a few years later, but we were informed that King Thorin was not interested. I must admit that we made a grave error that day! You see, dear Lord Óin, we offered the hand of our daughter Adla in marriage instead of Mista! Therefore, it was not at all surprising that His Majesty was not interested. She was simply not the right daughter! The whole Blue Mountains wondered why he would not marry our Adla — for you must know that she is considered one of the greatest beauties of our clan — nor any other lady for one hundred years!”

“A true mystery indeed,” Óin agreed with a chuckle.

Thorin glared into his goblet. It was not a mystery to him. He clearly remembered the day the first proposal arrived. This missive from Tumunzahar came together with another letter from Gabilgathol, the city of the Firebeard Dwarves. The city he vowed never to return to. The memories he buried on the bottom of his mind, never to revisit. The eyes he would never look into again.

“...so when we sent our second offer,” Lady Milva placed her goblet on the table with a loud thud, “the answer came swiftly. And now — just look at these two, My Lord, and tell me this was not a match carved in stone.”

“May Mahal grant them happiness!” Óin said, lifting his goblet.

Lady Milva did the same, stood up and added loudly, “Let us drink for their long-awaited reunion! Will our royal lovebirds sweeten the toast with a kiss?”

“A kiss! A kiss!” Several voices from among the guests were heard at first, and then more and more of them joined in the chant. “King and Queen! King and Queen!”

What a viper, Thorin cursed inwardly. So that was her revenge. He should have seen it coming. At that moment, he could no longer pretend that he had not heard Lady Milva’s words. Neither had Lady Mista. Their gazes met; her spectacles slid slightly down her nose, uncovering a pair of brown eyes — wide open and terrified.

Thorin leaned towards her, whispering into her ear in order to be heard despite the continuous chanting.

“Forgive me, Lady Mista. This is not how I…” He paused, searching for the right words that did not seem to come. “I am afraid that we may need to make a little spectacle of ourselves, if you do not mind.”

“Kiss! Kiss!” The chanting grew louder, just like Lady Milva’s vicious smile, as people started clapping their hands, stamping their feet, and banging their goblets against the tables.

“I understand. I apologise for my mother.” She signed discreetly in Iglishmêk. Her fingers trembled when she added, “Let us turn it to our advantage and give our people the fairy tale they expect.”

Our people.

“Very well,” Thorin signed back, offering her his hand, palm up, and trying to empty his mind of all the importunate thoughts. With everyone in the Great Hall staring at them expectantly, they had to do it. There was no other way. Lady Mista took his hand, and it seemed to him that in that very moment, a spark of understanding passed between them. This was something they had to do together, something they were expected to do as the King and Queen Under the Mountain. A duty. Nothing more.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The guests continued to chant.

Thorin stood up, waiting for Lady Mista to gather her skirts and do the same. A moment later, they stood, arm in arm, before the gathered crowd, their hands joined. The continuous chanting echoed against the ceiling of the Great Hall when he turned to face her. Their gazes met; in the candlelight, her eyes looked like molten amber. The new Queen nodded almost imperceptibly, her fine hand gave his a little squeeze, and he could not stall any longer. Thorin lowered his face towards her and his nose bumped against hers,  so he tilted his head further, mindful of her spectacles, and let his lips gently brush against hers. 

Her breath hitched, and he carefully moved to press his lips against hers, and she must have stood up on her tiptoes because he met the softness of her lips much sooner than expected, and she smelled, or perhaps tasted, like an apple orchard, sweet and innocent, and—

An enthusiastic storm of cheers washed over the Mountain, drowning all the importunate thoughts of his for a long while.

To be continued...

✨ Chapter list: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4... ✨ Entangled Masterlist

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[storydays]

C'mon, baby! Let's Go CRAZY

John Dory X Male! Rock Troll! Husband! Reader.

John Dory chuckled to himself as he watched his three children chase their cousins around. Currently, he was relaxing at the bar with his brothers', enjoying a drink and warm atmosphere.

After meeting Bruce, and knowing how dangerous things were, JD asked his sweet sister in law, Brandi, if he could leave his children safe on Vacay Island until either his partner came for them or he himself came back.

Of course, she happily kept the 3 Trollings. "It's honestly safer for them," she chided him before they left.

The oldest at 10 years old, Ash was a stubborn Troll and got along well with Bruce's oldest child, Cove. They were both super sarcastic but cared deeply about their siblings.

Cove would show Ash all of the cool hiding places on Vacay Island, and Ash was small enough that they could fit into the nooks and crannies that Cove couldn't reach. The two pre-teens bonded over learning about being non-binary and being true to themselves.

Ash took after John the most. Their hair color, eye color, and was a Pop Troll. Ash even wore compression gloves like their Papa, to keep their shaking hands still when drawing in their sketch book.

Then their only girl, Brooke, was an exact carbon copy of her Daddy. She was only 6 years old, but she was a wild card. She would jump off of stuff, then used her (h/c) pigtails to catch herself at the last moment. She took after John's husband in personality, looks, and even in music genre: Rock! John's favorite part was that (Y/N) and Brook shared (e/c) eyes.

Honestly, most of John's gray hair comes from that child. She was LaBreezey's little shadow. "She's just following what her big cousin does because to her, LaBreezy is her hero." Brandi laughed when John wondered outloud.

Ugh, John could just hear his husband's smirk when Brooke started talking about the government's control..or lack of it. Great, he already (Y/N) to worry about, now he's got two to deal with. Hopefully, that phase will pass soon.

The teal haired Troll hissed when he felt something tug sharply on his tail. Looking down, he brightened, seeing his youngest, Reed making grabby hands at him, demanding attention. John set his drink down before grabbing the Trolling.

"Reed! Finally up from your nap, little man?" Reed was currently struggling with speech, so he just made some babbling noises, before cuddling in his Papa's arms.

Reed was quite the surprise. John and (Y/N) thought they were done having kids, both of them in their late 30's. But one day, they woke up to Reed's egg sitting snugly in John's head.

Reed was a little miracle egg, and hatched looking like both of his fathers, John's hair, (Y/N)'s nose, but what was unique about the little dude, he had heterochromia. So his right eye was the same blue as John's and the calm (e/c) as (Y/N).

"So, where are you John Dory?" Bruce snapped his older brother out of his thoughts, making him realize his siblings' were looking at him.

"Huh?" John asked dumbly. Clay snickered, "John Dory has left the building, gentlemen." They joked, making the other brothers laugh.

"Ha ha." He chuckled, jumping slightly when he heard Brooke squeal loudly. BroZone looked over to where the little teal trolling watched excitedly as a (s/c) Troll went nacho diving.

Even though, there was salsa and cheese in their eyes, the new Troll got out yelling happily and excitedly. Bruce's children and John's older children crowed around him, chattering away.

Bruce frowned, knowing his kids wanted to copy the mysterious Troll's actions. "Ugh, that is so reckless. Now the kids are going to want to do it, and they'll be all sticky. Have you ever tried to give children in general a bath? Not to mention my kids are giants." He groaned.

John ignored his brothers' as Reed's tail excitedly wagged in his face, pointing towards the crowd.

Laughing, he adjusted the little Troll and stood up. "Okay, okay, we're going." He turned towards his brothers, with a raised brow. "Y'all coiming?"

BroZone scrambled after their brother, watching in shock as the new Troll grinned and rushed to John Dory. John stopped him with his tail, and deadpanned expression. "You are NOT touching us, until you've showered or rinsed off, (Y/N)."

(Y/N) grinned mischievously, turning towards Ash and Brooke, who bore matching grins. "Come on, kids!" "Wait, no!" John yelped when he was suddenly pushed from behind and pulled into the stream.

BroZone watched as (Y/N) held Reed in his arms, with a smug grin on his face. "Well, I rinsed off." He cackled, helping John Dory out of the water, before leaning in and kissing the grumpy Troll.

John smiled into the kiss, and kissed him back.

"Daaaadddddssss!!!!" Ash and Brooke squealed laughed, as John and (Y/N) covered their children's eyes with their tails.

Pulling back, (Y/N) pulled his children into his arms, squeezing tight. "Sorry it took so long for me to get here. This place is a good 3 day ride by caterbus. And I forgot my snacks!!!" (Y/N) whined, ears pointing down, perking up when his children giggled." So when I saw those nachos, I had to dive in and eat something."

John laughed, shaking his head. "Papa, I think our uncles' stopped working.." Ash pointed towards the frozen BroZone where their jaws dropped and stared wide eyed.

"Oh, right! (Y/N), babe, these are my brothers! Spruce, who now goes by Bruce, Clay, Floyd, and Bit-- I mean Branch. Guys, this is my husband, (Y/N)."

"Husband?" asked Clay. They were cool with it, same sex relationships weren't taboo or anything, but Clay was just surprised that John Dory of all people was in one.

"Cool." Floyd smiled.

"Papa?" Bruce whispered, a smile growing on his face.

"(Y/N)?" mumbled Branch, your name sounding familiar.

"Dada!" Reed giggled, tail wrapping around (Y/N)'s forearm.

"Uh-oh."

[colsons-baker]

The Last Supper

Summary - The last time you saw Charlie wasn’t how you would have wanted it to be.

Tags/warnings - mild cussing

A/n - Just a little idea I had. My ask box is open for requests!

“Brandy.” Lois said, placing a paper cup down on the table. “For the shock.”

You looked up at her, but said nothing. What could you say? Brandy would never make this better.

“I’ll be right back.” Lois gave you a small, sad smile before she turned to leave. The door of the room flew shut behind her.

You jumped at the sound of the door slamming, your thoughts disappearing as you rose from the table to see what was the matter. You knew it was only Charlie, he was due home for dinner and everything was ready.

“That bitch!” You heard Charlie exclaim, and saw him throw his leather jacket on the couch as you came round the corner.

“Babe?”

“That fucking bitch!” Charlie looked at you, his arm out pointing at nowhere in particular. “That stupid fucking detective, she’s going to ruin me!”

“Ruin you?” You frowned. “How?”

Charlie shook his head as he breathed out. “Trust me, you don’t want to know…” it wasn’t true anyway, none of it had been. She was going nuts! “You know, I can see how her husband is the way he is when he was saddled with her.”

“Her husband? Babe, nothing made Marshall Tyron the way he is but himself!”

“Yeah well, he’s saying he’s the victim.”

“He would say that…you don’t believe him, do you?” You looked cautiously at him.

“What?” Charlie’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you. “No! No Y/N, I don’t believe him. I’m just saying that I understand why he’s saying the things he is when he’s had to deal with her.”

You folded your arms across your chest. “And how do you know what Marshall Tyron is saying? Hmm?” They hardly knew each other outside of the times Marshall visited Lois in hospital.

Charlie bit the inside of his mouth. “Ed brought him to the club.” He said quietly, looking away.

“The club?” You asked. “The Mexicali Men’s Club?”

Charlie nodded. “I didn’t stay long, I only heard he was going to be there and I was interested. In and out, I didn’t even sit down.”

You shook your head as you looked away from him in anger. “I don’t care if you didn’t even take your jacket off, you said you would stop going there!”

Charlie had become fed up with the Club once he had met you, he loved you too much to see you the way the men in that Club wanted the world to see women. But sometimes he couldn’t help himself, sometimes he was curious.

“You’re better than them!”

Charlie’s head whipped round to face you, the anger building once more. “Am I?” He asked. “And who are you to tell me who or what I am? Hmm?” The last thing he needed was to have Y/N on his case too.

“Charlie, don’t be like that. Come have some dinner, yeah? I made your favourite and I have some news.

Charlie shook his head. “Don’t tell me what to do, Y/N. Maybe Marshall is right about women.” He said as he grabbed his jacket and stormed out.

“Charlie, please, I-“ The door slammed shut.

Y/N was pulled from her last moments with Charlie by the sound of the door. She looked up at Lois, her eyes dazed.

“You haven’t touched your brandy.” The older woman nodded towards the cup. You looked down at it sitting on the metal table.

“I-I shouldn’t be drinking.” You told her, your voice barely above a whisper as you wrapped your arms tighter around your stomach, around the secret that Charlie will never know about.