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dngrs-untld-hrshps-unnmbrd · 1 year ago

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Mating Season

How Halsin’s romance might have played out if we could have had his kisses, adoration, and been totally railed senseless by Oak Daddy from the end of Act I. An ode to Halsin’s hairy chest, big arms, and the vein that I know stands out so thickly on his *muffled horny noises*

After a long and tiring day of fighting off goblins as you search for the Githyanki Crèche, you groan in relief as you sink into the cool waters of the river. Everyone else is back at camp and you’re able to enjoy the currents swirling around your naked body.

You float in the water, thinking about how much your party has grown in the past few weeks. First Shadowheart, Gale, and Astarion, then Lae’zel, Wyll, and Karlach, and finally Halsin, the wildshape druid you rescued from the goblins. He’s a focused member of the group, a valuable healer, and an unstoppable force in battle. You occasionally feel things turning against you in a fight, and then Halsin is there, supporting the group and laying down swathes of flame, lightning and ice. His bear shape never fails to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies.

Around the fire at night, he talks openly about his quest to free the Shadow-Cursed lands, his admiration for the party, and his praise for your leadership. His gentle words about you have your body prickling with awareness of his.

That warm smile of his. His large and clever hands. His deep, gentle voice. Everything about this man makes you tingle all the way down to your toes. Whenever you think his gaze is lingering on your mouth, he murmurs goodnight to you and leaves your side. You watch him go, wishing that instead he would reach out and touch you.

An angry, snarling sound fills the air and you sit up in the water. Not far from you, an enormous bear, grunting and breathing hard, walks heavily down the riverbank. It’s huge, and its muscular body blocking out the setting sun, and from the noises it's making and its attitude, it’s a hair's-breadth from lashing out at anything that moves.

You freeze, not daring even to breathe, hoping with everything you have that the animal will turn around and head back the other way. Instead, it launches itself into the water with an almighty splash.

As it disappears beneath the surface, you notice a faint scar over the bear’s right eye, as if it’s been clawed. You recognize that scar.

Wait, is this--

Golden light flashes. The water seethes. A man stands up where there was a bear just moments ago, water cascading from his body. Halsin, and he must have stripped before he changed into wildshape for now he’s completely naked, standing hip-deep in the water.

He’s partly turned away from you but you can tell his manner is no less worked up than it was in bear form. He swipes his hands angrily through his dripping hair and breathes hard, the muscles of his shoulders and arms clenched in frustration.

Halsin is one of the gentlest-natured men you’ve ever met, most of the time. Like nature, he too can be wild, his eyes flashing and his voice breaking like thunder over you when he’s frustrated or disappointed, such as when he was remonstrating Kagha for the Rite of Thorns. How magnificent he was that day.

But what is he restless for now? He stands in the water, looking around at the forest, gripped with frustration, and when he turns a little more your way you can see that the root of his cock is thickened in a tell-tale manner.

Ah.

That kind of frustration.

You quietly make your way to the edge of the river where a willow tree is trailing in the water, moving as carefully and as quietly as you can. This feels like a private moment you’re intruding on. Even though you don’t mean to spy, it feels like you are. The fronds of the willow provide a little cover for you, and hopefully Halsin will cool off and leave the way he came.

The dice do not roll your way this evening as he approaches you, seeking deeper water. A moment later, your gazes lock, and his eyes widen in surprise.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘I wasn’t spying on you,’ you tell him quickly. ‘I thought you needed some peace, so I was waiting here quietly.’

His eyes run over you, your back pressed against the river bank and cowering amid the willow leaves.

Halsin heaves a regretful sigh. ‘I frightened you, didn’t I? I am sorry. It’s all right, I am myself again.’

He smiles and holds out his hand. It’s a tight smile, like he’s forcing it for you, but you’re no longer worried a bear is about to disembowel you.

You place your cool fingers into his large, hot ones and let him draw you slowly out of your hiding place. The water is deep enough here that your nakedness is covered, and so is his.

You relax as you gaze up at him, enjoying the sensation of Halsin holding your hand. Quietly enjoying the sight of his bare chest and handsome face. You hope he might walk you into the shallows so you can be naked together, but he remains in deep water, sunk in thought.

‘The river is yours. I’ll leave you to enjoy it,’ you murmur, and glance to where you left your clothes.

Halsin’s fingers are still tightly twined through yours beneath the water. He seems to be in a world of his own as he gazes at your mouth, your throat, the droplets of water sliding through your wet hair and down your shoulders. A world that includes you. A world where you’re touching one another.

‘Halsin?’ you ask tentatively. Hopefully. If he wants to move closer and kiss you, that’s more than okay with you. After a long and dusty day, there’s nothing you’d like more than exploring his body in the cool water. That hairy chest of his. His hard muscles. You long to run your tongue over him. Flex your fingers on his biceps. Trace the red tattoo on his cheek.

Halsin comes back into himself with a deep inhale, and he lets go of your hand. ‘Then I’ll see you back at camp.’ He moves away from you through the currents.

As you push the water from your body and dress in your clothes, you search for Halsin in the river, but he’s disappeared around a bend.

***

Later around the campfire, you’re hyper aware of Halsin as you talk with Gale about his home in Baldur’s Gate. Halsin is silent, the campfire flickering over his handsome face. You try not to pay him any more attention than you do the others, but your interest in him has spilled over into blazing attraction.

Your gazes lock and Halsin’s brows are drawn tightly together.

Is he glaring at you?

A moment later he gets to his feet and, unnoticed by the others, slips away into the darkness. Something’s eating at that man and you wish you knew what.

A short time later, you take a bottle down to the river to refill it with water before turning and heading for your bed. As you round the corner of the ruin where you’ve made your camp, you run straight into Halsin.

His eyes widen and they flare with heat and surprise, and then he quickly looks away and moves past you.

‘Have I done something to make you angry with me?’ you call after him.

Halsin stops dead. He stares straight ahead for a moment, and then slowly turns to you, shaking his head. ‘Far from it. I am worked up and frustrated, but not with anger.’

Maybe his frustrations are because of you, and that’s a thought you don’t know what to do with when he keeps avoiding you.

Not knowing what else to say, you tell him, ‘We will free the Shadow-Cursed lands soon. I know we will.’

He breathes out heavily, his expression troubled. ‘I’m not thinking of the Shadow-Curse right now, even though I should be. It is more important than anything I...’ He trails off, but his gaze lingers on your mouth. ‘...want.’

Halsin steps closer, and you feel the heat blazing off his chest. His warmth and bulk are so welcoming and you crave to reach out and touch him. The backs of his fingers caress your hair. The lightest of touches. Then he takes a handful of your hair and dips his head, bringing the strands to his nose.

‘You smell wonderful.’ He heaves a deep sigh, and whispers, ‘Can I hold you for a moment?’

That sounds lovely to you, and you nod.

Halsin wraps an arm around your waist, scoops you against him, and buries his face in your neck. ‘By Silvanus, your scent is sweet,’ he groans. ‘I caught it when we first met, in that foul goblin nest. How it pleased me. Getting to know you these past few weeks has been even sweeter.’

Your hands are plastered against his chest and so is your body. He’s saying everything you hoped to hear. More than you hoped to hear. He has such a beautiful way with words. You turn your head so he can kiss you, but he still refrains.

Taking a ragged breath, he releases you and steps back. ‘I’m sorry. It’s always difficult this time of year.’

You miss his warmth so much that you shiver. ‘What time of year?’

He gazes at you for a long time. ‘You may laugh, but I’ll tell you. It’s bear mating season.’

You don’t laugh, but your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

‘I know--I’m no bear,’ Halsin says with a laugh of his own, ‘but I spend so much time in wildshape that bear instincts tug on my heart and...other parts of me. I return to my own form and unfortunately the needs do not dissipate. In fact, they worsen, because it is not a bear I want. When she comes close to me smelling like spring and honey and warm sunshine I can’t help but crave her.’ A smile glimmers on his lips.

Enough being vague. You want to hear him say it. You step closer and put a hand against his chest. ‘A general someone, or anyone in particular?’

He groans softly and captures your face in his hands. He drinks you in and swipes his thumb across your lips. The gesture is soft, and full of the promise of his kiss.

‘You are someone I admire and I think I could grow to care deeply about,’ he murmurs. ‘I care about you so much already. Any little scratch you receive I want to push Shadowheart out of the way and tend to you myself.’

Your heart soars.

‘But this isn’t how or when I wanted to begin anything with you. I have to walk away.’

Disappointment plummets through you.

He’s still holding your face and his expression is conflicted. It seems he wants to put an end to this for now but can’t bring himself to do it.

‘I can walk away, if that helps?’

His eyes fill with gratitude and longing. ‘Please. That would be a mercy. Know that when the time comes, I will come to you with more than lust in my heart.’

You nod, trailing your fingers down his chest as you step back, but you fail to see what’s wrong with him desiring you. ‘Whatever you need. Of course.’

‘I hope I haven’t offended you.’

You smile gently at him. ‘Your desire is so far from offensive. Please know that I don’t demand more of your attention than you’re willing to give. The Shadow Cursed lands are your priority and I’m...’ How to put this delicately? I’m here for you and you can rail me senseless in between your duties whenever you want to let off steam. That’s what you want to say, but you’re too shy to say it. ‘...Here. Your friend. Always.’

Halsin seems to catch your meaning anyway as his jaw flexes and he nods slowly.

You promised him you would walk away, and you do, and though you give him ample time to allow him to pull you back, the next sound you hear is a clash and a growl, and a flare of golden light. When you glance over your shoulder, a bear is thundering into the woods on all fours.

***

A few days later, you’re returning to camp feeling like you’ve been put through a meat grinder, and your companions haven’t fared much better. Gale is unusually silent and covered in blood. Shadowheart is exhausted and dragging her feet. You’re trying not to limp because she and Halsin have already cast so much healing magic. Something’s wrong with your leg, but you’ll see to it yourself when you’re alone.

The others bid you tired farewells as they head for their tents, but someone catches your arm and holds you back.

‘Oak Father, you’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?’

Halsin is staring at your legs, and you stare with him. Blood is pooling around your foot. Oh, that’s not good.

‘I can tend to it myself after I’ve had some rest--’

Your words are cut off as the massive druid picks you up in his arms and carries you into a crumbling barn. Automatically, you wrap your arms around his neck and lean against the solid bulk of his chest. Halsin lays you down on a pallet and helps you remove your armour, revealing a ragged gash on the top of your thigh. Your clothes have to be cut away until your legs are bare.

Halsin looks exhausted and has dark circles under his eyes. It seems he’s been taking little rest as he roams the forests nightly as a bear. When he reaches for you to lay healing hands on your wound, you place a hand on his wrist.

‘You don’t have to do this right now. I’ll bandage myself up and someone can heal me after they’ve rested.’

Halsin raises challenging eyebrows at you. ‘You believe I don’t have the strength to heal you myself? That I’ll walk away from the most important person in my life and leave her bleeding?’

You moisten your lips, trying not to show how much his words have affected you. The most important person in his life? Suddenly you don’t feel injured at all, and he hasn’t even healed you yet.

‘I have more than enough magic left for this. Now, lay back and let me do my work, and then you can get back to yours.’

You settle back on the pallet and gaze at the cobwebby rafters. Halsin’s hands hover over your thigh, and a warm, delicious feeling spreads through your leg, and then up between your thighs. Your head falls back in relief and pleasure.

Even Halsin makes a surprised noise. ‘That felt...’ He rubs your now-healed high, massaging the last of the tension and pain from your muscles. ‘That felt different. How’s your thigh now?’

You can’t help but moan and arch your back a little at his touch. ‘Good.’ Your voice comes out in a breathy whisper.

‘Just good?’ He strokes his palm over where there was a cut just moments ago.

‘Halsin, please, you make me feel heavenly,’ you whimper. The words pass your lips without thinking. You reach up to take hold of his shoulders so you can pull him down to kiss you, but pull back before you can touch him.

This isn’t what he wants. Your hands clench on the pallet, feeling your core ache with need. As soon as he leaves, you can get yourself off thinking about him.

‘Would you like me to go?’ he asks softly.

‘I never want you to go.’

His hand rests lightly on your leg.

You open your eyes and gaze up at him, and he’s sitting so close to you. ‘But if you stay, you’re going to see me touching myself.’ Then you smile at him, remembering your last conversation. ‘I would love for you to see that. As a friend.’

You want him to see you. You want him to participate.

He smiles and leans down to you, and runs the blade of his nose up your cheek. ‘I can’t think of anything more wonderful after a long, hard day, my dear friend.’

Halsin lays down beside you and props his head against his fist. With gentle fingers, he helps you to drag your underwear down your legs and cast them aside. As your teeth sink into your lower lip, you gently touch yourself, your eyes on his handsome face. Halsin strokes your thighs, your stomach, finds the fastenings on your clothes and loosens them. As he pulls back your bodice, revealing your breasts, he lowers his head to take one of your nipples in his mouth.

You cry out and flex up into him. Heat is gathering within you. You suck on your lower lip and release it. ‘Please--your fingers--I need--’ you manage between pants. You can barely get the words out, but he understands. Halsin drags two fingers through your sex, making them slippery, and then sinks them inside you.

Another loud cry from you. Gods, he feels perfect.

Halsin groans and kisses your throat, murmuring, ‘You’re so tight around me. Have you been as frustrated as I am?’ He pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, slowly at first, and then faster.

Yes you have, the godsdamned stubborn bear of man. He should have pulled you into his arms that day in the river and let you suck all the frustration from his body out through his cock.

‘So frustrated,’ you whimper. ‘Please, that feels so good. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.’

He brushes his lips over yours. ‘I won’t stop. You’re always so beautiful, but like this, all of nature pales in comparison.’

You reach down and lay your hand over his wrist, adoring the tension and flex of his muscles in his arm as he moves inside you. Your fingers keep moving on your clit as you moan and cry out his name, and when you come you dig your nails into his flesh, and press your feet into the ground so he can fuck you even harder with his fingers.

When you fall back exhausted, Halsin sits up and spreads your thighs open, trailing his fingers over your sex and drinking in the sight of you as you catch your breath. ‘Your body is wondrous.’ He leans over and kisses you, his tongue caressing yours. ‘Will you rest well tonight?’

You nod, feeling drunk from his kiss and your climax.

He smiles. ‘Then I’ll rest well too, knowing that you’re sleeping soundly. Thank you for sharing this beautiful moment with me.’

As he sits up, you notice that he’s hard inside his tight pants. Excessively hard. Huge in fact. He shouldn’t be leaving, he should be pulling off his clothes and pounding the living daylights out of you until he also gets the release he needs.

But he’s gone before you can call him back to you. That’s not why he just blew your mind, was it? He healed you, and now he wants you to get some rest. Druid’s orders, apparently.

You smile and roll over, and fall into a doze.

***

The next morning, before anyone has arisen, Halsin finds you coming back from the river. You smile at him, thinking he looks so handsome in the morning light, and you expect him to keep moving past you. Instead, he stops and smiles at you, as if basking in the sight of you is all he wants right now.

‘May I have a kiss?’ you ask hopefully. Perhaps he’s decided not to want anything for himself right now, but he still wants to make you happy.

Without needing to be asked twice, Halsin grasps you around the waist with his large hands and walks you back against the wall, kissing you enthusiastically. ‘I can still smell you on my fingers this morning. I could smell you all night. You are a delight.’

Your lips part for his so he can kiss you even deeper. With your arms around his neck, you revel in the sensation of his mouth on yours.

‘I find you irresistible.’ Another kiss. ‘But we have much to do today.’ Another kiss.

‘We do,’ you say, smiling as he kisses you again.

He gazes down at you for a moment, a slight frown between his brows. ‘If you need more, know that I won’t be offended if you take another lover. Nature intends for us to roam and be free.’

You have considered that, if not someone at camp, then a handsome stranger at a tavern, but you’d only be thinking about Halsin the whole time. ‘And if I don’t want to?’

‘You must do as pleases you,’ he replies, and kisses you again.

You guess that he didn’t tell you this for idle reasons, but to let you know about his own preferences. You reach up and stroke your fingers through his russet hair. ‘I have always wanted my own person, but to roam with them. Share everything with them. I would miss you too much if I was to roam without you.’

He smiles down at you. ‘Us, with others? I would like that, in time. You’re more than enough for me, but I wouldn’t wish for you to be denied anything. Seeing you with another lover, and participating as well...it sounds wonderful.’ Then he steps away from you. ‘But we are getting ahead of ourselves. My thoughts turn to other things for now. But they will turn back to you.’

With a final warm squeeze of your hand, he leaves you, but your heart is lighter than it’s been in a long time.

***

Two nights later, you’re awoken by snarling and roaring in the distance, and you sit bolt upright. It sounds like two large animals are fighting in the woods.

Only Astarion is awake. ‘What a ridiculous racket,’ he mutters with a scowl, before licking his thumb and turning the page of the book he’s reading.

You look over at Halsin’s pallet, knowing it’s going to be empty before you lay eyes on it, but your stomach drops just the same when you see that it is. You scramble to your feet and set off at a run into the darkness.

You follow the roaring and snarling and it doesn’t take long to find two bears fighting with teeth bared and swipes of their claws. You recognise Halsin from the scars over his eye.

What can you do to help him? A spell? A cantrip?

Before you can decide, Halsin swipes the other bear so hard across the snout that it reels back, and then turns and runs away into the woods.

Halsin paces up and down for a moment, and then golden light ripples, nearly blinding you, and when you open your eyes again, he’s striding toward you. His chest is heaving and blood is pouring from scratches and bites across his shoulders and throat. Nothing life threatening, but he’d be in pain if he wasn’t so angry.

‘That bear was looking for a mate, and I wasn’t having it prowling around her when I haven’t even tasted her myself.’

Halsin when he’s feeling himself wouldn’t say something so uncharacteristically possessive. It must be the mating season instincts overriding his natural feelings. ‘That bear wouldn’t have been interested in me.’ Also, you could have tasted me by now if you’d wanted to.

He doesn’t seem to have heard you as he glares into the darkness. Suddenly, he rounds on you. ‘It’s dangerous out here. You shouldn’t have come. Go back to bed.’

You fold your arms and stay where you are. The big alpha bear can throw his weight around, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to jump to obey his commands. ‘Shouldn’t have come? Would you have ignored me if I was being attacked in the woods?’

Halsin takes a deep breath and some of the anger melts from his face. He pushes his hands through his hair and shakes his head. ‘Of course not, I would never abandon you like that. Thank you for coming out here to help me. I promise I’m not ungrateful. I’m all out of sorts because...’ He gestures vaguely at himself and the woods around you both.

You smile at him. ‘I know. It’s mating season.’

You help him pick dirt and gravel out of his cuts before he casts healing magic on himself, but you’re not ready to leave him and go to bed. The river is close by and you take his hand and lead him to the water.

‘Let’s wash the blood and dirt off you.’

At the riverbank, hesitantly you reach for his clothes. He says nothing but he’s watching you with such intensity, and so you find the fastenings and help him out of them. With gentle fingers, he does the same for you. The night air is warm and still. Crickets are chirping and the river makes gentle rushing noises. The two of you are standing so close that you’re breathing each other’s breaths. His massive chest lifts and falls. Your nipples tighten with awareness of him. You don’t want to stare but you can’t help but look at this beautiful man as you undress him.

Halsin helps you out of your underwear, and his cock bumps against your thigh. He’s so hard that he’s standing to attention, his foreskin drawn back, a drop of pre-cum at the tip. Your mouth waters, and you want to run your tongue along the thick vein that stands out on his shaft.

‘Sorry. Ignore me,’ he mutters.

You don’t want to ignore the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen, but you keep your hands to yourself and look up at him. ‘I want to feel flattered. Should I feel flattered?’

‘You know I think you’re wonderful,’ he breathes, caressing your face.

Oh, by all the gods, then fuck me, please.

‘Would you want me even if it wasn’t mating season?’

‘Of course I would, though I’d probably be better at keeping that to myself. You wouldn’t awaken to hear me fighting other bears in the woods, or see me staring at you with longing across the campfire. I’d still feel the same way, but I wouldn’t be so obvious about it. Probably.’

‘Do you mind that mating season makes you feel and act this way?’

He smiles and shakes his head. ‘It is who I am, and another connection I have to nature.’

‘Halsin. For a wildshape druid who believes in going with what’s natural, you’re very stubborn about resisting what your body is telling you it wants.’

A smile curves his lips. ‘You may be right. I’ve told myself that focusing on the Shadow Curse is the right and only thing to do, but...’

Halsin ducks his head and slants his mouth over yours. The kiss is so fierce and sudden, and pleasure takes a swan dive through your body. He wraps his arms around you and gathers you to him.

‘This isn’t how I imagined things between us,’ he murmurs. ‘I intended to come to you after the curse is lifted and declare my feelings for you, and tell you that my unburdened heart is yours.’

‘Please still do that,’ you breathe, planting soft kisses again and again on his mouth. ‘I would love that. But don’t walk away from me now.’

‘You want me, even though my mind is often on things other than you?’

What a romantic Halsin is, wanting to give you his whole heart at once, or nothing at all. ‘Of course I do,’ you tell him, your fingers stroking his bare back. You don’t need that declaration yet. You just need him.

Halsin lifts you in his arms and carries you into the water, gazing into your eyes. The water flows around your bodies as he kisses you and places you on your feet.

He nods at something over your shoulder. ‘I have to taste you. Turn around and put your hands on that rock.’

You do as he asks, standing thighs-deep in the water and bent over with your hands braced against the river bank. Halsin kneels down in the water and cups your ass.

‘So beautiful...’ You feel his tongue run up your sex, and you moan and close your eyes. He’s slow and languorous about it. Not trying to make you come, just tasting you thoroughly and enjoying the sensation of you against his tongue.

Halsin stands up and when you glance over your shoulder you see him gazing at your sex as he strokes you with his fingers and fists his cock slowly up and down.

‘Can I have you, sweet one?’ he asks huskily.

‘Please, gods, yes .’ You’ll go crazy if he holds back a moment longer.

You feel him step closer, and the blunt head of his cock slides against your slippery entrance. He feels alarmingly thick and you take a deep breath and try to relax.

With a muttered oath, he sinks into you. As much of him as he can, anyway. Gods, he’s a lot . You walk your feet apart, trying to accommodate more of him.

‘Too much?’ he asks, hesitating.

You shake your head desperately. ‘Not too much. More, please.’

He fucks you slowly, working himself deeper by delicious increments, while your cries fill the night air along with his ragged breathing. His blunt nails scratch your flesh. He roughly squeezes handfuls of your ass.

You reach down between your legs and touch yourself, and you grow wetter and wetter, allowing him to fuck you in long, smooth strokes. Every single one makes your insides light up. Your orgasm is barrelling down on you surprisingly fast.

‘Please, fuck me hard, I’m going to come,’ you beg him.

Halsin groans and takes your hips in a secure grip and slams into you, over and over, hard, brutal and heavenly thrusts. You push against the rock to hold you steady as a wild, untamable sensation crashes over you, and you cry out loud enough for the whole forest to hear you.

Your head is hanging low and you’re panting as you feel Halsin draw out of you.

‘But you haven’t come,’ you protest, straightening up and turning around. It’s what you want, to see and feel this beautiful man let go.

He takes your hand and helps you out of the river. ‘I’m not done with you yet.’

He lays back on the grass and pulls you astride him so your thighs are straddling him. ‘I want to see you like this as well.’

Hungry for more, you grasp his cock and sink down his length. Halsin groans and his head tips back, and he squeezes both your breasts in his large hands. His throat is so beautiful, and so is his chest. You draw patterns in his chest hair as you move up and down his length.

Weeks of frustration and wanting him haven’t been fulfilled by one climax, and soon you feel another one gathering within you. He watches you with a smile as you desperately moan and pant his name. As your cries reach a crescendo, Halsin plants his feet securely against the ground and pushes sharply up into you, over and over, making you shatter around him even harder than before.

You collapse forward on his chest, weakened and helpless, his cock still lodged deep inside you.

‘That was wonderful,’ you moan, your cheek plastered against his chest. ‘Give me a moment and we can change positions. I’m not stopping until you come.’

He rubs circles on your back. ‘I think I might shift into wildshape if we keep going. I can feel the need getting stronger and stronger.’

‘I don’t mind. Your bear form is pretty sexy.’

He laughs softly, a surprised sound. ‘Really? I’m pleased you think so.’

Even sexier is the way he looks while he’s changing, his body even bulkier and hair sprouting everywhere. ‘Can you change part ways?’

His hand stops moving on your back as he considers this. ‘I can. I think it might be easier for me to maintain that, rather than one or the other.’

Halsin rolls you both over until you’re on your back in the grass and pinned beneath him. With a heavy hand on your inner thigh, he pushes your knees up to your chest and thrusts deeper, and then again.

‘By Silvanus, you feel wonderful,’ he pants.

A ripple goes through his body. His eyes turn fiercely golden. The hair thickens across his chest and spreads over his shoulders and down his arms. His top lip pulls back from his teeth, revealing thick incisors. His cock swells to what feels like twice its size inside you. You gaze at him in wonder. He looks incredible like this.

As he continues to pump his cock into you, you press your hands against his muscular, hairy stomach, struggling to accommodate all of him.

‘I’m hurting you,’ he realises, his voice more growl than words. ‘I can change back.’

‘No, don’t stop. Just slow down for a moment. It’s a good problem to have.’ You reach down to the place where you’re joined and wrap your fingers around his slippery thickness. Gods, that’s wonderful. So is his bulk looming over you and the rich, animal scent of his body. He thrusts carefully, watching you closely, his golden gaze roaming over you.

‘So beautiful, sweet one,’ he rumbles. ‘Are you sure you like me like this?’

‘Yes, oh gods, yes.’

With every thrust, it’s getting easier for him to slide his whole length deep inside you, and pleasure stabs through you every time he bottoms out.

You reach up and cup his furred cheek. ‘I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even sexier like this. How does it feel for you?’

He groans and seems to take courage from your words. ‘Like I’m finally free. No longer fighting what I crave.’ The speed of his thrusts pick up, and he devours you hungrily. ‘You’re so good to me.’

His breathing becomes a throaty snarl. His claws dig lovingly into your thigh. His hips move in a relentless rhythm, long thrusts, and then shorter, urgent ones, and you can tell he’s nearing his peak. You hold onto his shoulders for dear life as his body stiffens and his climax breaks through him, and he throws his head back.

With a groan, he sinks down onto his elbow and buries his face in your throat. As you hold him tight, you feel him shift back to his human form, his skin smooth and damp with perspiration.

Halsin lifts his head and kisses you. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before. Was it all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

You hasten to assure him that he didn’t and it was everything you wanted.

He smiles. ‘How wonderful you are.’

You stroke his sweaty hair back. Neither have I. You’re so beautiful always, and especially seeing you like that, through wildshape eyes.’

He rolls onto his side in the grass and wraps both his arms around you, keeping you tight against his chest. ‘I shouldn’t have been so stubborn. The world feels so much better now I have you in my arms.’

‘How long does mating season last?’ you ask. You hope it’s a long time, and he needs you often.

He laughs, a deep sound reverberating through his chest. ‘It’s every moment I lay eyes on you, sweet one.’

‘I hope that I haven’t distracted you from your duties.’

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. ‘I’m more motivated than ever.’

You lay like that together in the grass until Halsin feels your cooling body shiver.

He helps you to your feet and draws you into his arms for one last, tender kiss. Cradling your face in his hands, he murmurs, ‘You are the person I admire most in the world. I feel honoured by every moment I spend by your side.’ He kisses you again. ‘Know that I can’t wait until I’m able to tell you that my whole heart is yours.’

Thank you so much for reading. Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think! Or tell me how the Halsin brainrot is affecting you while playing BG3. I have just about no braincells left by now. Only Daddy Bear remains.

#baldur's gate 3 #halsin #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #baldur’s gate 3 spoilers #fanfiction #female reader

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with-my-calamitous-love · 1 month ago

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LEAVE THE WARMEST BED I’VE EVER KNOWN

katsuki bakugou x reader

on a cold winter night, you gain news that your ex boyfriend and pro-hero dynamight has returned from a work trip out of the country. coincidentally, he’s calling your phone right now.

part 1/2

inspired by ‘tis the damn season

everything you learned about katsuki while he was away was against your will.

following in all might’s footsteps, and right after one messy, icy breakup, katsuki left to do hero work in the united states. if you wanted to know who he was hanging with, what girls he was supposedly kissing, or who he was replacing you with, you could have asked. seeing his life in footnotes, on instagram stories and through headlines was the kind of cold that fogged up windshield glass.

theres a lingering ache in your heart, put there by the ache in katsuki’s.

your breakup felt inevitable, more than anything. circumstances, timing, stress… one second, he’s loving you. the next, he’s telling you he needs to think things through. and right after that, he’s on a plane to los angeles with kirishima.

it was almost nice, not having to see him at the agency or anywhere else. you wouldn’t be tempted to call his phone, since the international bill would only break your heart more. you couldn’t go to his apartment because it’d be empty- if you’re not counting the phantoms of lost love.

the 2 weeks he was gone felt like an eternity on your end. you blamed the time zones, though you knew they weren’t capable of freezing time and making your heart ache more each minute.

and with the first snowfall of the season, katsuki bakugou lands back in his home country.

he thanks the attendants in his private jet, shoving his already warm hand into his pockets as he steps out into the brisk air. its colder than he remembered, as if the world felt the same loneliness he was experiencing.

its 10pm, and the snow is glistening against the moonlight like a mirrorball. the sky is blanketed by clouds, a pink hue washing over katsuki as he steps out of the airport and into the night.

he stares at his contacts for a second. he intends on calling an uber.

but either his thumb slipped, or he missed you too much to care about the cold pricking his fingertips. each could be true.

you’re in the process of turning up your heater when your phone lights up through the dark. fingers peeking out the sleeve of your sweater grasp the device, nearly dropping it to the floor when you see who’s trying to reach you.

as if on instinct, your thumb hovers over the green button, before ultimately letting it go to voice mail.

after a hot shower to drown out the chill, you find him calling again. this time, you sit on the edge of your bed, finally resigning to pick up.

you don’t say anything first, wanting to hear him first. maybe you had to make sure this wasn’t some twisted dream.

“…hey babe.” katsuki says, his gruff voice lingering with a soreness in his throat that can only come from prolonged exposure to the cold. that, paired witb the familiar nickname despite the circumstances, makes you clutch your phone.

“hey, kats.” you say, shifting on your bed to get comfortable. after all, any emotional night with katsuki bakugo was destined to be long.

“when did you land?” you ask, fiddling with your fingers. you hope he doesn’t hear the trepidation in your voice.

“an hour ago.” he says, stifling a sniffle like a child would. you almost laugh, knowing him too well. he wasn’t the kind of guy you could forget easily.

“i just needed to hear your voice.” he admits, more to himself than to you. crimson eyes watch the way the snowflakes fall to the ground, dancing around in the wind. he remembers how much you love snowflakes. how you’d always try to catch them on your tongue, and how stupid he thought it was. the things he’d give to go back to that.

the uncharacteristic vulnerability in his voice makes your eyes water. it was something about the cold that brought out the aches in people. like holidays that linger like bad perfume, you both could run from the hurt before getting lost in the snow. you escaped into your warm apartment, away from the world, while katsuki escaped into crowds of adoring fans away from home.

whats funny is that both of you remember how the other left.

the cold air pricks at katsuki’s fingers while he waits for a response. he almost thinks the connections gone out, when in truth, your holding back tears.

with a shaky sigh, you speak. “lets… call it even, then.” you whisper, but he’s captivated by your words like a firework show. “i wanted to hear you, too.”

the breath of relief katsuki lets out can be seen in the cold, night air.

there was about 100 thrown out letters you wished you could send him. you could vomit words onto paper, send them out into the winter air and let the wind deliver your confessions to him.

and honestly, he wants you to. more than anything, he wants to sleep in with you, pull the blankets over that shield you from the cold just for old time sake. and if you don’t want him to stay this time, then he won’t ask you to wait.

if this doesn’t work out, he’ll go back to LA. he’ll let his so called fans write books and stories about him, about his heroism and his nobility without knowing how much his heart hurts on the inside. they’ll wonder about the only soul who knows what that hurt feels like. the only soul who knows all the smiles he’s faking: you.

he hopes that he only breaks his own heart, wanting to spare you from it. if he could, he’d leave you the warmest bed you’ve ever known. he’d call you babe for the weekend, and love you warm against the winter chill.

if somewhere, in his heart, katsuki’s love for you despite the breakup remained the same, then it was the same for you, too. if its okay with you, its okay with him. you could call it even. you’re missing his smile, and you want him to hear you out.

you might have to, with what he’s about to say next.

“…i’m outside, babe.”

part 2 soon 🫧

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listen-to-the-inner-walrus · 1 year ago

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im rewatching disasters at sea because hi one of my special interests is shipwrecks, and i forgot that one of the episodes includes the phrase

high seas hit and run

#kai rambles #special interest #disasters at sea #shipwrecks #idk how to tag this #its a fun show it you ever want to watch it #theres currently 3 seasons each with 6 epusodes and every episode is on youtube #they do recreations and their effects do not look like they were made in windows movie maker #and theyre very fair and respectful of those who died and their family members #snd they really do give them their moments to talk about their lost loved ones #and some of them have just amazing stories of survival #its a good show #you also get to meet emergency divers from the coast guard and some from the navy and like putting the military bullshit aside #these guys are genuinely heroes #like they jump into below freezing temperatures with waves as high as like 40feet so they can get to people who need rescuing #they do actually risk their lives to save people #also the show goes over what went wrong in this case and what regulations and laws have been changed and put in place since then #to make sure it never happens again #as a brit idk much about the coast guard and idk if its part of the military in america #but they genuinely seem to be very good at their jobs and very much care about saving as many lives as they can #and they seem very very thorough in their investigations rather than just pinning it on someone and going home #obviously this show could be giving me a false picture of it #but somehow a show called disasters at sea does make me feel a little less convinced that i will never get on a boat heading into the ocean #still never doing it though

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moondirti · 6 months ago

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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood.

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge.

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself.

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank.

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.)

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb.

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch.

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form.

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat.

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep.

Only sleep does not come.

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands.

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper.

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click.

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree.

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold.

“Ghost?”

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels.

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side.

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.”

“I’m c-cold.”

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.”

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision.

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality.

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.)

“What are you–you doing?”

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off.

He does not.

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter.

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion.

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard.

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised.

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms.

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes.

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm.

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up.

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.”

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this.

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.”

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths.

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.”

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could?

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers.

“Let me go.”

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.”

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again.

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse.

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.”

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips.

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two.

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source.

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat.

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you.

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?”

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–”

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?”

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.”

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.”

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.”

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit.

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.”

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.”

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt.

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog.

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good.

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner.

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then.

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency.

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his.

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks.

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk.

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft.

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits.

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service.

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue.

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce.

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises.

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure.

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response.

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return.

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise.

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.”

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough.

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside.

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox.

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils.

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer.

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form.

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn.

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting.

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin.

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor.

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink.

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else.

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat.

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.”

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here.

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off.

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence.

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet.

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.”

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that.

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.”

“I don’t–”

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.”

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.”

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead.

And he does. He does.

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums.

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.”

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation.

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word.

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens.

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.”

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery.

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself.

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma.

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten.

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.”

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.”

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it.

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker.

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void.

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end.

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you.

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet.

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds.

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.”

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor.

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

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slttygeto · 17 days ago

Text

Oh no, it's Ghostface! HANMA S.

Synopsis: When you ask your boyfriend what he wants for his birthday, he tells you that it's a secret. How is it his birthday but you're the one getting surprised? You don't question his intentions and proceed with your day at work. Little did you know the kind of tricks Hanma had up his sleeve.

word count: 3,7k

pairing: hanma x fem! reader

content warning: dark content, slightly cnc (read at your own risk), slight breath play, gvn k!nk, fear play, rough oral sex (m! receiving), lots of drool, a bit of mindbreak?

The sound of heels clicking on the floor fills the hallway as you approach your apartment door. It had been a long, exhausting day, yet a smile still manages to find its way onto your face as you remember the date. October has never been your favorite month, you can’t exactly pinpoint the reason why but you’re always filled with sadness as the colder season approaches.

Probably seasonal depression, who knows?

Inserting the key, you push the door open nothing but darkness greets you. It’s rare for the apartment to be engulfed in such suffocating gloom, especially knowing that your boyfriend preferred a dimly lit space. Still, you brush it off, proceeding to remove your knee high boots and place them on the shoe rack.

“Shuji?” you call out for your boyfriend, eyes trying to make out any details but it’s difficult. So you reach for the switch and flip it. Still nothing.

Did the power go out?

It’s a pretty expensive apartment complex, you highly doubt that the power goes out and Hanma does nothing about it. So you try again, and again and–still nothing but darkness.

“Shuuu,” you drag the first syllable of his name on your tongue, grabbing your phone to turn on the flashlight. Since it was his birthday, you had half expected him to stay home, but then again he was Kisaki’s right hand and it wasn’t rare for him to receive phone calls from the shorter man asking him to take care of something for him.

However, your body feels a little tense. Your shared apartment with your boyfriend was rather spacious, and there were many spots you disliked walking by during the night because of how hidden they were. You proceed down the hallway with your phone’s flashlight illuminating the path in front of you, sighing deeply when you notice that all of the rooms’ doors were closed and none of the curtains had been opened all day.

You’re about to point your flashlight towards your bedroom door when you hear something to your left and freeze.

No way. There was no way for it to be Hanma. His shoes were gone, so were his car keys–but this area had a lot of security and no one would be able to walk in unless they had special access to the main lobby. There were no signs of forced entry and every single window was closed–your brain is running a thousand miles a second, and you’re too busy trying to make sense of the noise that you had just heard to react fast. Before you could point your flashlight properly towards that one corner, you swipe your thumb across your screen and click on ‘contacts’.

Suddenly, you’re pinned to the wall with such force that it knocks the wind out of your chest and a gloved hand covers your mouth in an attempt to muffle the scream that rips out of you. You’re dizzy–you’re breathing fast and trying to make sense of what’s happening around you. With teary eyes, you look up and your heart drops in your stomach. A shiny, terrifying ghostface mask is right in front of you and whoever’s wearing it is breathing hard. They notice your trembling lip, the tears coating your lash line and tilt their head to the side.

Trembling, you think they haven’t noticed the phone in your hand despite the flashlight being the only source of light. Your thumb messily swipes across the screen and finds Shuji’s contact at the top of the list. Press call.

The sound of a familiar ring tone fills the apartment, your eyebrows furrow in both confusion and fear. Was he here? Maybe he was hurt and needed your help and–

But the longer the phone rang, the deeper it sank that the sound was way close to you. Way too close.

Your breath hitches as you watch the tall masked man reach into his left pocket. A gloved hand grabs the familiar phone and your name appears on the screen. Before picking up the phone, he pushes your hand up until you’re forced to press the device to your ear and you watch as he mirrors your actions.

“So, you got a boyfriend?” The unmistakable, chilling voice sends shivers down your spine. You recognize the unsettling calmness to it and all your body can do is melt against the wall as your knees buckle. But the tall man isn’t having any of it, and he pins you even harder against the wall. His gloved hand goes from your mouth down to your neck, and the grip is all too familiar that you can’t help but let out a strangled moan.

Despite the fear gripping your bones, you part your quivering lips to reply.

“Why… Do you want to ask me out on a date?” Your voice comes out small and unsteady, and you sniffle, desperately blinking back tears. A low chuckle escapes the man’s lips as he feels your harsh swallow beneath the grip of his hand.

“Maybe… Do you have a boyfriend?”

Before you could even manage a reply, you feel him push his knee between your thighs and a loud gasp escapes your lips. “I–”

“Do you?” The emphasis in his voice combined with his knee rubbing against your clothed pussy leaves you breathless. You can’t give a proper reply, not with your head tipped back in pleasure and your hips bucking up when he grazes your aching clit. Sensing that you were enjoying yourself, your boyfriend pulls away his knee and you’re immediately whining at the loss.

“Shuji–” you can’t see his face or what kind of expression is behind the mask, but you would hope that your desperation moves something in him. However, you forget that your boyfriend is a ruthless criminal, someone with years of expertise in physical and psychological torture. And he makes sure to put it to good use.

A pained moan escapes you when you’re being roughly pushed off the wall, only for your chest and cheek to get pinned to the cold, hard surface. Your phone falls to the ground and Hanma grabs both of your wrists, pinning them behind your back. You feel powerless as he pushes up the brown leather skirt you were wearing, hissing when he sees that you were wearing the smallest pair of underwear beneath.

“Did ya prepare for this, doll? Knew I was gonna fuck ya senseless the moment you walked in–” he momentarily breaks character, forgetting the role he’s supposed to be playing and you feel your heart and pussy swell. Being able to distract a man like Hanma was something you took pride in. You instinctively push back against him, brushing your ass against his crotch and hear yet another loud hiss from the man.

“Fucking slut.” The plastic part of the mask feels chilling and unsettlingly hard against your ear as filth spews out of his mouth. Muffled and low, the sound of his voice alone is enough to have your mind reeling at all the things he will say.

“Answer me.” You don’t expect something hard to press against your clothed pussy so soon, your jaw drops at the cold feeling as you struggle to get away from it.

“Shuji!” you cry out for the man, but to no avail.

“Shuji,” he says in a mocking tone, pressing the item harder against your pussy as he grabs your wrists in place. “How fucking pathetic, you’ve already gone dumb just from something rubbing against your pussy?” His voice drips with dark amusement. Hanma knows how to have fun with you, sex with him is never boring simply because the way that his brain works was fascinating–but you had always wondered if you could get a glimpse of a darker side of him.

However, up until today, he always rejected the idea. Primarily due to the fact that you were his girlfriend, someone whom he cherished with all of his cold and sheltered heart and a person whom he liked to keep away from his business. To the world, he is Hanma–a ruthless killer with a criminal background that could paralyze anyone with fear but to you, he was Shuji. Your sweet, loving boyfriend.

Your loving boyfriend who always fucked you when he came back from a mission with blood painting his face, your sweet and doting boyfriend who let you ride his face because you found him so hot when there were a few cuts and bruises there. You suggest that he integrates his dangerous side during sex and he refuses, but the idea lingers at the forefront of his mind the longer he remembers the pout sitting on your lips and how eager you seemed with everything.

So, the first step was to buy a ghostface mask.

And the second was to fuck you while he wears it.

“Yes,” you answer, barely catching your breath. “I-I prepared.”

“Oh yeah?” you can hear the smirk in his voice. “You wanted me to fuck you?”

“It’s y-your birthday,” your breath hitches when the cold material presses harder against your clit, and Hanma watches as you subconsciously move back and forth against it with a wide grin.

“Fucking hell, look at you. Do you know what you’re fucking yourself on, slut?”

You whimper, a sign of confusion and Hanma offers an amused chuckle before pressing the mask against your ear.

“My gun.”

He sees your eyes widening and laughs loudly when you don’t pull away or flinch. Instead, you move your hips back and forth–slow and sloppy, face burning with shame. This had been a fantasy of yours–you’re starting to believe that Hanma has wanted to do this just as much as you did.

“Didn’t know you wanted it this bad,” he’s obviously caught off guard by how needy you are, but it doesn’t stop him from pressing harder and nudging your clit in ways that have your eyes roll to the back of your head. He watches as shame leaves your body and it’s replaced by pure lust as you chase your high. You’re panting, eyes screwed shut and lips parted to let out the sweetest moans.

“Yeah just like that–” you can feel his hard on pressing against your backside, but you’re far too distracted to care. “Use my gun to get off. Good girl–my pretty slut.”

Pleasure courses through your veins like hot lava, it blinds you momentarily and shuts down your brain as you desperately chase your orgasm. You’re certain that the sentences you were blabbering made no sense, you could hear Hanma speaking to you and could make out that he was mocking you by saying “Oh yeah?” “Oh baby, poor you.” but none of it mattered when you were so close to your release. Your thighs tremble, your voice a pitch higher and there’s drool dripping down the side of your mouth. The knot in your stomach feels hot and tightens with each desperate grind against the gun. You’re about to cum, you’re so fucking close–

A pained cry leaves your lips when Hanma pulls the gun away, heartless and cold.

“Why?! Why–” you sob before flinching when he lets go of your wrists to spank you harshly.

“Are you fucking questioning me?” He grips your hair harshly, pulling your head back and craning your neck at an uncomfortable angle. “You don’t fucking deserve to cum.”

“But–but Shuji–” still gripping your hair, Hanma pushes you down until you’re on your knees and you instinctively turn around until you’re eye level with his crotch. Eager and blinded with lust, your hands reach for his belt and start to unbuckle it but Hanma grips your hair tighter and you gasp at the pain.

“Didn’t say you could touch it yet, did I?” Now that you were on your knees for him, Hanma could confidently say that this was the hottest sight ever. Your makeup was smudged, mascara running down your cheeks and your eyes were blown out with lust. He should’ve done it sooner.

“Please,” you lean forward, chin resting on his hard on and your hands rest on his ass. “Please,” you drag your nose against the fabric of his pants, before pressing a gentle kiss to his clothed dick. “I can make you feel good, Mr. Ghostface.”

Hanma lets out a muffled “fuck,” before pushing your face against his dick and you take it as a sign to get to work. You make quick work of his belt and pants before pulling down his boxers and watch as his cock springs free. You don’t waste a single second before wrapping your hand around the shaft, gripping it enough to have the man’s breath hitching. His cock was a work of art, and you always found yourself enjoying oral sex with Hanma mainly because you enjoyed having his cock in your mouth. So you kiss the balls, dragging your tongue along the shaft and don’t give the man a warning before letting your mouth engulf the tip. It’s a small move, but it makes the masked man grip your hair tightly and the silence is now replaced by the much anticipated dirty talk.

“Fuck, do I love when you use your mouth like that,” he sounds so fucked out, drowning in pleasure that you can’t help but let out a moan yourself. The vibrations send shivers down Shuji’s spine and he is quick to remind you to take the whole thing.

“Suck.” Within a few moments, there is spit and drool everywhere. Your hand strokes the parts you can’t reach, and you pull away to spit on the tip whenever you can before bobbing your head up and down on his cock. Hanma, however, is still not satisfied.

“You’re gonna take the whole thing.” Your eyes widen at his statement, and you pull away to complain.

“But Shuji–” your heart stops when you feel something cold press against your forehead.

“Come on, doll.” You look up at him with furrowed eyebrows and through teary lashes. “Don’t look away.”

Your hands tremble as they settle on his thighs for support and you’re glad he doesn’t ask you to put them behind your back. Inhaling deeply, you look up at the man as you start to swallow his dick–inch after inch, the deeper he goes, the harder it is to keep your eyes open or stop yourself from gagging. And when you do and try to pull away, Hanma pushes the gun against your forehead. Finally, you manage to fit all of him down your throat and you’re proud to hear the muffled groan that leaves Hanma’s lips. You could’ve sworn that you saw his knees buckle as well, but you can’t afford to focus on anything else with his cock down your throat.

“Good fucking girl, oh fuuuuck,” he lets out a laugh when you pull away to breathe, coughing and trying to catch your breath before grabbing his cock again. “Oh yeah, someone’s desp–fuck, desperate.” you hum in response, taking him down your throat before repeating the same movement over and over again. Until Hanma’s hips buck into your face and he presses your nose against his pubic hair. You cough and gag, drool spilling down your jaw. You’re smacking his thigh, reminding him that you needed air but to no avail. He watches as your eyes roll to the back of your head and you swear dark dots are starting to form. You were going to pass out, you can’t breathe–

It’s not until your fingers aren’t digging into the skin of his thighs that Hanma lets go of you. He watches as you fall to the ground, a hand to your chest as you try to catch your breath and messily wipe the drool on your chin.

“Up.” He speaks, and your body responds to his command as if it were second nature. You feel dizzy, and the longer Shuji wears the mask, the more difficult it is to remember who’s behind the mask. A gloved hand grabs your jaw, pulling you close until the lips of the mask are brushing against your own.

“Tell me,” he says lowly, his other hand traveling down to grab your ass. “How much do you want me to fuck you?”

“So-so much,” you admit, broken. You can no longer think straight or try to mask the lust. Your body craves Hanma like the moon needs the stars, you’ve never been teased like this–so heartlessly, without being able to look into his golden eyes for comfort and a way to ground yourself. There was no reminder that it was your boyfriend, the one who gives you the softest smiles and whose eyes meet yours when you’re about to cum. Behind this mask was a different man, and you were starting to lose your grip on reality.

The gloved hand goes from your jaw to your cheek, and you let out a small noise when you feel him wiping something.

Tears.

Hanma is well aware of his sick and twisted desires, but watching you cry is on another level. It makes his cock twitch and his heart beats loudly against his ribcage.

“Beg me.”

“Please.” You ask, desperately.

“Again.”

“Please fuck me–please, Shuj–please.” You start to blabber, lips quivering and fat tears streaming down your face. Hanma finally breaks.

You’re caught off guard as he throws you over his shoulder, letting out a startled squeak when he forcefully pushes the door open to your shared bedroom. He doesn’t give you time to get used to your surroundings as throws you on the bed before grabbing you by the ankles and pulling you down to the edge of the bed. It’s still dark in the apartment, and Hanma doesn’t have enough time to turn the power back on, so he reaches for the curtains and pulls them open so that the only source of light was the street lamp outside.

He approaches the bed again, hurried and impatient to fuck you stupid. Before he can reach for your panties, your hand goes to his ghostface mask and he doesn’t have it in him to stop you from taking it off of him.

Finally, you can see his face. He was all sweaty, flushed cheeks and a few hair strands sticking to his forehead not to mention–his pupils were blown out with lust. This was your Shuji, your boyfriend–the ghostface mask was hot, but you preferred this side of your boyfriend. You waste no time to bring him closer to you, crashing your lips against his in a messy, tongues dancing and spit swapping kiss. It’s anything but romantic, your bodies consumed with an animalistic kind of lust for one another. Instead of taking off your panties, Hanma rips them off of your body and muffles your complaining noises with his lips once again.

“I’ll buy you new ones.” Is all he says before pushing your knees open. Your pussy is glistening with arousal, all puffy and swollen from not being touched enough and Hanma leans down to spit on it and give your clit a wet kiss.

“Fuck–” your close your eyes at the feeling, suddenly growing aware of all of the layers on your body that needed to come off. But you didn’t have time for that, and neither did Hanma. So, he pushes up your turtleneck shirt and watches as your boobs spill out. Holding the fabric, your boyfriend proceeds to push your knees to your chest line up the tip of his cock with your entrance.

He lets himself in, slowly and taking in the way your jaw goes slack and how your eyes roll to the back of your head. You had been craving this, you were practically begging for his cock and watching you unravel just from him pressing inside made it nearly impossible for Hanma to hold back.

“Come here,” he leans down to kiss your lips, sloppy and wet as he starts to move his hips. His cock slides in and out of your tight pussy, leaving creamy rings at the base that has Hanma cursing under his breath. Meanwhile, your head is thrown back and you don’t seem to notice or feel anything but the way that his cock felt against your warm walls.

“Thought of giving me the best birthday gift–fuck, you are my birthday gift,” the tall man starts to blabber, clearly lost in the pleasure and in the feeling of your tight pussy. “This pussy is the best gift I could’ve asked for–” he bites down on your bottom lip, finally getting you to whine in response. Your hands grip his shoulders when he starts to pick up his pace, eyes widening when his tip starts to press against that one spot.

“Yes right there–oh fuck, right there!”

“I got you.” your legs are thrown over his shoulder and a hand wraps around your neck as he maintains his pace, hips remaining in the same angle that has you seeing stars. It’s not until you’re cumming around his cock, crying and shaking, that Hanma can finally lose himself and fuck you hard. He fucks you until you’re crying for him to slow down, watching as the creamy ring that forms at the base is smeared all over his pubic hair and your hand is pushing at his stomach.

“I can’t–I can’t–”

“Take it,” he says through gritted teeth. “Fucking pussy is milking me dry–holy shit.” he curses as he buries his face in your neck, feeling you squeeze around him as you orgasm again. The feeling of your tight pussy along with your nails digging into his back has the man shooting his cum inside after a couple of strokes.

You both lay there in silence for a couple of minutes, trying to catch your breath and party because Hanma knows you need this skin on skin moment. This wasn’t a moment where he could wipe you down, kiss you goodnight and go to sleep–he needed to be present.

“You okay, pretty girl?”

“Hold me,” hearing the desperation in your voice, Hanma lowers your legs and brings you closer to him. He kisses your cheeks, forehead and then your nose. There are tears in your eyes still, but the eye contact with him helps ground you. The love and warmth in them remind you that it’s him, your boyfriend and not Ghostface who had fucked your face senseless.

“Happy birthday, Shu,” you say as you grab his face and the tall man can’t help but chuckle.

“Happy birthday to me.”

2024 © all works belong to slttygeto. do not repost my work anywhere else.

#happyyyy shuji day and halloween!!!#moon's works #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers smut #hanma smut #hanma x reader #hanma shuji #hanma shuji x reader #hanma shuji smut #hanma shuuji x reader #hanma x yn #hanma x you #hanma shuji x you #tr smut #tr x reader #tr hanma

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luna0713hunter · 8 months ago

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Its something well known that Sukuna doesn't get cold.

It doesn't matter what season it is;the man can go on with only a t-shirt in the freaking snow. (He's done that btw.)

But as the two of you walk side by side in the cold windy weather,you wrap your arms around yourself and let out a sneeze. When Sukuna gives you a raised brow,you give him a cold glare, hoping to make him freeze as well.

"you cold?"

You shiver and pull the hood of your hoodie on your head.

"well,yeah! can't you feel how cold it fucking is?!"

Sukuna just shrugs and looks up to the gray sky.

"its not that cold. Just a breeze."

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU! EVERYONE'S FREEZING!" you then sniffle pathetically, regretting your offer to get some fresh air with your boyfriend, "sometimes i think you're the devil. With how hot you always are."

At that, Sukuna gives you a smug grin to which you slap his hard bicep.

"not like that!"

"I'm touched, princess." Then just as you're about to suggest to go back home,you watch him shrug his overcoat and drop it around your shoulders. He doesn't give you time to complain when he's wrapping his strong arm around you;pulling you in his warm side. You immediately feel much warmer and snuggle to his side with a happy grin. You flutter your lashes up at him and your smile widens when you see a dust of pink,almost the same color of his hair, across his high cheekbones .

"thank you,babe." You give his cheek a loving kiss, "I'll make it up to you when we get home."

Sukuna hums,but his arm tightens around you more.

"how about we head home then? I'll make sure to warm you up in bed."

You only laugh with flushed cheeks and nod your head.

"sounds perfect."

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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wandasaura · 9 months ago

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THE ONE YOU REACHED FOR

summary — after you decide to be a brat as a means to get natasha’s attention, she punishes you, though wanda thinks she’s entirely too soft

warning(s) — married wandanat, dom/sub relationship, bratting, punishment, grinding, humiliation, spanking, orgasm control, daddy kink, minor choking, strap-on usage, degrading, praise, oh so much reassurance, aftercare, wanda being a menace, reader being a menace right back, essentially enemies to lovers but reader’s stubborn, men/minors dni

authors note — this series was inspired by gold rush on ao3! i highly recommend checking it out! that being said, i may have gotten carried away with this dynamic but i absolutely adore wandanat and the budding relationship between wanda and r (even if r is too stubborn to see it yet), apart of the you are in love universe

you are in love universe

♥️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰💌꒱ ♡ ･ mommy maximoff ✧

Natasha’s office was cold. Your legs and arms were adorned in a layer of goosebumps that even a night in the Antarctic would envy, but she made no indication that she even noticed your violent shivering. You were just thankful she hadn’t made you face the wall, at least now you could watch as she sifted through emails and excel word documents with ease. Your nose scrunched in disgust when you caught sight of a particularly grueling math equation, but she had tackled it with grace, something she did frequently. Nothing could rattle her composure, not even your brattiness on the hottest summer day New Jersey had seen all season.

You heard Wanda’s footsteps before you saw her, but there was no doubt in your mind that the auburn-haired Sokovian was the one coming up the stairs. Nobody else had a key to the house, nobody save from you and well, you were already inside. The Maximoff’s were a high profile couple. Even before you’d gotten into a relationship with Natasha had you known of their existence. It was hard not to know of them, their multi-billion dollar law firm was at the top of its game and every celebrity and major corporation wanted them on their side. You’d want them on your side too if it ever came down to it, but thankfully you’d managed to stay out of trouble. Legally at least.

You saw Wanda before Natasha did, though you knew the scarlet-haired woman had heard her office door squeak on its hinges when she entered. Your cheeks flushed pink when Wanda’s eyes met yours and she raised a questioning brow at your predicament. She didn’t address you, no she completely ignored you in favor of sparking up conversation with her wife, the woman you had initially sought attention from.

“What’s she doing here?” Wanda questioned smoothly, her perfectly manicured hands finding their rightful place on Natasha’s shoulders, working out a knot near the nape of her neck. You huffed your annoyance, watching them with narrowed eyes as you pulled your arms closer around your torso and tried to keep warm. Initially, the cold had been comforting. It was blisteringly hot outside, and when you’d entered your cheeks had been flush from the sun, but now you wished Natasha would turn down the air conditioning or at least take pity on your chattering teeth and throw you the hoodie that laid unused on the couch beside her.

“Wanted attention. She almost had it too.” Natasha shrugged, turning her head just enough to meet Wanda’s waiting lips. Their kiss was sweet, nothing short of marital, but it made your belly burn with envy as you watched Wanda get what you wanted.

“She’s freezing, Nat.” Wanda rolled her eyes softly, having noticed the slightest tint of blue that adorned your usually very pink lips. She reached for the hoodie on the couch, chucking it over to you despite her wife’s protests. That was all the attention you received before she was back to being entirely occupied with her wife. “How long has she been in the corner?”

“Mm, bought half an hour.” Natasha mused only half interested in the conversation Wanda was attempting to have, her fingers already back to typing frantically on the noisy keyboard. Typically, you loved the sound of her typing. It was fast paced and soothing, but now you wanted nothing more than to throw the keyboard across the room and demand she never touched it again. You were in no position to be making such demands, but still you let yourself imagine the satisfaction of the action.

You slipped the hoodie over your head, smoothing down your wild hair the second your hands had slipped past the tight cuffs at the bottom of the sleeves. The article was warm and well worn, though all you really cared to notice was how it smelled distinctly of citrus and calm. You could identify the softest note of coconut and maybe mandarin, and your brows furrowed. Natasha wore vanilla. She never ventured into anything fruity, claiming she herself was fruity enough to spare the general public of smelling it too. That meant the hoodie had to be Wanda’s, and while irrational, you felt like it burned your skin by just touching you.

“What’d she do? Bite too hard?” Wanda teased, not even glancing in your direction despite you being the topic of conversation. It was utterly humiliating, but you’ve learned to expect nothing less when Wanda’s around. The woman has a real knack for getting under your skin, intentional or not. “You should really train your pet better.”

“I’m not a pet.” You huffed out, crossing your arms over your chest defiantly, but your outburst was ignored by both women. If you didn’t know superpowers were just a thing of fiction, you would’ve believed that you’d become invisible.

Natasha laughed at Wanda’s assumption, though she shook her head in response. “I asked her to give me five minutes. All the money I give her, you’d think she would’ve gotten herself a watch. Needy little thing couldn’t even last three before she was crawling into my lap and trying to undress me.”

“You're answering Pepper’s emails.” Wanda laughed amusedly, completely bypassing Natasha’s summary of events, not at all surprised by your unwillingness to be patient. Patience seemed to be your biggest undoing, even after seven months of being taught the importance of it. “She’ll have a heart attack. It hasn’t sat in your inbox for at least two weeks yet.”

You couldn’t see Natasha’s face, but you could imagine her rolling her eyes. After almost a year of being under contract with the lawyer, you’d come to know her mannerisms like the back of your hand. This type of back and forth wasn’t new to you, but it’s the first time you’d been forced to watch without any kind of attention yourself. To say you hated it was an understatement.

“Did I tell you that you could leave that corner?” Natasha growled, not even having to look over her shoulder to know that you were starting to migrate toward them. Your footsteps were light, perfectly inaudible, but as well as you knew her, she knew you even better.

“I want you!” You whined rather petulantly, not caring how you came across, not caring that you’d probably just earned yourself at least twenty spanks for not only talking back to her but for leaving your post before you’d been given permission. You’d played this game too many times before. Wanda had seen you play this game too many times. But still, you never learned how to make things easy for yourself.

“Did I tell you that you could leave that corner?” Natasha all but growled, still not turning around to give you even a sliver of attention. Your usual soft and attentive dominant was uncharacteristically cruel today, and you couldn’t help but think that maybe you were toeing a little too close to the line

“No.” You answered meekly, digging your naked toes into the hardwood floors beneath your feet. Shame flooded your senses, a desperate need to be good coming over you and she hadn’t even touched you yet. “Please Daddy. I don’t wanna stand in the corner anymore. It’s cold!”

“I swear, Nat. You need to do something about her attitude.” Wanda remarked, her eyes focused on her perfectly manicured fingers as she poked and pushed at her cuticles, entirely uninterested in your predicament.

“Yeah? And what would you suggest?” Natasha scoffed rather uninterestedly, switching through her tabs until she’d gotten back to her excel spreadsheet and transferred whatever finances she’d been focusing on for the last hour.

“Oh, I’d break her.” Wanda snorted, highly amused that Natasha thought you’d be able to handle whatever punishment she would have dished out for your disobedience. “That little girl doesn’t want to know what I’d do to her.”

Your insides burned at Wanda’s implication, and you couldn’t decipher if it was your burning hatred for her and her constant need to appear smug and all powerful, or if it was your desperate curiosity to take her up on that challenge that sparked such feeling in your belly. Whatever it was, it only added to the growing need between your thighs.

“Daddy.” You whined, shuffling on your feet as you contemplated going completely against her and approaching her lap with a pleading gaze, or retreating back to the corner until she deemed you sorry enough to leave it. “Please.”

“You’ve got a brat to tame, Romanoff.” Wanda mused, pressing one last kiss to Natasha’s cheek before she took up space on the two-person couch pressed up against the wall and just beneath the tightly closed and locked window.

“We both know that’s your forte.” Natasha scoffed, huffing out a laugh as she returned her attention to whatever problem Pepper was emailing her about. After seven months, you’d become well versed in the names and job descriptions of most of their employees, and you knew that if Pepper was emailing Natasha for anything at all, that it was important. A pit formed in your belly thinking about how you couldn’t even wait five minutes before taking her attention into your own hands. Clearly you’d interrupted something important.

“Daddy!” You pleaded, tears brimming your eyes as your guilt and desperate need consumed you. You weren’t sure which feeling was the cause for your tears, probably both, but you were at your breaking point and her silent game was only working to undo you faster than you could tolerate it. “Please.” You cried out weakly, nervously chewing on the string of the hoodie, not caring if Wanda would be repulsed by the action, nor if you ruined her hoodie because of it.

“Out of your mouth.” The Sokovian redhead demanded, not harshly, but not kindly either. You hadn’t even realized her eyes had been watching your movements, but your cheeks burned at the reprimand and the string of the hoodie, now damp from your tongue and teeth, dropped back to where it had previously been hanging. You hated giving her the satisfaction of your obedience, but your brain was too overwhelmed to be anything but compliant.

Your nails took the place of the hoodie’s string, already bitten down to the bone as a result of your crippling anxiety and desire to fidget with anything and everything. Natasha had been attempting to break that nasty habit, but she wasn’t around nearly enough for her efforts to be consistent. You saw her a handful of times a week, some days for the sole purpose of engaging in kink, sometimes just because she liked to know you as a person just as much as she liked to know you as her submissive, but there were weeks where she was needed on business and the best you’d get was a measly phone call and text messages. If you weren’t contractually binded, and had met by chance, you would have no hesitation about considering her a friend, though you liked much more to call her your daddy.

“Come here, baby.” Natasha demanded, pushing away from her desk and swiveling on the chair until her eyes met yours. You’d half expected Wanda to reprimand her for being too soft with you, but it seemed even the Sokovian could tell that you’d passed the point of being bratty and were now drowning in your own thoughts. There was a fine line between punishment and neglect, and even if the lawyer thought you were in need of serious correction, she’d be cruel to even consider leaving you in this state.

You approached Natasha hurriedly, sinking into her lap without hesitation. Your arms looped around her neck tightly, almost challenging her to even attempt to break your grip and send you back to the corner. “Don’t like bein’ ignored.” You sniffled, digging your face into her shoulder, hiding away from Wanda’s heavy gaze and the shame of your previous actions.

“Neither does Daddy.” Natasha stated matter of factly, only adding to the shame that was bubbling over in your belly. Her head rested heavily on the back of your head, allowing you to stay hidden as you attempted to keep yourself together. “Don’t think I’ve gotten about your snarky comment toward Wanda either, or how you deliberately disobeyed me when you took it upon yourself to leave the corner.”

You already knew where she was going with this line of conversation, and you whined pleadingly into her neck, desperate to just avoid another round of punishment in favor of being satisfied. Your hips rocked against hers, your fingers curling into her hair the way you know she likes, tugging gently when you weren’t immediately rewarded with a soft moan. Your bout of regret having clearly been forgotten about as you resumed the bratty tactics that had gotten you into the predicament in the first place.

A sharp sting spread up your thigh in seconds, the sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing around the otherwise quiet office. You gasped in shock, pulling your face away from her neck to look deep into her eyes and search for forgiveness, but all you found was annoyance. You huffed, knowing that you were too far in to back down now, and so tauntingly, you resumed the act of rocking your hips into hers, not lost on the fact that she had a strap confined beneath her business slacks.

“Is it the red one I like, Daddy?” You asked coyly, letting your hand drop from where it was wrapped around her shoulders and teasingly venture down between the valley of her breasts until you came to the bulge in her pants. You squeezed experimentally, rewarded with her breathy moan when the hilt of the harness pressed against her clit, confirmation that she was at least half as worked up as you.

“Have I taught you nothing, Natalia?” Wanda growled, watching the scene unfold before her. You’d almost forgotten she was even in the room, and daringly your eyes snapped to hers. Wanda didn’t fold beneath your heavy glare, merely matching your stare with disinterest in her eyes. Natasha would’ve met your glare. She would’ve narrowed her eyes and silently dared you to keep up with that attitude, but Wanda acted like you weren’t shooting daggers through her. “If you do not want me to come over there and handle you myself, you will fix your attitude, brat.” The slight rasp in Wanda’s tone was undeniably a turn on, but you wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she had gotten to you. Instead, you stuck your tongue out at her, unsure of how else you were meant to defy her wishes.

Before Wanda could get off the couch, a tick in her jaw at your blatant defiance, Natasha’s fingers were twisting into your hair and tugging your attention back to her. Your glare softened immediately, and sweetly, you placed a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

“Do I need to remind you of our rules?” She warned, and you huffed in defeat, wringing your hands together in your lap as you shook your head. “Then you will drop your attitude and apologize to Wanda.”

“I didn’t even do anything, Daddy!” You groaned, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

Clearly that wasn’t the response Natasha was looking for, because in only a matter of seconds you were being hauled off her lap but a handful of your hair and forced to bend over the edge of the desk she’d been occupying for the last hour. “What is rule number six?” She growled in your ear, her hot and heavy breath only adding to the goosebumps that adorned your skin. You’d almost forgotten about them at this point, entirely warmed by her body being so close to yours and the hoodie over your shoulders, but now the memory of them was back and your teeth chattered in response.

A heavy hand met your denim covered ass cheek and your whined, back arching upward in an attempt to dodge her next hit. “What is rule number six?” She asked through gritted teeth, forcing you back into position the way she liked.

“I will show respect to Daddy and her friends.” You huffed, “But Wanda’s not your friend! She’s your wife! That’s not in the rules!”

“She is my wife, that’s right. That means you should not only show her respect, but worship the ground she walks on, not be a disobedient brat.” Natasha seethed, landing another harsh spank to the softest spot of your thigh, not caring that you’re particularly sensitive there, nor that you let out a sharp cry of pain that was in no way mixed with pleasure in response. You’d always hated when she spanked the back of your thighs. It was one of your only limitations when you’d been filling out the contract. It wasn’t a hard no, she never would’ve struck you there if it was, but it was something you’d requested be done sparingly, and clearly you’d worked her up enough to earn yourself one.

“M’kay.” You sniffled, burying your face in your folded arms, not wanting to even spare Wanda a glance. You were absolutely certain there was a smug smile on her lips as she watched you finally be dealt with, but something told you this was the bottom of the barrel when it came to punishments she was capable of.

“How many spanks do you get when you break a rule?” Natasha asked lowly, her left hand still tangled into your hair, and she pulled sharply, forcing your back to arch in her direction, not allowing you the dignity to hide away.

“Ten.” You cried out weakly, trying to alleviate the sting in your scalp as you followed your hand. You’d always been flexible, years of sports and training had assured that, but not even that could completely help you in this situation as she pulled back farther and farther until you stopped struggling in her grip and just admitted defeat. You could safeword if you needed to. Punishments were not an exception to your comfort, but you trusted her to not push your limits, and shamefully, you knew that you needed this. You’d feel too guilty to cope if she completely forwent punishment.

“And how many rules have you broken?” She asked, the softest tinge of her accent bleeding into her words as she let herself completely surrender to her dominant headspace. You always loved when you worked her up to this point, but you hated that this time it was a result of your bratty actions that had done it.

“Um, I don’t know.” You sniffled, but clearly that wasn’t the right answer as she tugged at your hair again, ignoring your sharp cry and the twitch of your fingers as you held onto the edge of the desk.

“What are the rules?” Natasha asked, only slackening her grip the slightest bit. It helped with the sting in your scalp, but it wasn’t completely gone yet.

“I will tell Daddy what I need and what makes me uncomfortable. I will drink at least one bottle of water a day. I will show respect to Daddy and her friends. I will not touch myself without permission. I will not cum without permission. I will use my safeword if I need to. I deserve aftercare.” You rattled off the list with a practiced ease, having practically had the rules engraved in your mind since the very first week of the arrangement.

“Did you tell me that you were feeling anxious being left in that corner?” Natasha’s voice was soft, her grip in your hair gentle and comforting. She let you rest against her chest, your punishment temporarily forgotten as she walked you through the reason behind the awaiting spanking.

Even Wanda had softened in the corner of the room, looking at you with a gleam of something indistinguishable in her eyes. You hated the sight of it, but you couldn’t look away with Natasha’s hand in your hair, so instead you opted to close your eyes, and Natasha allowed you to. Talking about your anxiety was not your favorite pastime, and it was typically avoided whenever Wanda or anyone else was around, but it seems today you wouldn’t get that courtesy. You knew you could safeword, you knew you could ask for Wanda to step out during this conversation at the very least, but as much as you don’t like her, you thought she deserved some kind of explanation for your earlier actions when you’d found comfort in destroying her hoodie. She had to have some idea by now. Natasha offered you too much reassurance for it to have gone completely unnoticed. You’d rather her have the answers then speculate.

“No, Daddy.” You whispered shamefully. “I-I was okay until Wanda said you were answering Pepper. I didn’t like you ignoring me, but I wasn’t anxious.”

“What made you anxious?” Natasha asked calmly, fully loosening her grip on your hair, instead settling for scratching softly at your scalp and letting you melt fully into her, her unoccupied arm wrapping around your torso and keeping you close. You’d never had a dominant prior to Natasha. You’d tested the waters with previous partners sure, but you’d never actively pursued it in the way that you were now. Natasha’s dominance over you didn’t stop once you left the bedroom, and unlike your previous flings, she always tried to understand your triggers so she could avoid them in the future, both sexually and domestically.

“Pepper only emails you when it’s important. I couldn’t be good for five minutes and I interrupted you when you were busy. After I barged in unannounced. I felt– I feel bad.” You whispered softly, dropping your chin to your chest, desperately craving her touch and correction. Nothing would calm the raging storm of guilt in your belly until she punished you. You wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself until you knew that she did, and words weren’t enough.

“Pepper does email me for important things most times, but she was only asking about the colors of the banquet, milyy. If it was important, I would have told you that.” Natasha gently informs, and your shoulders deflate in relief. You hadn’t even realized you’d been so tense, but with the promise that you hadn’t entirely disrupted her, you could relax. “Why didn’t you safeword? You know that if you start to feel anxious, no matter what, I expect you to safeword.”

“I thought I deserved to feel bad for interrupting you and being bad.” You muttered shyly, acutely aware of how Wanda’s breath caught in her throat at your explanation. You hadn’t ever shown this side of yourself to her. It was always Natasha alone who had the misfortune of catching you in an episode of panic.

“You are not bad. You are never bad. I do not want to hear you say that again, do you understand, detka?” Natasha asked sternly, and you merely shrugged.

“I was mean to Wanda, and I interrupted you, and I didn’t listen. That’s three rules. Please Daddy.” Natasha knew you needed her to spank you. You needed to clear your head, and you needed her to help you, but she wouldn’t relent until she heard you repeat her words.

“In a second, milyy.” She assured you gently, her hand leaving your hair entirely in favor of spinning you around in her arms and tilting your chin upward until you had no choice but to look her in the eye. “I want you to tell me that you are not bad.”

“I’m not bad.” You didn’t believe it. She knew you didn’t believe it, but for right now, she let it go. A soft kiss was placed on the tip of your nose, a sweet action that you had made clear you adored. Unlike the giggles it usually provoked, you merely smiled weakly and leaned into her touch.

“You’re getting thirty spanks. We’ll see if you deserve my strap after that.” Natasha nodded, content for the moment. She spun you back around, making quick word of the button and zipper on your denim shorts. Your cheeks flushed red, remembering the specific choice of underwear you’d chosen that morning. Baby pink flowers adorned your ass, and the somewhat frilly elastic edges were a gentle shade of green that would make Natasha’s eyes pop if she held it up to her face.

You felt entirely exposed knowing that Wanda was witnessing this and seeing your less than sexy underwear, but it wasn’t the first time she’s seen you be bent over a surface in her house. You remembered vividly the last time she had watched Natasha spank you. It had been after a long day in the office, and Wanda had come home to find you bent over the arm of the couch. She made a joke that Natasha intended to christen every piece of furniture in the house, and while it hadn’t been funny to you, Natasha had laughed loudly and freely in response.

“You will count after each one. If you mess up, we’re starting over. Do you understand?” She asked, pressing down on your back and assuring that you understood where you were meant to remain for the duration of your spanking. You were on your tippy toes, the top of your thighs pressing into the edge of her desk, but you didn’t have the right to complain about the uncomfortable position, so you merely nodded your head and braced for the first hit.

It came seconds later, powerful and unforgiving on your left asscheek. You felt the flesh bounce in response, and the string that was left behind was so sinfully pleasant that you ground your teeth together and choked out a harsh, “One, Daddy.”

The second hit was delivered all the same, left in the same exact spot with a practiced precision. Leave it to Natasha to have good enough hand-eye contact to be able to leave a handprint on your ass so vividly you’d see it leftover for days. The third hit came to your right asscheek, and a gush of arousal further dampened your already saturated panties. The flowers beneath your sopping entrance were undoubtedly a dark shade of pink by now, and you could only imagine what the sight looked like to her.

The fourth and fifth spank came directly after one another, and you counted them off rather breathlessly as her hand gently massaged your stinging flesh until it was nothing more than a pleasant ache. Your eyes were pinched shut, your breathing was shallow, but you craved the next hit, and when it didn’t come, you whined in protest and pushed your ass out toward her hips.

“Begging for me to spank you. How pathetic.” Natasha taunted, though she didn’t disappoint, and the next spank came quickly after, directed toward the center of your ass.

By sixteen, there were tears in your eyes and a desperate pulse in your clit, but you hadn’t miscounted nor forgotten about numbers entirely, and Natasha was beaming with pride. “Good girl.” She cooed, her fingers trailing over your panties until she came upon the wet patch between the apex of your thighs. “So fucking wet. Does it turn you on when Daddy spanks your ass?”

Natasha knows that it does. You’ve asked for enough spankings in the last seven months to prove that fact to her, but she still finds a way to humiliate you every time you find yourself bent over as punishment. There is a very thin line between a maintenance spanking and a punishment, but you know that by time you reach the thirtieth spank you’ll have crossed the threshold of pleasurable pain. “Y-Yes. Daddy please. Please.”

“What do you want, detka? Use your words. You had no problem using them earlier when you wanted to mouth off with my wife.” All the while her hand was still buried between your thighs, avoided your clit with skilled ease, and it was slowly driving you insane. Her index finger pushed against your entrance overtop of your panties, not enough to provide any semblance of pleasure, but still enough to make your knees tremble beneath your awkwardly supported weight.

“Spank me. Please, Daddy, spank me!” You sobbed, attempting to reach for the edge of the desk in a weak attempt to ground yourself in the moment, but with your half-floating position, you found that it was just out of reach and you cried out in frustration as you settled for digging your blunt fingernails into her desk instead.

You hadn’t noticed Wanda approaching you, too lost in the pleasure of Natasha’s fingers on your cunt and the delicious sting in your ass, but you felt her nonetheless. Her hands, so soft and warm compared to the freezing temperature of the office, found a place on your lower back that was still covered by the thick material of her sweatshirt.

“Shh, dorogoy.” She soothed you gently, a stark contrast to her typical cold and sharp tone. You didn’t have any fight left in you to care about her close proximity to you, and desperately you scrounged about until your hand found hers and squeezed tightly. It was at that moment that Natasha resumed her prior actions, and a harsh and sharp spank landed on your left asscheck.

“Seventeen, Daddy!” You cried out, squeezing Wanda’s hand tightly. You were beginning to regret breaking so many rules. You were still thirteen spanks away from being forgiven, and that pleasurable pain that you found comfort in was turning bitter the harsher she was with you. You needed this, both of you knew that, but that never made it any easier to swallow in the moment. Tomorrow, you’d think twice before sitting down for meals or tasks, you’d fondly poke at your sore ass and giggle at the dull ache that brought a sense of comfort and security over you, but for right now, it was torture, especially when you were so desperate for release.

Her hits only seemed to get harsher and stronger as you got closer to thirty, but Wanda didn’t pull away even for a second and every so often Natasha would whisper praises in your ear that made your insides turn to mush. You were lost in your head, mindlessly counting out numbers with no real acknowledgement for what they meant, just desperate to please her. It was only when you reached number twenty five that Natasha switched up her tactics and paused for a moment, taking the time to undress you fully and surrender your body to the harsh cold of her office.

You whined when your pebbled nipples met the cold surface of her desk, already sensitive without the stimulating chilled surface. You squirmed for only a second before Natasha reprimanded you for trying to find a comfortable position, stilling immediately in fear of her adding more spanks or taking away your right to feel her cock in your pussy as a reward. This was a punishment, you would take it how she gave it unless you absolutely couldn’t.

“Five more.” She promised, leaving a soft kiss in the middle of your back. “I want you to tell me you’re not bad after each one, is that understood?”

When you didn’t answer, entirely lost in the blissful beginning of subspace, Wanda gently captured your attention, showing you a glimpse of her softer side. A side you would see more of if you didn’t try to get under her skin each and every time she was around. “Daddy asked you a question, milyy. She expects an answer.”

Breathing out shakily, you nodded your head. “Understood, Daddy.”

“Good girl.” Natasha hummed, but that was the last offer of praise you were given before her hand clapped against the skin of your thigh and you whined and keened in response, trying to wiggle away from her harsh hits.

“No, Daddy!” You sobbed, your hand desperately fighting against Wanda’s hold. She let you go instantly, and you didn’t hesitate to reach down and rub at the sore spot she left with a deep pout on your lips. “Ow!” You whined, tears slipping past your eyes and dampening your cheeks as your shoulders trembled.

“Shh.” Natasha and Wanda cooed in sync, and if you weren’t so spaced out you would’ve rolled your eyes at their alikeness. “I know it hurts, milyy. I know you don’t like it, but this is important to Daddy. It’s important to me that you know you’re not bad. Only four more. You’re being such a good girl. My best girl. Making Daddy so proud, taking your punishment so good. Let Wanda hold your hand, and it’ll be over soon. Then you’ll get me cock. Okay?” Natasha gently fussed over your state of upset, the pads of her thumbs wiping the tears off of your face. You leaned into her gentle touch, savoring it before you nodded weakly.

The next hit came just as harsh as the first, but you’d been expecting it at the very least, and hadn’t had such a violent reaction. Wanda praised you through the entire ordeal, not even considering reprimanding you when your voice grew hoarse and you barely remembered to echo the words Natasha had asked you to repeat. She got the hint that this was one of your softer limits, so she settled for talking you through it rather than demanding you show her partner some respect. She felt so full of warmth as she watched you take the last three spanks with minimal complaints, knowing the level of trust it took to allow a dominant to use a weakness against you, even if it wasn’t in any way ill intended.

“No more, Daddy! No more. Please.” You sobbed when the last hit came, your thighs a gentle shade of pink that Natasha would have fussed over had she not been entirely too committed to making sure you were okay. Your thighs were slick with arousal, your clit pulsed with need, and she had every intention of making it better once she got you to calm down.

“No more. You did so good for me, detka. My good girl. Daddy’s so proud of you.” She cooed gently, pulling you up off the desk and into her waiting arms. You melted against her chest, pliant and putty in her hands as she gently massaged your stinging ass, careful to leave your thighs alone for the time being.

“I’m sorry.” You sobbed, fisting her shirt in your trembling fists, suddenly very aware of how clothed she and Wanda were in comparison to you. Even your pink and green panties had been discarded on the floor in a pile, the scent of your arousal heavy and thick in the air.

“All’s forgiven, milyy. You’re okay.” She reassured, peppering tiny kisses into the crown of your head before she pulled away completely and eased you back onto her desk, this time allowing you to rest on your back in a comfortable position. Her skilled fingers dipped between your dripping folds, collecting your wetness that awaited and begged for her touch. “You’re so wet. Is this all for me?” She teased gently, bringing her fingers up toward her mouth. Her tongue darted out to sweep against the digits, and she moaned in delight at the taste of you. It had been entirely too long since she’d gotten to properly devour you, but that would have to wait until a later date. She didn’t have the heart to leave you hanging any longer then she already had, especially not when you’d been such a good girl for her.

“Please.” You begged, your hooded eyes tracing her movements as she sucked her fingers clean and let them leave her mouth with an audible pop as she abruptly broke the suction. “Please, I want your cock. I’ve been good! Please Daddy, I want you inside of me!”

“You’ve been so good, little one. The best girl.” Natasha affirmed, already working on the button of her business pants. You watched her intently, not paying Wanda the slightest bit of attention though you should’ve known better than that. When you were distracted with the sight of Wanda, the Sokovian woman to your right had taken it upon yourself to work you up even further, clearly not yet satisfied with the length of time you’d had to wait to get to this very moment.

Her fingers found your nipple in only a matter of seconds, and you gasped out in a mixture of shock and pain when she pinched and pulled at your sensitive buds cynically. You arched up into her touch, not sure if you wanted more of it or none of it, and your eyes fluttered closed. Wanda didn’t like that your attention was no longer on Natasha, and she made that clear when she twisted your left nipple harshly. “Eyes open. Your Daddy may have forgiven you, but I’ve yet to get an apology.”

Your eyes snapped open at her words, frantically searching for Natasha as you refocused on her half undressed body. Her black pants were on in a heap on the floor residing beside your own pile of clothes, but her shit was still buttoned over her chest, wrinkled from your tight grip and somewhat disheveled from how aggressively she’d pulled you flush against her at the beginning of your punishment.

Your lips parted in lust when you caught sight of the red strap-on between her thighs. She hadn’t confirmed your suspicions before, but now it was undeniable that throughout this entire ordeal, she’d been packing your favorite toy between her thick and strong thighs. A needy whine left your lips when Wanda harshly slapped at your tits, the soft mounds of flesh bouncing as a result of her hits.

“I don’t think you deserve to be fucked by your favorite toy after mouthing off to me, but you’re Daddy’s too kind to go get a different one. You should thank her.” She hadn’t said you didn’t deserve to be fucked at all, but something about the idea of Natasha switching to a smaller strap seemed like a worse punishment then being left high and dry all together, and feverishly you thanked her for her generosity, not wanting to risk the chance of Wanda’s words actually packing a punch.

Gently, Natasha guided the tip of the strap into your entrance, letting you get accustomed to the stretch before she completely bottomed out inside of you. She’d only gotten the red strap recently, three weeks ago after a business trip to LA, and while you adored it and took it like a champ every time she pulled it out, it was significantly girthier than any of the other ones that resided in her and Wanda’s collection. She didn’t want to hurt you, no matter how many times you told her to be rough.

“Move. Daddy, move please! Fuck me!” You begged, writhing beneath Wanda’s hot hands as she kept up with her ministations on your sensitive and aching nipples.

“You want me to move, pretty girl? You want me to fuck this needy cunt?” Natasha’s thumb found your clit easily, and she rubbed harsh circles along your sensitive bundle of nerves the way she knew you liked it, perfectly content with the knowledge that you wouldn’t last a full five minutes if she kept up the way she was. She was close herself. The strap had been rubbing against her clit since she’d put it on that morning, not knowing you’d show up, but anticipating it anyways. She really did know you like the back of her hand.

“Please! Please! Please Daddy, I want it! I need it!” You babbled needily, uncaring for how you came across to Wanda. You arched into the touch of the Sokovian, you desperately leaned into the strap, your body attempting to stretch in multiple directions as you chased after all of the sensations the two married women were providing your already overstimulated body.

Natasha didn’t need to hear you beg anymore. She set a brutal pace as she snapped her hips, rocking the dildo into your pussy and simultaneously chasing the pressure it put on her clit. She toyed with your clit in unwavering determination to see you fall apart, her eyes pinched shut as she chased after her own pleasure and provided you with yours. Your incoherent babbling was like music to her ears as she pulled your thighs further apart and thrust deeper into your pussy, hammering your sensitive and tight walls with a punishing pace.

“G-Gonna cum! Daddy! Please! Please! I want to c-cum! Please!” You pleaded and writhed, thankful that Wanda had eased off your nipples and you could now focus fully on the sensations that spread through your body from the way Natasha worked your cunt.

“Is that how you ask?” Wanda teased, her hot hand laying softly on your neck. She didn’t squeeze, she wouldn’t without your explicit permission, which she didn’t have, but just the thought of her choking you like Natasha did had your mind reeling and the desperation growing. “Ask nicely.”

“Please can I cum Daddy? Please!” You sobbed, feeling the coil ready to snap with or without Natasha’s explicit permission. You so desperately wanted to be good, wanted to prove yourself not only to her but to Wanda, who seemed to question if you even knew the definition of obedience, but you couldn’t stave off your orgasm for much longer. You’d been desperate for her touch all day, and now that you finally had it the way that you wanted it, it was almost impossible to deny yourself that release.

“Cum for me, baby. Cum all over my cock. Daddy’s gonna cum with you.” Natasha grunted in a manner that was so hot you nearly lost your mind. With Wanda’s hand still loosely around your neck and Natasha’s quick thrust and skilled fingers working you over, you fell over the edge and into a blinding orgasm that had tears falling from your eyes. That blissful taste of subspace that you’d been experiencing since spank seventeen took over in full force, and with the resolution of your climax, you surrendered to the fuzzy feeling in your mind.

Natasha kissed you gently, her tongue still tasting like your arousal from when she’d licked her fingers clean, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the taste of you on her lips. Your eyes fluttered closed when she stilled her hips and subsequently the dildo, drinking in every physical reminder of her touch like you were scared she’d vanish completely if you didn’t appreciate it.

When she started to pull out, wanting to rid herself of the harness after wearing it for so many hours, you whined in response, desperately pulling her closer to you. The strap-on rubbed against your sensitive walls in a way that was unpleasant at best, and you mourned the loss of the full feeling inside of you before it was even really gone.

“Not today, detka.” Natasha knew what you wanted. She knew how you liked to keep her strap buried inside of you for as long as she allowed after a session like this, but she couldn’t ignore her own discomfort for any longer, even if it meant bringing tears to your eyes. “Shh, it’s okay. Daddy’s still here.” She reassured softly, peppering kisses all over your face as she softly pulled the dildo out of you. You winced when your pussy squelched, a reminder of the wetness that still clung to your lower lips and thighs, but both women soothed your embarrassment with praises and reassurance.

“Clean yourself up.” Wanda nodded toward her wife, already managing to detangle your limbs from Natasha’s and exchange them for her own. It wasn’t the first time she’d assisted during aftercare, but it was the first time you’d been so far gone during it. She knew Natasha though, and the weight of the scene would surely dawn on her in only a handful of minutes now that she wasn’t being fuelled by adrenaline, and when that happened, when the crash came, Wanda knew that the Russian would want to be cleaned up and warm. “I’ll bring her to our bed. You need to focus on you for a couple of minutes.”

“Go with Wanda, baby.” Natasha didn’t argue with her wife, pressing a short kiss to both of your heads before she helped Wanda get a hold of you and cradle you to her chest. You had barely even recognized the shift, too sleepy and blissed out to realize that you were being carried away from Natasha and toward the warm master bedroom down the hall.

Wanda was gentle with you, and despite your hesitance to accept her help when you were in a fully sound headspace, you leaned into her now, craving more of her touch. Your glassy eyes searched for hers as she laid you gently in the center of the bed, already missing the warmth that she provided. You whined in protest, but Wanda only shushed you gently and stalked off toward the en-suite bathroom. You knew this routine well, but you were not at all fond of it.

A soft cry left your lips when you realized that you were all alone in their bed, and while their perfume lingered on the pillows and blankets, mixing together to create the most perfect and calming scent, it wasn’t as fulfilling as actually having them with you. The faucet running in the bathroom caught your attention, and just as you attempted to scramble off of the bed and follow the sound, Wanda’s voice had you stopping in your tracks and sinking into the plethora of pillows that surrounded you.

“Stay there, little one. I’ll be there in just a second.” She called out quietly, though her voice was laced with dominance that you couldn’t ignore. You whined pleadingly, looking between the open en-suite door and the hallway, desperate for either her or Natasha to come back and hold you. “Natty will be back soon. She’s probably getting you some water and a snack. You were such a good girl for her, malysh.”

“Good.” The word felt heavy on your tongue, but by some miracle you had managed to get it passed your lips. Your head was so fuzzy and void of any thoughts, but Wanda still praised your efforts.

When she came back into very, her hair was pinned up by a claw clip that you had seen Natasha wear a handful of times. You never really knew whose things were whose because the women shared everything so interchangeably, but despite your iffy relationship with Wanda, you thought it suited her well.

You were entirely too desperate for physical touch to care about who you sought it from (although secretly you were more than okay with it being Wanda who held you), and when her weight caused the mattress to dip as she joined you on the bed, you practically attacked her with your naked body. Her laughter was like music to your ears as she gently guided you into a lying position, shushing your complaints with a sweet and soft look in her green eyes.

“Such a good girl.” She cooed, dragging the damp washcloth up your inner thighs and over your sticky folds. You whined at the coldness of the rag and the rough material on your sensitive skin, but you made no attempt to wiggle away from it. “I know it’s cold, you’re being so good letting me clean you up. Do you hear that? That’s Natty.” Wanda smiled, effectively distracting you with the sounds of footsteps coming back up the stairs and toward the very room that you occupied.

“Daddy!” You whined, reaching for her the second you saw her in the doorway. As Wanda had promised, she had two bottles of water tucked beneath her arm and a sliced apple on a plate in her hands. She wore a gentle smile, her features no longer saturated in commanding dominance, much like Wanda’s weren’t either, though both women were highly aware of how you’d listen to their every command even without the practiced smolders they gave you.

“Just Natty, baby girl. It’s just Natty. We’re not playing right now, we’re all done.” She cooed gently, setting the plate of apples on the nightstand closest to the door before she reached out to take you into her arms. One bottle of water was passed to Wanda, who opened it thankfully and took a small sip, melting into the pillows against the headboard as she watched her wife fawn over you the way you deserve.

“Natty.” You whispered, preening as her hand found your hair and gently worked out any knots that had formed from when she grabbed you harshly. You melted into her touch, your forehead resting against her clothed stomach, though you took note of the fact that she was no longer wearing her business professional blouse, but rather an old t-shirt from her college years.

“Take a sip for me, baby love.” Natasha coaxed gently, unscrewing the lid on your own bottle of water and holding it up to your lips expectantly. You drank it up greedily, finishing half the bottle before she pulled it away and set it down on the nightstand. “Good girl. You’re such a good girl. Are you going to safeword when you need to next time?” She asked softly, needing to hear your answer for her own peace of mind. The fog in your head had cleared up slightly, and you nodded apologetically.

“It was a bad day.” You whispered softly, knowing that it was no excuse but wanting to give her some context. “I forgot I had an exam in logistics, so when I showed up to class I was completely blindsided. Came here straight after ‘cause I just wanted you and I thought I was okay, then when I thought that I had interrupted something important I just got overwhelmed and didn’t wanna… I don’t even know. Didn’t know how to ask for what I needed. M’sorry. Won't happen again.” You rambled out your apology, pleading with her to understand and forgive you, even though you knew that she already had.

“It makes me feel bad when you don’t safeword, but it’s forgiven. All is forgiven, malen’kiy.” Natasha promised, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose that was still pink from the flush of your orgasm. Unlike the last time she’d rewarded you with the action, you giggled in response and leaned in closer silently begging her to do it again.

“Are you gonna mouth off to Wanda again?” Natasha teased, her fingers digging into your ribcage as you sat perched on the edge of the bed and looked up at her with wide innocent eyes.

Despite your sore ass and thighs, you shrugged, a mischievous glint in your eyes that no amount of punishment could completely get rid of. “Probably.” You giggled, though there was something undeniably different about your feelings toward the lawyer now. You were too exhausted to figure out what had changed though, and so you left it to be a problem for another day.

Wanda, thoroughly amused with your shameless answer, gently chuckled a pillow in your direction and narrowed her eyes when you turned around to look at her. “Oi, little one. This is still my bed you’re getting all cozy in.”

You merely laughed, falling forward into Natasha’s arms, entirely content with spending the rest of your day wrapped up in her.

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thenameswinterfics · 1 month ago

Text

SCIAMACHY

Fandom: House of the Dragon Pairing: Cregan Stark x DragonDreamer!Reader Settings: Season 2 and post season 2 Summary: As the second child of King Viserys Targaryen and Queen Aemma Arryn, your father arranged your marriage to the young Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark, in the guise of an arranged marriage that would strengthen the bond between your Houses. But you are haunted by visions of a bloody war shaking the Seven Kingdoms, and the seeds of your doubt are sown when your sister's claim to the throne is challenged. Word Count: 4,4 K Warnings: Angst, mention of death, mention of grief, mention of character(s) death(s), mention of child loss, mention of sibling loss, major spoilers from the book "Fire and Blood" (if you're only following the show please do not read this fic). A/N: I'm back! (sadly for you) This is my very first fic I've written for the HOTD fandom and the very first fic of Cregan. I'm nervous, maybe even more than when I posted my first Sihtric fic, probably because the fandom is vast. It came out different of what I've planned in my head and I lowkey hate the last part, but I hope you still could enjoy it! A special thanks to @foxyanon and @zaldritzosrose for helping me with clearing my outline and for the title, and for her and @legitalicat for the quick beta reading.

Dedicated to my beautiful Cregan wife @sylasthegrim

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.

Header & dividers by @zaldritzosrose

READ IT ON AO3

Sciamachy: (n), a battle against imaginary enemies; fighting your shadows.

An unfamiliar chill ran down your spine as you walked through the dark corridors of the Red Keep, the place you were born but never called home. The soft crunching of the snow under your boots was the only sound you could hear as you juggled in the darkness, the faintest light in the form of rays filtering through the cracks in the walls and allowing you to see a little.

The sight was vivid, far too vivid, and all you could do was rub your eyes vigorously, hoping that when your vision cleared you would find yourself surrounded by the crackling fire and warmth of your room in Winterfell, the place you were sent against your will but would be forced to call home once you became its new lady.

But no matter how hard you tried to clear your vision: you would still recognise the long, oppressive corridors you had walked as a child, emptied of the countless soldiers of the Kingsguard that guarded it. Each step became an echo of the memories you thought you had buried with time, but which rose to the surface like a breath of fire from the dragon's jaws.

You could still hear the voice of King Viserys, the father who despised you from the moment you took your first breath, guilty of stealing your twin brother's life and living in his name. A father that neglected you for not being born as a man.

You could still hear the voice of your sister Rhaenyra, sweet as honey and warm as a mother's embrace you had never known. You were the little sister she always wanted, the glimpse of freedom amidst her duties to the Crown and the relief from the pain of losing a childhood friend. And it mattered not that you were the quietest of her family, avoiding banquets and receptions in the throne room and sneaking out whenever you could, collecting the brightest bugs and muttering meaningless words, flinching when someone touched your hand: you were still her perfect little sister in her eyes.

And her love was all you wanted right now.

Your bittersweet thoughts were interrupted by a loud roar from outside, the sound so loud it made your head spin and your stomach churn. You quickened your pace, hoping to find a larger crack in the wall to see what was happening outside. And there you found a vision that made you freeze.

You saw two dragons, an older one and a younger one, chasing each other across a stormy sky, their dragon scales glowing under the lightning and thunder as their bodies pursued each other in a majestic yet macabre dance. It seemed an innocent game between them, but the claws and talons of the older dragon prevailed over the younger, and you watched helplessly as he fell to the ground like a comet from the sky, swallowed by the sea.

You walked on, your eyes never leaving the scene outside, wanting to help the little dragon disappear into the water. But the more you crossed the corridor, the heavier the air you breathed became, and roars of pain, of burning lands and clashing swords filled your ears like a cursed chant.

You covered your ears and closed your eyes, stopping your journey towards the throne room. When you opened your eyes again, you saw a room far different from the one you were accustomed to: the vibrant and noisy ambience turned into a ghostly one, the faint rays of moonlight illuminating the Iron Throne. A bloody crown, Jaehaerys' crown, lay abandoned on the throne, rivulets of blood running down to your feet, two dragons lying restlessly behind it. Two children stood before it, their backs to each other, holding each other's hands; you could feel their tortured gaze as they watched the bloody chair, and your heart broke at the sight.

As you approached, trying to touch the crown, soft footsteps made you turn and you heard a wolf howling in the distance.

And then you woke up.

Duty is sacrifice. It eclipses all things, even blood. All men of honour must pay its price.

These were the words that came out from Cregan Stark's mouth as he escorted Jacaerys to the Wall. They were a testament to how the men of the North were bound by his rigid code of values and honour, and how none of them had ever forgotten or wavered from an oath.

And when the Stark were called upon to renew their allegiance to House Targaryen, nothing would make them waver.

His father Rickon had already done so when he was summoned to King's Landing and bent the knee to Rhaenyra Targaryen, and a few years later it was Cregan's turn to renew the oath by accepting King Viserys' offer of marriage to the new lord of Winterfell. The young wolf had recently been freed from the regency of his zealous uncle Bennard, and an arranged marriage to a Targaryen princess would strengthen the bond between the two houses since the times of Aegon the Conqueror and Tohrren Stark.

But when he saw the melancholy in your lilac eyes, Cregan realised that politics was nothing more than a sweet lie masking a more sinister purpose: you were no longer welcome at the court of King Viserys, no matter how much your sister begged to keep you under her protection, or how much Alicent Hightower dared to show a glimmer of mercy. You would have been a young dragon raised by a pack of wolves, and as his future wife it would have been his responsibility to look after you.

And now he was called to be sworn to House Targaryen again, on the brink of a civil war that could involve the North in Southern affairs.

“The realm will soon tear itself apart if men do not remember the oath sworn to King Viserys and to his rightful heir,” Jacaerys announced solemnly, walking through the narrow corridors of the Walls, Cregan at his side. The Lord of Winterfell was holding Ice over one shoulder, the sword as heavy as the title inherited from his father.

“Starks do not forget their oaths, my prince,” Cregan retorted, occasionally bowing his head to some members of the Night’s Watch, “But you must know that my gaze is forever torn between North and South,” he added, a hint of heavy responsibility in his voice. The threats in winter were much greater than in summer, with the Night's Watch and the men of Winterfell stepping up their activities on the Wall, ready to turn back any outside threats. Furthermore, it was rare to see the intervention of the North in matters concerning the South, but Cregan could not ignore that oaths were broken. And traitors had to pay for it.

“War is coming to the whole realm, my lord,” it was the Prince of Dragonstone’s turn to retort back, “Whilst your men plan to raise guards against wildlings, the Hightowers plan to usurp the throne. My mother’s claim has been compromised, and little I believe your lady wife could turn her gaze away,”

The words that escaped Jace's mouth left Cregan in a state of astonishment, his brows furrowing and hardening his already stern face. He had never expected the prince to use his wife so cleverly, even though she was a trusted member of his house whom he had sadly never met in peaceful circumstances.

“The Queen has not forgotten the love she has for her sister, and King’s Landing will welcome her again once my mother succeeds in keeping the realm united,”

“My lady wife has her sister's fate very much at heart,” Cregan continued, his gaze softening a bit at the thought of you, “and you arrival put her in a state of worry, my prince,”

The two young men then stood on the Wall, looking out over the untamed land, now covered in white snow. A biting wind whipped around them as Cregan explained how such powerful creatures as the dragons refused to cross the spaces beyond the Wall, highlighting the dangers of the unknown that folded these lands, while he and Jacaerys negotiated the number of men willing to aid Queen Rhaenyra's cause. Cregan himself knew the importance of keeping an oath to a man's moral integrity, and while his duties were tied to the Wall and the threat of the wildlings, he could not ignore the dispute over the king's word.

“My lord,” one of Cregan’s men arrived, forcing the two young men to interrupt their conversation, “Urgent news from Dragonstone,”

The Wolf of Winterfell took the parchment in his hands, and from the brief glance he shared with one of his men, he knew the contents were far from frivolous. He let the paper slip from his hands to read the message, and a sense of astonishment struck him like the chill of the North: his lips curled into a grimace, his eyebrows furled slightly as his grey eyes scanned the words printed on the paper. He could have thought it was an unfortunate joke, but the seal of House Targaryen only confirmed what he had read:

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon has met his death at Storm's End, slain by Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

Cregan lifted his gaze to rest on Jacaerys' brown eyes and watched as the young prince's face contorted in confusion, then grief as he glanced at the parchment in Cregan's hands, and hot tears watered his eyes, streaming down his sharp face until two small rivers crossed their path on his chin. The young lord watched helplessly as the Prince of Dragonstone staggered backwards, clutching his chest in a tight fist as if trying to hold it together; it was a sight familiar to Cregan, for he had also lost his younger brother and remembered the same sense of helplessness creeping through his veins.

But as Jacaerys collapsed in grief, a new weight hit Cregan's chest, a sense of dread blossoming in the centre of his stomach as he steeled himself for what was to come.

He would have to inform you and to bring the news of Lucery’s death. And it wouldn’t be easy.

The bright orange sun hid behind the imposing mountains of the North, its last rays illuminating the tops of the peaks and tinting the snow a soft pink. As the light faded, a few amber rays filtered through the windows of your chambers, illuminating them with a soft glow - the gentle warmth of the sun blending with the heat of the great fire in the centre of the room, accompanied by the soft crackle of the wood.

You sat quietly at the foot of your bed, embroidery hoop in hand, watching your son Rickon play with his wooden toys beside you. A few handmaids moved about your chambers, preparing the large table for the dinner you and Cregan would share that evening. Your lilac eyes rested on the small figure of your son, who returned them with a broad smile. But as you raised a hand and gently rubbed his swollen cheeks, you were seized by a sense of unease.

It had been a long time since you and Cregan had been married, and from the first night you spent in Winterfell your mind had been haunted by dark omens hovering over your family name. Glimpses of what had happened in the past and what would happen in the future passed before your eyes like dancing shadows, sometimes appearing even when you were fully awake. You could still hear cries for help filling your ears, dragons fighting in the sky with claws and breath of fire, and sinister whispers plotting an overthrow of power, the image of your father's bloody crown on the throne still vivid in your mind.

The people of Winterfell had always regarded you with suspicion, for you were far from the Targaryen princess they had always imagined. But Cregan had never dared to question your tastes, however strange they might sound, and whenever the duties of lordship allowed him a moment's respite, he would gladly accompany you to the far reaches of the North and catch whatever bugs you wanted. In winter, when the temperatures were too harsh and the bugs were nowhere to be found, he would wrap his great arms around your form and listen to your strange rhymes as he gazed into the fire.

Your prophetic dreams ceased after you gave birth to Rickon, but they returned when a raven came from Dragonstone with grim news: the death of your father the King, the usurpation of your sister's claim by the Hightowers, and the loss of Rhaenyra's only daughter. Fear settled in your heart as you remembered the figure of the young dragon swallowed by the waves of the ocean, and you wondered if even innocent children would fall victim to this dangerous game of power.

The doors of your chambers swung open and Cregan appeared. The handmaids greeted him with a nod of respect, and you gave him a small smile as you watched Rickon rise and reach his father, who scooped him up with his free hand and kissed his little forehead.

But it was when he looked at you that you realised something was wrong. His eyes, softened by the sight of you, held a pain that seemed to be fighting him. It was as if he were carrying a burden too heavy for him to bear, heavier even than his duties as Lord of Winterfell, and the sight surprised you: you had never seen Cregan so troubled by anything.

"Leave us alone," your husband's voice echoed in the room, once again wearing his mask of severity, "I need to have a few words with my wife in private,”

The handmaids bowed their heads and quickly left the room, one of them holding Rickon in her arms. There was an unspoken tension in the air as Cregan cautiously approached you and sat in front of you. He had always been an attentive and protective husband, showing a side that differed from the stern image he gave his men.

“You seem quite troubled, husband,” you spoke softly, your voice faltering slightly. Cregan replied with a heavy sigh, covering your hands with his larger ones and rubbing them with his calloused thumbs.

“Dreadful news came from Dragonstone, my love,” Cregan said in a hoarse voice, choosing his words carefully, as if talking to a wounded puppy, “Your sister, the Queen, lost a child again,”

You felt the ground beneath your feet, surroundings had become as muffled as your husband's voice as he recited the contents of the parchment:

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon has met his death at Storm's End, slain by Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

Feeling like you were about to pass out, you rolled over onto your side and gripped the wooden footboard in a tight vice. You immediately covered your mouth and looked down at your feet as your mind slowly processed the news, but the shock was so strong that no tears came. Your mind raced back to the dream you'd had weeks before Jacaerys' arrival, seeing pieces of a puzzle you couldn't quite understand until now: Lucerys was the dragon that fell from the sky, and Aemond was the other one who sank his jaws into his flesh.

You felt Cregan's worried gaze on you as one of his hands moved to your arm, rubbing it gently in a soothing way. “It pains me to see you so devastated, my sweet wife,” he spoke quietly, breaking the wall of silence between you, “but you must know that House Stark will stand against-“

“I need a moment, please,” your trembling voice interrupted him as you found the strength to stand at your feet, your thick robes swooning with every step you took in the room. You paced back and forth, one hand rubbing the bridge of your nose while the other supported your lower back, grief and confusion mixing in your head as you felt like you were about to succumb to madness: for a moment you wondered if Rickon would fall victim to the Dance as well, but no bad omen was attached to him and that brought you a moment of peace.

Your restless walk ended as you approached the large window of your chambers and saw Vermax flying restlessly outside. It pained you to see such a magnificent creature as a dragon so distraught over the loss of his kin, and it pained you even more when a flash of his fate crossed your eyes as you saw the dragon dancing among hundreds of arrows.

“It is said that dragons can feel their masters’ emotions,” a rough voice came from behind, and you saw Cregan looking outside like you, “They feel their pain, their turmoil, and they share the same grief.”

“He is preparing for his last flight,” you murmured quietly, turning your head slightly and locking your lilac gaze into his grey one. You felt Cregan’s hand resting on your waist, allowing him to pull you closer and join your foreheads together.

"Winter is coming, my love, and I need my men here to defend the Wall," he spoke softly, closing his eyes for a moment as he felt the warmth of your skin against his, "but House Stark will pledge its support to Queen Rhaenyra by sending her thousands of Greybeards to fight in her name. Your sister's claim will be upheld and your nephew will succeed her,"

"Jacaerys will never be King of the Seven Kingdoms," you confessed defeatedly, looking down at your feet, "the only kingdom he will see is of sea and salt. He will never see his mother sitting on the Iron Throne. I have seen it,"

Your words brought a heavy silence to the room and you both withdrew into your thoughts. You saw how quickly Cregan and Jacaerys had bonded, how they spent their days hunting and drinking together while they negotiated the terms of war. Luke's death would not be an accident, and you hoped your words would reach your husband, that he would understand the destructive force dragons could be once they went into battle.

Instead, Cregan's only words were his arms wrapped around you, sealing your body in a protective embrace. He whispered words of comfort, kissed your temple and promised victory over the usurpers.

But deep in his heart, he knew it would not be easy.

Grief and anger were the emotions Cregan felt as he rolled the parchment in his hands, his eyes darting over the words written in pitch-black ink. He cursed himself for not believing the signs of your dreams, for thinking that fear had created them for you. But even this time you were right.

The Battle of the Gullet had been costly for the Blacks, and the death of Jacaerys Velaryon was a low blow the queen would not forgive her usurpers. It was Cregan again who had the task of bringing you the unfortunate news, and his eyes would forever be haunted by the sight of your grief: he saw you holding Rickon as the news of blood and cheese reached Winterfell's ears, and those same dull eyes came back to you as you leaned against the wall at your nephew's death.

Not even the news that King's Landing had fallen into the hands of Rhaenyra and Daemon could ease the paranoia you lived with, but it only served to fuel your dark prophecies. Few letters were exchanged between Cregan and Rhaenyra, with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms constantly asking for her beloved sister and inviting her to return to court and serve if she wished. But Cregan always refused her invitation.

For the truth was that you were safe in the great lands of the North, surrounded by nothing but the love of Cregan and Rickon, far from that viper's nest that was the Red Keep. It took time for you to adjust to the harsh cold of Winterfell and the coldness of its people, but your calm and gentle nature opened a breach in the heart of his hardened lord, and with it, the people began to love you.

The night was cold, and the heat of the fire was not enough to protect them from the blizzard raging outside. Cregan could not sleep, tossing and turning, hoping that the Old Gods would grant him some much needed rest. It was only after tossing and turning on his side for the umpteenth time that he saw you awake too, your platinum curls falling gently to your shoulders and your lilac eyes gazing absently at the small bed where Rickon rested.

The young wolf wrapped his naked arms around your waist and pulled you close, his chest pressed against your back, the layer of your nightgown the only thing separating your bodies. "Sleep seems to have left you too," he said in a harsh voice, his lips brushing against your neck. You closed your eyes and let out a shuddering breath.

"I have no reason to be asleep, dear husband," you replied absently, the softness of your voice melting his heart. Cregan knew that your mind was far from him, and he feared that your prophetic dreams had imprisoned it again. He let out a long sigh before speaking again.

"A raven came from King's Landing in the morrow," he spoke quietly, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Rickon, "your sister will be pleased to welcome you to the capital and give you all the honours of a Targaryen princess,”

He felt a small chuckle escape your mouth and lowered his head, resting his newly bearded chin on your collarbone, "If it is your wish to reach her, I will order some of my men to arrange a safe journey south for you." Cregan went on, his voice faltering at the thought of leaving you alone while Rhaenyra dealt with her opponents. But you were his wife and the light of his eyes, and if you wished to regain your lost time with your sister, he would accept it without objection.

But the slight shake of your head surprised him, "It wouldn't change anything. Rhaenyra would be dead the moment I reached King's Landing, and the gods know what horrors await there.”

Cregan's brow furrowed, and for the first time he seriously considered the words of your prophetic dreams: if the Dragon Queen was indeed about to die, what would happen if he left his wife alone in the grasp of the Greens? A shiver ran down his spine, anger boiling in his chest at the thought of you being taken prisoner by Aegon the Usurper.

"That will probably not happen," the Lord of Winterfell scoffed, tightening his grip as if he secretly feared you would disappear in his arms, "You have nothing to fear, my dear woman. Your sister is Queen now. Once the usurpers and the breakers of the oath have paid for what they have done, there will be a reign of peace and prosperity.

"It will not be her," you murmured, rolling to the other side to face Cregan. You leaned your hand against his cheek as you looked at him with your melancholy eyes, "Rhaenyra is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but a crown of ashes will adorn her head and a cloak of fire will wrap her body.”

Cregan leaned into your touch, but he could not quite relax at the grim revelation you gave him: he wanted to find comfort in your presence, but your words were as hard as boulders, carrying a heavy weight he wanted to lift from your shoulders.

"I can hardly see it," he murmured, his voice tinged with doubt, "Rhaenyra is a strong woman, gathering as many noble men as she can for her cause. The kingdom will be stable under her leadership."

You shook your head slowly again, your eyes filled with sorrow, "But the Dragonfire is stronger than she is, and what she has built will crumble with her," you paused for a moment before continuing, "A throne of iron swords will give way to a wooden one, and only when the cripple breathes his last will a child step in, wearing Rhaenyra's crown like a burden.”

Cregan closed his eyes and tightened his grip, a mixture of emotions flickering across his face as he slowly digested what you had told him. He had learned over time that your dreams were not mere hallucinations of a daydreaming mind, but a prophecy destined to come true, no matter how hard you tried to alter the course of events. The deaths of Jacaerys and Lucerys were living proof.

“I swear on my honour that I will keep raising my banners for the rightful queen, no matter how gruesome our fates will be,” Cregan retorted, lowering his head more until your foreheads met again, “What will be of us?”

"You are bound by your honour and will fight for Rhaenyra until your last breath, my love," you murmured, absently tracing circles on his cheek with your thumbs, "The wolf will cry in the dragon's nest, and his wolf will be heard in the darkest hour. And only when order is restored will the wolf return to his pack."

Cregan stood in silence, his chest rising slowly as he held his breath, the realisation dawned on him: the intense activity on the Wall and the organisation of the harvest had always prevented him and his men from making a proper march on King's Landing, hoping that the Greybeards he had sent would be enough to fight for Rhaenyra's cause. But your words have confirmed that his men will march on King's Landing, and he hopes to find a less devastated city than the one his wife has described.

“Cregan,” your gentle call awakened him from his thoughts, his head resting on your hands, “promise me you will come back to me and Rickon. Swear it,”

The young wolf stood silent for a moment, his eyes drinking in your beauty: it would be painful to leave you behind, but if your prophecy came true, he would be forced to honour his oath and fight for his queen. And so he took your head in his hands, closing the distance and sealing the promise with a long, bittersweet kiss, tasting of farewell but full of hope.

“I swear it.”

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading my fic! Hope you enjoyed it! Please, leave a comment if you want to be added in the taglist or be removed.

Cregan Stark Taglist: @sylasthegrim @legitalicat @zaldritzosrose

#who would have thought that I would write a HOTD fic...#cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #cregan fic #cregan fanfic #cregan stark fanfic #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fic #hotd fanfic #hotd fic

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