#hoping to do that once im healed

[nabaath-areng]

Half assed screens, but some of the glamours I might will use for Ieeha throughout the journey of Dawntrail!

[the-ultimate-wifeform]

.

[phagodyke]

looking up info on keloid scarring is so helpful. thanks man I didn't think of trying that one

[sharkdays]

i dont think im staying up for the new year (im exhausted) so here's my wish: 2024 will be kind to me, to you, and to us

[prodkeiji]

ep 9 is a lot to process uhm

[moons-among-distant-stars]

gonna scream and cry actually

also shoutout to this iterator playlist for going so hard and being the thing i loop for hours on end

(more in the tags cause i'm a coward)

[radiotorn]

having to restrain from saying anything when my dad dares to say that men get paid LESS than women. in what world. are you out of your fucking mind old man.

[adambomb82]

hey hey hey it's ol hickory ham mike

[happywitch416]

One would think with all the pain I live with that I would not turn into the world's littlest bitch when I have extra pain but damn. I think knee pain so bad your legs shake too much to walk in both knees is probably enough to put most people out.

I'm just so well adjusted to pain that I won't pass out.

[racingmiku2018]

hrgrhrge i shouldve gone to sleep hours ago

[wishi-selfships]

^^ how I felt reading this btw

冬に死ぬの方がいい (I'd rather die in the winter) / denji x reader

genre(s): strangers to friends to lovers??? not fully lovers yet because it’s at the end so it's like kinda ambiguously romantic ig, angst with a not too angst ending!! hurt/comfort SO heavy on the hurt/comfort omg... also despite the tldr there is no death here like for the most part

warning(s): spoilers up to the end of public safety saga, canon divergent and timeline inaccurate at points because i haven't read csm in AGES, explicit depictions of SA and like near-death poverty because denji actually cannot catch a break um????? no explicit nsfw tho also not fully and completely proofread i will be editing as i go when i spot mistakes

wc: ~6.6k

tldr; dying in the winter doesn't seem so bad after all

Do you know what it feels like to die?

In the seventeenth winter of Denji’s life, he thinks he does, as the planks of termite-infested wood and sheets of metal collapse into his shed without warning in the dead of night, the blizzard of winter snow unrelenting in its advances. He dreams of the coldest winter he’s survived, a splinter of decayed, rotting wood knocking him awake from his half-slumber, before crumpled rubbish attacks him from all directions. His arms scramble around Pochita to hunch over his motionless, sleeping body as boulders of wood and rusted metal hammer at his back. Purpled, blistered fingers swat and claw at the rough patterns etched into the planks, skin ripping as Denji crawls into a foot of snow. 

In the seventeenth winter of Denji’s life, he curls up against his temporary home- the glass window of a convenience store, too afraid to enter. People come and go, crinkling bags of plastic shrugging into protective arms, parents tugging a little harsher at their children, who point and slobber at his ghastly figure, partners who hold each other’s waists a little closer as they pass.

“What a poor guy.”

“Fuck, that scared me.”

“Is that guy dying or something?”

Dying. Do they know what it feels like to die? 

Denji’s head is hung low when plastic wrap lands on the back of his skull. His fingers, frozen stiff, swipe at the glossy packaging, before a fleeting moment of warmth graces his frozen fingertips. He doesn’t look up to the sound of plastic ripping, or to the hand that slips a heat pack into his arms. He doesn’t look up when someone kneels to his level, and his vision trains further into the ground when they offer him half of a steaming red bean bun in a paper packet beside his body, their eyes peeking through the gap between his knees. 

“Sorry, that’s all I have.” 

He doesn’t make a sound when a bottle is twisted open, doesn’t move when they grab his hands and begin trickling water from their thermos onto his fingers. He only winces as the blisters begin to thaw, steaming as the remnants of wet snow melt beneath his feet. 

“I hope we never meet again.”

Denji only looks up as you turn to depart the store, etching into his mind the person that moves further from him with each step, and the eyes that meet his own, but only between his knees, and the fleeting touch that may have just saved him that night, in the seventeenth winter of his life. The person who had to see his shrivelled, curled up figure, and had to feed his dried, crusted mouth with half a red bean bun that still sits on the ground beside him, and had to touch his bleeding, puss-filled, blistering fingers to thaw them.  

He too thinks he would rather die in the cold of this winter than meet you again.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Die, Denji does, but only in the eighteenth spring of his life, when the blisters on his fingers have 

scarred into hardened skin, and he has found himself a new shed to spend his nights in. He dies with a chainsaw cord through his chest, and it’s a million times less painful than he once believed, at least until the dying pump of Pochita in his heart almost begs for mercy. Suddenly, his chest feels just a little too heavy, and he realises he’s never known how warm blood was until it drowns him in pools of sticky, metallic red. When two strong arms reach out to hold his collapsing body, he’s sure that he knows what it feels like to die. Denji’s limp figure hangs motionless in your grasp, and you frown at the mess of dried blood that paints his toothed head in specks of brown. This is not somewhere safe for him.

Denji opens his eyes with his head in someone’s lap, bumpy roads jolting him awake from his unconsciousness. He stares into the back of the front passenger seat, warm fabric beneath his cheeks as he inhales the air freshener of the car and raises his hands to his eyes. The hardened skin of his fingers seems to have scabbed and fallen off, leaving him with hands more akin to that of a teenager. A normal teenager. He senses something else, something toying with his matted strands of golden hair. Fluttering touches stir and spread on his scalp, a whole palm nuzzling into the top of his head and eliciting a satisfied sigh from his lips. 

“We’ve got another hour to go. Sleep more if you need to.”

There it is, the voice that haunts him in his sleep and chases him in his waking hours. The voice that tells him he did a good job after every hunting gig, snickers with him when he cheats the yakuza out of a sleazy hundred yen coin, lulls him to sleep at night with the promise of bread, and butter, and honey, even some jam. The voice that he remembers all too well, and can’t seem to run from, no matter how hard his mind races. 

His mind freezes, but his body betrays him as his head turns in your direction, vision meeting the full face that hid behind the cover of his knees on that winter day, when he swore he knew how it felt like to die. He once envisioned his death to be silent, frozen in his final breaths into the winter sky. Then, he thought of it as a mess of red, putrid blood flooding his orifices as he drowns in a dumpster of sliced up human remains. Now, by some miracle, he lies in the lap of a familiar stranger, staring back at their gaze that remains unchanged from the one they shot at him between his reddened, shrivelled legs, exactly one hundred and fifty four days ago.  

Denji isn’t completely sure if he knows what dying feels like anymore.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

There is vomit in Denji’s mouth. There are mouthfuls of grainy, soured bile that barge through Denji’s lips as he sits on the ground of a restaurant, arms pulled into his chest. Himeno’s grip on his jaw is unshakeable, no matter how hard he thrashes and gargles, doing anything he can to separate himself from her. She pulls him closer to her as she continues spewing all the food she’s consumed throughout the day into his throat, and his eyes dart toward you, who grimace in disgust at the horrific scene that ensues before your very eyes. 

Do you know what it feels like to die while still breathing?

Denji wants to die. He wants nothing more, than to really die here on the ground, somebody else’s vomit spilling from the corners of his mouth. Yet the way your eye twitches at his pathetic attempts to free himself, and the wandering of your gaze between Himeno, who just refuses to let go, and Denji, who can’t seem to force her off, sends him to the depths of hell before he’s even lost consciousness. There is no empathy in your gaze, only disgust. Denji once thought that having to touch his frostbitten, rotting body in the winter was the most shameful thing that he could put you through. He thinks this is tenfold worse. He glues his eyes shut, praying for this all to be over, and just misses the slam of your soda can into the wooden table, and the shuffling of your feet towards the combined bodies of himself and Himeno. The weight of Himeno’s suffocating grip lightens, and Denji is just able to wriggle out of her grasp, before he’s falling again and his head hits the ground. 

You watch the pool of puke that spreads beneath Denji’s cheek, seeping into his hair and sticky with bile and spit. Himeno babbles on, half a jug of beer in hand, and eight empty ones in front of her. You wince, tugging at Denji’s sleeve. He is motionless, blacked out, and you can’t help but feel a pang in your chest. How did he, of all people, end up here? You look around at the people that surround the table, all of which bear lines of jagged scar tissue beneath the rolled up cuffs of their shirt sleeves, across the skin of their faces, along their huffing chests. You touch the scar on your shoulder through your shirt, scratching at it through the fabric. The itch does not fade, gradually becoming more and more intangible, yet so obviously present. This is not a place for people like Denji, or you, or anybody with half a will to live. If eighteen years of training and living under the public safety sector has taught you anything, it is that you never want to be near this place. You did not save Denji’s life last winter for him to let something as wretched as this line of work ruin it once again. You did not reminisce about him on the way home, half a red bean bun in hand, praying that he might find solace in this perverted world, only to have him return to the root of all things depraved. You did not scream for three days straight, the speech devil clawing open the skin of your esophagus at every breath you took, just to watch him jump into the stomach of another devil, giving up whatever little shred of sanity he had left. 

Your hands come up to form shapes, fingers twisting and jabbing at each other in sentences of sign. 

Makima, should I take him home with me to Aki’s?

“I’ll taaaaaaaake him…!” 

For somebody who is clearly far gone, Himeno is quite perceptive of what others around her are planning. Makima smiles, waving you off, and you frown. Grabbing your soda, you leave the restaurant without a word. Nobody else follows.

In the eighteenth spring of Denji’s life, he wakes up in a bed for the first time. His body sinks into the soft, linen sheets that cover the plush mattress, and there’s a weight that sits comfortably above his chest. He isn’t sure what it is, yet it wraps around his sweaty body like a cloud, threatening to lull him into slumber against the midnight that settles in a blanket of blue and ribbons of silver through lidded blinds. He does not want to die here. For once, Denji decides that he will bask in the rare warmth of a quilt on his chest, and the smoothness of silky fabric beneath his arms, his body finally relaxing after eighteen years of endless running, reluctant hunting, cold slumber on planks of wood and chewed up, moulding mattresses. That is, until, a familiar body crawls onto him from where his feet lie.

“Hey… Denji.” He freezes, the bed transforming into a bed of nails and pinning him down like needles that stab through fragile, fluttering wings of butterflies on framed planks of wood.

“Wanna sleep with me?” Himeno’s hand comes up to hold Denji’s cheek, creeping impossibly close to his flushed chest. 

This is what he wanted, right? Every night, as Pochita drifted to sleep on Denji’s shrivelled chest, he would tell him that getting laid would be the greatest honour of his life, wouldn't he?

But Denji wants to scream and cry, until his throat goes hoarse and his ribs crack under the pressure from the sheer exertion of his lungs. Himeno comes even closer now, and he can smell the bitter beer and putrid puke that laces her mouth. He doesn’t move. He can’t move. He can’t speak either, as her lips begin to pepper across his face, and along the shaft of his neck. Her kisses send his throat in a frenzy, panicked wheezes and groans vibrating into her mouth as she takes his Adam's apple in an open-mouthed kiss. He can’t breathe, and his legs won’t move to save him as her saliva dribbles down his neck, into his frantically heaving chest. Denji is frozen in place as Himeno peels off her sheer shirt, and he almost chuckles dryly, the concussion from before throbbing at the side of his skull. Safety? Comfort? A roof over his head, a house that won’t collapse even from the strongest of winds, a place to sleep in that won’t end up twisting his back? How audacious. Who is he kidding?

Denji thinks he should have just chosen to die when he woke up in this bed. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The day that Makima catches wind of Denji’s incident with Himeno is the day that he is moved to Aki’s residency. At the click of a key turning in a lock, you walk out of your room groggily to see a figure in the dark, who drops a half-empty duffel bag onto the ground at the doorway. Denji shrugs backwards as you flick the lights on, arms coming up to cover his eyes. The flat is warm, smells that he doesn’t know wafting into his twitching nose as he removes his hands from his vision to look around. You stare at Denji, who wanders around the kitchen counter, eyes searching every surface for something, anything. 

“We have leftover curry, if you want it.”

There’s that familiar voice again, calling out to him, offering him food, and safety, and a roof over his head. He turns to you, and you nudge your head towards the fridge, hands in the pocket of your hoodie. His eyes are bloodshot, and he doesn’t make a sound, or say a word. He simply glides towards the fridge, pulling it open and rummaging the racks for a plate of leftover curry rice. The clanks and clinks of glass dishes on plastic stirs the Hayakawa residence awake, Power swinging the door to your shared room wide open as the handle slams into the wall with a thud. Aki’s room remains closed, but you hear an abrupt hiccup from the other side of the door.

“What is this thing doing here! Why is it taking my food!”

“He needs food, Power. Plus, it’s not even yours. Go back to sleep.”

“No!”

Power huffs, and you forcefully shove her into the room, shutting the door behind you and flicking the lights back off. Denji unwraps cling wrap from the dish, balling it in his fist and tossing it aside as he searches for a spoon, metal utensils clashing against each other in wooden cabinets as his impatient fingers sift through forks, and knives, and chopsticks. Upon finding one, he travels to the couch, where you are sitting with your legs manspread lazily. The black screen of the television reflects the two of you on the couch; Denji’s tired arms reeling spoonfuls of cold curry and meat into his mouth, and you watching him eat, hands clasped and elbows propped up on your thighs. He lets each bite linger on his tongue for a little longer than it has to, savouring this new sensation of proper food in his mouth. Then, he wipes his mouth on his rolled-up sleeve, and sniffles at the realisation that his stomach is no longer throbbing and growling dully.

“Do you want to sleep?”

Denji doesn’t respond. He thinks you have hidden away the last two words to that question. He would rather die than hear confirmation of it.

“You can take my bed if you want. I can take the sofa for now.”

He doesn’t get up from the couch. Instead, he drops the spoon onto the empty plate, and feels his body tip sideways. His head lands in your lap again, the same way it did in the company car, on the day that he died for the first time. Your arms shoot up to accommodate him, body tensing as his hair hits your leg. He sighs, small snores eliciting from his nose as he passes out on you, still clad in his work suit. You tug the windsor knot of his tie loose, before running your fingers through his blonde locks, and rolling your head back over the edge of the couch. You can only take a guess at what happened with Himeno the night before that rendered him so unresponsive. So unlike the brash, boisterous version of him that beamed at Himeno’s offer of a french kiss, before having puke forced into his mouth. You cringe at even the thought of it, taking note of Denji’s little hums in his slumber, limp arms hanging off the couch and feet dangling off the edge. Swiping a thumb across his lip, you collect the curry that remains around his mouth, and he jolts unconsciously in his sleep, before relaxing against you again. Wind whistles past the glass windows of the living room, and it’s almost as if Denji shivers at the sound of coldness, even if it is blocked by the four walls that surround him. Your hand on his head moves to cradle his jaw, which shifts periodically as he breathes in, and breathes out. You hope that he can stay like this forever.

Another hiccup sounds from Aki’s room, Power kicks and flails at blankets in muffled thumps.

You bring your other hand to your mouth, parting your lips against your thumb to take a first taste of the untouched plate of curry that was supposed to be your dinner.  

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

“She even touched my shoulder! My shoulder, guys!”

On a windy night of Denji’s eighteenth autumn, he beams at the dinner table, grains of rice spewing from his stuffed mouth as his chopsticks wave and swing in the air. He hits you in the face, a piece of limp spinach slapping onto your cheek from his utensils, and Power screeches, jagged teeth bared in her maniacal laughter. You side eye him, picking the vegetable off your face and silently shoving more rice into your mouth. You’ve noticed the skip in Denji’s step upon his return to the Hayakawa residence, the dusty blush that lines his cheeks as he grabs at the fabric of his shirt around the shoulders, and sniffs it, the bashful giggles he gives himself when he waves you off for asking him what’s got him in such a good mood. Knowing your line of work, that won’t last, no matter how hard you try to speak it into existence. 

“Yeah, she touched your shoulder. We get it.”

“No no no, you don’t. I think she likes me! Like, really likes me!”

Denji slams his hands onto the coffee table now, shooting up to defend his proclamation of love on behalf of some random girl. You sigh, opting for a piece of beef from the plate in front of you. On your tongue is soft meat, savoury sauce, sour, putrid dread. Aki shoots you a glance from across the table. He watches your eyes widen for just a glimpse of a second, and nods, a mutual understanding clearly reached between you two. You take a fistful of Denji’s shirt, yanking him back down to ground level, and he pouts as you shove bundles of spinach and ladles of sauce into his bowl. He bites his thumb, gnawing and nibbling as his chopsticks pick aimlessly at his meal.

“Stop biting your finger, Denji. That’s gross.” You grab his wrist and pull his thumb out of his mouth.

“Nah, I made a promise to Makima.”

“Makima?”

Aki chews on his rice silently at your question. Denji stares at his nail, jagged and peeling from biting on it constantly. 

“She’s the one for me. That’s why she told me to remember how it feels when she bites my thumb.”

At that, your palm makes contact with the back of his head, knocking it forward. Denji wheezes, the wind knocked out of his windpipe at your sudden attack. Aki shovels individual grains of rice into his mouth, clearing his bowl. Power joins in your antics, hands chopping at his body even after you’ve stopped to glare at him. She gets bored of your inaction quickly, scratching her ass as she leaves the table for the shared room. Denji’s eyes are trained onto his bowl, the food looking less and less appetising by the second. 

“She did what?”

Denji stretches his palm in front of his face, inspecting it as if it was some antique object. His chest sinks, feeling your eyes burn holes into the side of his head. Makima promised him love, and sex, and everything he has ever wanted. He isn’t sure why it seems so wrong to you. You once told him you wanted him to find someplace safe, no? Where do you think he would be, if not for Makima bringing him in on that fateful spring day?

“Well, she let me cop a feel because she cares about what I want. Even said she’d grant me any wish if I got the gun devil.”

“She does not care about you, Denji!”

Denji scowls, hands waving erratically as he searches for his words. Aki leaves for the kitchen sink silently, the sound of running water serving as a backdrop to your wordless fury. You slam your hands onto his shoulders, shaking him back and forth. His eyes meet yours, and he sees something that Makima, that other girl from today, Himeno, Power, Aki, none of them have shown him before. Desperation. Fear. Worry. 

“You know what? Go back to that girl you met in the phone booth. Do what you want, just don’t get me roped into your shit. And remember, I told you so.”

You shove him away, retreating into the shared room. That night, Denji sleeps on the couch instead of you. He doesn’t think about the girl from the phone booth, or Makima. He dreams about the day that you thawed his frostbitten fingers outside a convenience store, the day that had him thinking he knew what it meant to die, but really had no grasp on it. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Denji learns the taste of flowers in the eighteenth autumn of his life, when shoves an entire bouquet of them into his mouth in a cafe. The petals turn into mush on his tongue as he chews and swallows them. He waits for some girl that tried to bite his tongue off and murder him two days ago, sitting alone on a bar seat in a bustling coffee shop. Stares and murmurs ensue behind his back, couples and friends alike glancing at his pathetic figure that waits for a fabricated promise, flowers stuffed in his mouth. He tastes the bitterness of the flowerbuds, the type of bitterness that seeped through his veins when she kissed him, and ripped his tongue from his mouth. The type of bitterness that he can’t seem to fully carry, even after she tried to blow him up. The type of bitterness that is covered by the sweetness of flora, which somehow still makes its way through to his sinuses. Like recollections of how she showed him how to swim, laughed at his awful jokes, taught him to read and write, and turned all shades of red and pink at his flirtations. Rose-tinted recollections of a military trained spy, whose very purpose was to blush on command, laugh on command, lure him into emotional investment, before biting his tongue off, slashing his wrists open, and ripping his heart out of his chest. 

He doesn’t like the way these flowers taste. He throws the half-eaten bouquet onto the ground of the cafe, and pushes his way out of the shop. 

When Denji returns home, you are squeezing whole bottles of throat medicine into your mouth on the living room sofa. He points at his throat, and pretends to pull a pin from his neck. You nod, clawing at the air around your throat. He shoots you a thumbs up, unsure what to say as he faces the consequences of his fortunate victory against the bomb hybrid from the night before. You wave him off, eyes never meeting him as you mouth, it’s fine, I’ll be good. From across the living room, he catches the blood that coats your entire bed of teeth, the dark, deadly shade of crimson splattered across your lips. He hears your screams again, and again, and again, as he stands in the doorway. Blood curdling commands coming one after the other, he can almost feel his throat rip open with every word, taste the blood that you cough up after finishing the bottle of throat medicine. 

Walking towards the couch, he plops down beside you, his weight creating a dip in the soft fabric. You pretend to pull a pin at your throat, and point at Denji, who sighs hopelessly. You falter, brows furrowing at his disappointment. For the weeks leading up to today, Denji had not removed himself from Reze- some unknown girl he met in a telephone booth. He had beamed about his advances to you- namely regurgitating a saliva coated flower from his mouth magically, and you had listened patiently, fists gripped by your sides. He told you he wanted to run away with her, after all this mess and carnage was over, only for her to become the root of another senseless massacre. Your hands move to form shapes, sign language that Denji has picked up on throughout the past months of living and working alongside you. His skills are scarce, yet he just makes out what you are asking.

Beach, girl, run?

He shakes his head, back hunching in defeat. She didn’t care about his heart, only the Chainsaw devil’s. Even her blushes and laughs were rehearsed to perfection. 

“She didn’t show up to the cafe anyways.”

You frown, hitting Denji’s chest with the back of your palm, eyes still not meeting his own. He bites his thumb, and you slap his hand away from his mouth without even looking. Signing furiously, your fingers contort into a flurry of shapes. Shapes that Denji can barely decipher, but understand just enough to feel your disdain. 

No biting… unbelievable. Makima, Reze. Gross... 

Denji smiles weakly, wiping his thumb on his blood-stained uniform. Your teeth are bared until the tips of your canines just peek through the opening of your lips, before you retract them and gnaw your bottom lip meekly. He takes in the corners of your worried eyes and irked brows, and he thinks that even Pochita feels a little guilty in the way that his chest seems to beat agonisingly with every pang, like a nail burying itself into his heart at each pump. You punch his shoulder, finally taking a good look at his haggard figure, before reaching for another bottle of medicine and twisting the cap open with a click. You gargle and cough at each swallow, splatters of blood spitting into a white tissue from your throat at each sound you make. Suddenly, Denji wishes he didn’t throw the flowers away at the coffee shop. Maybe a few petals could ease the pain too, because he’s sure it’s the petals he ate that are making him feel a blooming warmth in his chest right now.

“You don’t have to be sorry. Plus, you saved my life out there yesterday. So, thanks.”

You smile at him with your lips pursed, and Denji hopes that he doesn’t die before you find your voice again.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

In the beginning of Denji’s eighteenth winter, he slashes a chainsaw through Makima’s body. He watches her cut up, mutilated organs fall to the ground, throwing the chainsaw next to them. There is no pity, or rage, or overwhelming sadness. All he can do is stare, coated head to toe in her blood. He takes her skin, and bones, and organs in a plastic bag, inhales blood that smells akin to rat shit and bile. He walks into a new apartment, devoid of the Hayakawa name that was once engraved into the tin mailbox of his old home. It is empty, no one greets him on the couch as he walks in. 

He throws the bag of remains onto the counter of his new kitchen, bought with the money left in Aki’s will. He’s sorry, he thinks, because he doesn’t feel anything right now. Not anger, not worry, not fear. Aki is dead. Power is dead too. He should feel something, at the very least for you, who was wheeled onto an ambulance as he picked up the remains of Makima with his bare hands. 

Denji eats dinner alone at his new coffee table, also bought with the money from Aki’s will. He shuts his eyes, and pretends that Power is bickering with him. He can almost hear her frenzied shouts, feel her hands slap his back, and his head, and his chest. Aki should be sitting across the table, sipping his tea mindlessly, or lighting a cigarette and filling the room with nicotine. He shoves Makima’s flesh into his mouth, swallowing without so much as chewing on it. The idea that he is shovelling human flesh into his stomach while fully human makes his skin crawl and stomach flip. He wants to throw up. His eyes water at the grooves and fibres in the meat that etch themselves into his tongue. 

He squeezes shut his eyes even harder now, instead envisioning you beside him. You, who force strings of vegetables into his meals at dinner. You, who speak only when needed, and rarely in sentences that drag on for more than you deem the need to, and showed him how to live on with half a red bean bun and a thermos. He has never known the curves of your body like the rest of his prospects, never thought to try and learn them either. He doesn’t know of your past, or your present either, really. 

Despite that, you know the shrivelled figure of his past, his habit of thumb biting, his fear of sharing a bed, his disdain for spinach over any other vegetable. And when you spat at him, I told you so, you were right. Himeno wanted him to fuel some petty, one-sided feud. Reze ripped his tongue out of his mouth, only to apologise, before snapping his neck and leaving him in the dust. Makima, the one who swore to give him sex, and love, and safety, and purpose, everything he could have ever wanted, binded him in a dog’s collar so he could watch as she tore Power in half from the torso. All Power wanted was to give him a cake. 

You confuse him to no end, but something sits between the two of you for certain. Something that shrouds his heart in a warm glow, one that almost calls out at him to keep it there. A glow that creeps up to his mouth when you can’t speak, threatening to spill out of his lips and into yours so he can heal you, for once. But the glow always seems to turn into poison that leaks back down his throat. He swallows his words, bites his lip, bites his own fingers. He doesn’t know how it feels to die, only because you’ve shielded him from it all along.

The remains of Makima have been consumed. Denji throws the plates and bowls into the sink carelessly, his chopsticks following suit. When he swings open his cabinet to two new boxes of throat medicine, he can’t help but stare at his purchase. He really only had you in mind when he filled the cabinets of his new apartment with the only familiar thing a grocery store could offer. Maybe he should give you a visit soon.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

In the eighteenth winter of Denji’s life, you learn that he is afraid of living. Your backs against the sheets of your hospital bed, the two of you stare at the ceiling light that blinks periodically, just as it has for the past week that you’ve been here for. Its flickers have gradually become more erratic than the days before. You stare at the familiar cracks that spread from beneath the light bracket towards the rest of the ceiling, arms behind your head. 

“Does it still hurt to talk?”

“Just a bit.”

He hums in understanding, continuing his aimless staring. The hospital television whirs in static and vague sounds of people speaking behind the two of you, and you shift in place, the bed sheets wrinkling and shuffling beneath your body. 

“Can I tell you something?”

You nod wordlessly.

“I’m starting to think I can’t live anymore. Like this whole devil thing has made me less…human, I guess.”

“Why?”

Denji clicks his tongue, hissing a sharp inhale through his teeth. 

“I don’t really see the point in touching tits, or having sex anymore, you know? Like, all those things that I thought I wanted so badly, they didn’t make me feel how I wanted to. But then, I’m not sure how to live. Shouldn’t I live so someone can love me? Is that not what everyone lives for?”

You glance at him, the messy blonde hair that presses into the mattress, lousily tucked white shirt that creases around the waist, eyes that once were zealous turned tired, unfeeling. You pull one hand out from beneath your head, the one that doesn’t have an IV drip attached to your index finger. It travels to Denji’s crossed arms, untangling them from each other so you can grab at his hand. His fingers are unresponsive until you give him a squeeze, then another, then a third, and they finally relax against your own. He turns, meeting the eyes that peeked through his knees in his seventeenth winter. Eyes that look at him with worry, whether he is sitting at a dinner table, beaming about some girl whose flirtations have blinded his rationality, or if he is curled up against the glass door of some convenience store at midnight, breath stagnant and frozen in the winter air. 

“Do you think they loved you, Denji?”

His vision travels to the mattress beneath him. He thinks they did, or maybe they didn’t, or it was somewhat in between love and indifference, or whatever that’s supposed to feel like.

“I don’t know. They all wanted chainsaw man’s heart. But nobody wanted mine, you know? Nobody ever wanted Denji’s.”

You give his hand another squeeze, and he feels another pang in his chest. This is what it feels like to die, Denji thinks. Not blood gushing from his chest, or being frozen solid as people walk past his crouched body, but knowing that his efforts to become worthy of appreciation have only amounted to being used for his power. This is what it feels like to die, a hollow boy with nothing left in his chest but a devil that pumps blood for him. Even his heart is a contract that he has to follow. 

“I didn’t save you a year ago today for you to think that, Denji.”

Your weak elbows try to prop your body up to look at him from above, before they collapse back into the mattress and elicit a hiss of pain from your mouth. It’s by some miracle that you’re even alive right now, and that your throat has healed enough to make out short sentences. Short proclamations like this, that you’ve waited so long to make. Denji catches your fall, a palm cushioning your elbow. His hand is still in yours as he shifts to look at you properly. 

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to know?”

He opens his mouth, and his scrambled words get caught in his throat. So, he nods, the bags beneath his eyes relaxing. You let go of his hand, instead running your fingers along his chest and laying your palm flat on his heart. It beats in rhythmic thumps, steadily pulsing on the lines of your hand. 

“What are you feeling right now?”

Denji’s mind is a jumbled mess, yet he can clearly tell what he is feeling. “Warm.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No.”

Your hands move to the back of his head, scratching and rubbing at his scalp with the pads of your fingers. Denji leans into your touch, eyes still trained onto your own. His heart continues to beat steadily, and he feels something building up around it. Something that has his breaths getting heavier, and his vision of you becoming even clearer than it already is. 

“What does this feel like?”

“Nice.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

Your hand makes its advance to his cheek, cradling it gently. Dusty pink scatters across his face, and Denji has to remember to breathe. In, out, in, out. Your thumb swipes across the dark bag beneath his eye. He thinks this is bliss, so unlike the drooling, panting mess he used to be for Makima, or the bumbling, fake persona he played up for Reze. He is more sober than ever, and his hand hovers over your body. He doesn’t want to just cop a feel. He wants to touch every inch of skin that you inhibit, trace over whatever scars you might have accumulated from the trials of time, plant kisses wherever you want him to, whenever you want him to. 

“What does this feel like?”

“Can you stay like that?”

“Sure.”

He reaches for your wrist, holding onto it like a lost boy in a crowd. His fingers feel for smoothed scar tissue in your palm, around your knuckles, on your wrist. He pulls your hand away from his face to take a look at the lines that etch themselves into your skin, lips hovering just above your fingers.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod. He starts on the scar of your palm, one that you earned during a fight in the early days of your work. He kisses the fleshy scar that slashes across your hand, peppering along its length. 

“Can I keep going?”

“Yeah, keep going Denji.”

His head dips to the faint white lines that decorate your arm, from your wrist to the connection between your forearm and bicep. His hair tickles the sides of your arm as fluttering kisses plant themselves into each poisoned, torn open line of your skin. You squirm, hospital gown coming loose on one shoulder as the cool air of the room hits the scar that reaches from your shoulder to the dip between your collarbones. Denji notices, and pulls your arm away from him.

“Can I?”

You wince, the scar beginning to itch and throb.

“Please, do it.”

His fingers trace along the jagged scar, before he nuzzles his face into your shoulder, and moves along to the centre of the dip just above your chest. You roll your head back to give him space, and he kisses up your neck and onto your jaw. He’s inexperienced, nose bumping into your flesh when he comes up to look at you again. His eyes flicker to your lips, and you answer his question for him as you pull him into you. The glow in his heart rushes from his chest to his mouth, but his teeth bump into yours, and you pull away. It tastes like your blood, the blood that has saved his life more times than he can count as you rip your throat open for him. He wants to taste it again as much as you want him to.

“What does that feel like?”

Denji knows what it means to die now, but he thinks he’s starting to understand how to live too. If this day, in the eighteenth winter of his life, is what dying and being reborn feels like, he would rather die in the winter when his time comes.

“I think it feels like love.”

author's note:

guys this took SO LONG i really do not have what it takes to do a longfic in 2 days anymore after that tsukishima one... but im so proud of this tho like i had so much fun writing it and i love my baby boy denji so much omg also wishi i am so sorry it took this long to come out but i hope you like it sososoosososososos much

anyways tags!!

@wishi-selfships @staraxiaa @kuroppiii @akaakeis @iiwaijime @chuuya-brainrot @fiannee @bailey-reeds @hiraethwa @catsoupki

[stnkiconverse]

Hii :3 could I have sum of the creep boys (Ej, Toby, Jeff, Masky and Hoodie) with a reader who likes marking (bites/cuts/hickeys) their thighs? Pls and thank u 💛

This has been collecting dust in my drafts for months, im so sorry bby, i just needed to have my masky and hoodie headcanons in place before posting this😭😭

Also- Ik you said thighs, but i did mention some other places, i hope you don’t mind :3

E Y E L E S S J A C K

Jack is surprisingly unbothered by your habit. He views it with a mix of curiosity and amusement, often analyzing your techniques silently. (like this = 🤨)

"Hmm. Is this an attempt at branding? Or is this just for fun?" His DRY ASS humor makes it hard to tell if he's teasing or genuinely questioning.

He’s not fond of pain but does not shy from it either. The marks don't bother him, they heal faster than you think anyway.

If you center the attack on his thighs, he'll arch a brow and say something quick and sarcastic, like, "I'm honored you've chosen me as your personal canvas."

Jack has super sharp senses, so he's super aware of your touch. If you bite or leave cuts near sensitive spots, hips, or neck, for example, he might tense for a moment but never stop you.

His favorite places for you to mark? His shoulders or his ribs. He finds the sensation grounding in a strange way, though he'll never admit it. (he moaned once)

If you tease him about it, he'll deadpan: "Just don't expect me to reciprocate. My claws aren't…delicate." (😏)

T I C C I T O B Y

Toby is a little awkward about it at first, not used to someone being so physically affectionate in such an intense way. But once he gets used to it? He's all in. (fucking weirdo 😒 / lovingly)

He doesn't actually feel pain like others do, (obv) so he lets you go wild without flinching. "You're gonna have to try harder than that to leave a mark on me," he'd tease, looking down later to grin at the faint bruises or bites.

If you target his thighs, he might giggle a bit, kicking his leg. "That tickles, stop- stop!"

Neck and collarbone marks fluster him the most. He'll try to hide them with his hoodie but secretly love that they're there.

Sometimes, he'll encourage you in his chaotic way: "Oh, you missed a spot. Try here!" and point to random places like his back or ribs, sometimes even shoving his wrists in your face 😭😭

If you ever leave too many marks, he'll grin like a maniac and joke: "Guess I'm your chew toy now, huh?"

J E F F T H E K I L L E R

Jeff would be cocky about it, but secretly flustered. He'd smirk and say something snarky like, "Didn't know you were that desperate to get your hands on me," but the redness creeping up his neck gives him away.

He doesn't mind pain and might even enjoy it a little. If you bite too hard, he'll laugh and go, "Is that all you've got? You're gonna have to try harder."

Loves when you leave marks on his neck, it makes him feel a twisted sense of pride. He'll strut around the manor like a smug idiot, showing them off.

His thighs are a sensitive spot, though he won't admit it. If you target them, he'll squirm slightly and mutter, "Don't get any ideas..." but he won't stop you. (bcs he likes it 😏)

If you leave cuts or scratches, he'll trace them with his fingers absentmindedly, secretly loving the way they look.

"You're turning me into your personal art project, huh? Not that I'm complaining."

T I M / M A S K Y

Masky (Tim)

Tim is not immediately comfortable it, especially if it's in a more vulnerable spot like his neck or inner thighs. He'll tense up and grumble, "What are you doing?" but he won't push you away :3

Over time, he warms up to it, especially when he realizes it's your way of showing affection. He won't admit it, but he finds it oddly reassuring :p

Marks on his shoulders or upper back are his favorite. He won't say anything, but you might catch him subtly glancing at them in the mirror (😏)

If you bite too hard, he'll sigh and mutter, "You know I have to cover that up, right?" while pulling on another layer of clothing (i love him guys)

Surprisingly, he doesn't mind if you mark his thighs when he's sitting or lounging. He might roll his eyes but secretly enjoys the attention.

"You're a little too into this, you know that?" he'd say with the tiniest smirk, though the faint blush on his face betrays him.

B R I A N / H O O D I E

Hoodie (Brian)

Brian is surprisingly chill about your habit and takes it in stride :D

He'll joke, "Do I look like a notebook to you? Or is this some modern art thing?"

He's not huge on pain, so if you bite too hard or draw blood, he might flinch and gently push you away. "Careful, I'm not indestructible."

Loves when you leave hickeys or gentle bites on his shoulders or chest. He finds them oddly comforting and will trace them when he's alone, smiling softly.

If you go for his thighs, he'll laugh and tease you: "That's bold. Didn't take you for a thigh person."

Occasionally, he'll play along and say something like, "You missed a spot," pointing to random areas just to see you flustered.

Brian enjoys the possessive nature of your markings but is too reserved to admit it outright.

Instead, he'll say something teasing like, "Guess I'm yours now, huh?"

I hope this was good enough!! :D

sorry to keep you waiting so long 😭

[icarusredwings]

Be warned. I wrote this at midnight. I have no clue what im talking about. Do you get it?

"Why doesn't this wolverine teach history? Other wolverine did"

Well, because THAT Wolverine had a Charles. Let me remind you just how fragile Logan's mental state is and just how quickly his brain can throw him into a temporary amnesia due to shock and / or panic that is triggered by his CPTSD.

The thing is, this Wolverine has a Wade. Not a Charles. Sure, Jean could probably do something to him if things got too crazy but you know just how dangerous of territory that would be. Yes, Charles doesn't have a healing factor but it was his confidence and perfect reassuring words that helped him, plus If something did happen Im pretty sure he wouldn't blame him much anyway. He knows what hes dealing with. This isnt to say that jean doesn't but I can see her panicking too much and Logan would feed off of that fear and panic and become worse.

Wade, on the other hand, is neither calm nor says the right things, BUT he can't die :D Which is a massive YES when it comes to dealing with a panicking 3+ time war veteran with knife hands. And is known to attack first ask later.

Trying to teach the kids about 'Nam, a thing sets him off. He stares off into space for a bit, Backs up and his breath gets heavy. The hairs on his arms are raised up and his pupils dilate, they widden and its as if he doesn't even remember he's a teacher.

When he starts the whole "Who are you? Where am I!?" Thing, a student (probably the oldest or one that's been dubbed most responsible) slowly just gets up and leaves to tell a trusted adult.

"Mrs. Munroe?"

"Yes?"

"Mr. Howlett is acting funny again."

"Okay darling. Go fetch Mr. Wilson for me? There's a dear."

She, calm as ever walks into the class room, standing away from the door so not to make him feel trapped, and very clearly shows her hands as she gestures the kids to leave.

Backing himself into a corner, he watches them one by one leave, Gripping at the chalk boards ledge and the windowsil, trying to balance and ground himself.

"Come now children. Quietly and slowly please. Good job. Go next door to Mrs. Summers please." Sending them to the next class room so to leave this one empty.

She stands off to the side of the room. Hands in front of her, smiling softly. "Hello Logan."

"What? Who are you?" He almost hisses but can't help but to feel not so threatened. He always did have a sweet spot for women. Maybe its their scent difference, but like most reactive animals, he's a little calmer for women. A little more trusting.

"Im a dear friend of yours. My name is Ororo. You are in no danger here." She states this practiced sentence with the same whisper of a voice.

"Where the fuck am I. How did I get here!? Did you bring me here!?" At this point he's growling.

"Logan, I assure you that no one forced you here. This is a school. You're a teacher."

"A teacher..?" Just a tad he softens, as if you had just told someone who wanted to be a vet when they grew up that they actually would become a very good vet, except the look in his eyes was as if questioning why they would ever him do that. Be a teacher I mean.

"Yes. If you would like to leave that is okay." She slowly sits in a spare chair, her leg crossing, not knowing how long she will need to play baby sitter but she hoped someone soon would alert the other staff of this. It IS a safety risk after all and Ororo knew that if he hurt anyone at all he'd immediately regret it terribly so when he woke.

"You.. you told her to go get someone. Why? Who are you getting? For what!?" Another snap, as if he thought she was trying to trick him into letting his gaurd down.

She smiles. "Your husband."

"What the fuck do you mean my 'husband'!? What are you sayin' lady!?" The venom in the way he says this makes her giggle a bit. Oh, goodness. He really did lose all of his memories, didn't he? How was the same man who once was so dastardly in love with scott to the point of shredding his heart into a gazillion pieces and is married to the silliest man alive, so internally homophobic? The irony of the thought made her laugh.

"And that kids is how you slice someone into sushi. Rice not included-" His weapons tatics and saftey class is interrupted.

"Mr. Wilson?"

"Oh hey, squirt! You wanna learn how to disconnect someone's joints without even leaving a puncture wound?"

"Maybe later.. uhm...Mr. Howlett's scared again..."

You just see Wade running out on these kids like "I'M COMING WOLVIE!"

"What, you think it's funny!? I ain't got a husband lady! Now, Im leaving! And there's nothing you can do to stop me!" He goes to walk out the door only to run into said husband, who immediately hugs him.

"Babe!! Hi! They told me- OUCH- okay yeah I deserved that- no tocuhy I forgot."

And is stabbed.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!? Get off me! Freak!"

"D'aawww!! Did you see that? He called me a freak! I hate to tell ya cupcake, but you're married to this freak. Now, what's wrOOW- Mad kitty are we? Woah there tiger! Easy boy!"

Logan looks at him, confused, stabs him again, and is trying to figure out why Wade's not dying. He goes to slash him in the head and wades like "WAITWAITWAIT NOT INFRONT OF THE KIDS-"

Mrs. Munroe, by now, has gotten up and left, closing the door and letting out a big sigh, wondering what shade of red they were going to paint the room this time.

She does a little clicky on her walkie and infroms all the staff about the situation and so for the next half hour or so, Logan's kids get to skip class and said classroom now needs a deep scrub.

And this ladies and gentlemen is why this Logan doesn't teach history anymore.

P.E. is SOOOO much easier on his mental status, and sometimes Wade joins, and he puts the whole class against him to make them work on their team building skills. Plus- it's funny to watch your husband get slapped in the head with 20 dodgeballs.

[akutasoda]

HELLOO

can I request a S/o who always puts others before herself and always gets hurt and injured after :3

you're selfless, im selfish

synopsis - you're rather selfless and they hate seeing you get hurt because of this

includes - blade, luocha, aventurine, boothill

warnings - gn!reader, fluff, angstyy, slight blood mentions, wc - 968

a/n: Hellooo! you didn't specify and i am currently on a massive star rail fixation so i hope you don't mind! if you do please let me know and i'll write another!

taglist - @teddirika, @frankiesteinn, @little-miss-chaoss

blade ★↷

↪blade was immortal. he had little care for how many pieces he could be broken down into during a fight as at the end of the day he knew he would still walk away as a blade. weapon's were built to be durable, what kind of 'blade' would he be if he let up at the first sign of danger?

↪he was also used to thinking about nobody but himself, the stellaron hunters became the first exception but he knew they'd be able to take care fo themselves. so it made him suspicious when you'd willingly put him before yourself as what could you possibly gain by doing so?

↪it didn't occur to him just how angry he would get when he watched you get injured for the sake of his safety. not at you despite how much it semed that way. a weapon's job was to protect in a violent manner and his enemies quickly learnt that, especially when his shield would get hurt.

↪he would scold you for throwing yourself into dangerous situations but moved with a gentle contrast as he dressed your wounds. he'd remind you time and time again that he didn't need you to think about his safety, let alone others, and you should worry about yours.

↪but he knew he wouldn't be able to stop you completely and so he would swear that he himself would protect you at all costs despite your insistence of putting him before you.

luocha ★↷

↪despite the coffin that shadowed the merchant, luocha was a healer. someone who followed yaoshi and valued that selfless, healing behaviour and that meant assisting those among the cosmo's in medical affairs for a fair exchange - he was also a wandering merchant afterall

↪he found it rather endearing at first, how you always put those you cared about above yourself. it was rather admirable but he thought less of this trait when it applied to battles. he would prefer you to be selfish and uncaring if it meant you didn't get unnecessarily harmed.

↪especially when it came to you throwing yourself straight into danger for his sake. luocha feared that one day you'd throw yourself into danger for the sake of someone else and he would lose you - he didn't want to carry around two coffins now.

↪he would start subconsciously keeping track of you during dangerous situations, he needed to make sure you didn't do anything too risky. although he didn't mind catering to your injuries, he'd prefer not to stare at his lover's bloody cuts and bruises or whatever injury you accumulated for too long.

↪the merchant may admire that selfless behaviour but allow him to be selfish for once when he places a kiss to your knuckles after dressing your wounds and asking you to stay by his side, to not leave him if he can't get to you in time.

aventurine ★↷

↪aventurine strived to follow the path of preservation, it was a goal of his. achieving this goal was solely for the purpose of protecting his people and those who had helped his journey not hindered it. so when he learnt his original quest was impossible, he needed to strive for something else.

↪he wanted to protect many things and his relationship with you was one of them. at first, he relished in that kindness you showed when you would openly admit or demonstrate how you would always place him above yourself - your selflessness was rather admirable.

↪but he didn't like as much when it meant you'd get hirt in the process. he would not be able to bear losing yet another person he cared about, especially when he had the power to prevent it - especially if you died for him.

↪most of the time, he would be able to prevent you from getting to hurt but crimson was an ugly colour on his lover and he felt a small sense of guilt when he saw it after a fight. you would notice how he'd always be shielding you if you ever threw yourself in danger.

boothill ★↷

↪only two people knew what happened to boothill, himself and the doctor - although some times he didn't think he knew himself. however one thing was clear, he had suffered an amount of pain that pushed his human body to it's limits and bended it to a point of no return. now, he didn't live for himself.

↪recklessness was what probably had landed him in this situation, however when one has a cyborg body how could he not be reckless? he found it rather charming how you always put those close to you above yourself, a noble quality but his perspective changed when he realised just what that meant.

↪he had seen first hand just how little you cared for your safety if it meant protecting someone you cared about. a bittersweet sentiment. it pained his synthetic heart when you would come from a fight all injured and bloody as if it was him in your shoes, he'd be fine. but you had willingly thrown yourself in the way for his safety.

↪he had a metal body, you had a human one - if anything he should be throwing himself in the way as he could be rebuilt. boothill would try so hard to get this message across to you as the last thing he wanted was for you to be pushed to those same limits of pain just for someone who had already been there.

↪he would'nt live for himself but he'd live for you if it meant keeping you safe.

[myladysapphire]

The Dragon and the Wolf (II)

You had been betrothed to Cregan stark at the start of the war. He was the noble and honourable stark that he was he supported your mother claim without restraint. So much so your mother saw it fit to betroth the two of you. So when disaster strikes and you and your younger brother are the only two survivors, you a shipped of north in your grief, leaving only Cregan to heal your wounds.

word count: 3,384

CW: MDI, 18+, SMUT, loss of viriginity, p in v, oral (f reciving), fluff, slight angst, depression, dependancy. not proofread!

Cregan Strak x Veleryon(strong)!reader

Masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

(smut between the dividers by @zaldritzosrose)

“I have to go to kings landing” you started as you walked into Cregan’s’ solar. It had been a week since the letter announcing your younger brother Viserys return, and you had not stopped asking to go.

“And you shall” Cregan spoke, looking up from his papers, “but after we are wed”

You were set to marry in a matter of days. You understood the need to be wed before leaving and yet waiting to see your brother after believing he was dead was pure torture.

You were desperate to see him, all you wanted was to hug him once more and tell him how sorry you were.

But duty came first.

The lords of the north were growing angsty with how long it was taking for you and Cregan to marry.

The alliance between your houses was sure to benefit the north, and until you were married, said agreements and benefits had yet to happen. And with the winter approaching the lords were growing antsy.

“of course,” you looked down, nervously playing with your fingers. “I am just eager to see my brothers and with the journey set to take a month-“

“I understand, I do, but my hands are tied” he interrupted, looking at you with understanding, “I promise, the day after our wedding we will leave”

“perhaps we could take Silverwing?” you asked hopeful, the journey would take around a day, if they rode fast, at the most three days.

“i- im not-“

“I promise its safe, and you have ridden Silverwing before.” He had, on your first visit to Winterfell. He had been hesitant then too, but you had somehow manged to drag him onto Silverwing and flown around the north for hours.

“aye, but this would be different” he said rubbing the back of his neck, “your brother has sent a letter…requesting me to become hand of the king”

you smiled “so we would be staying?”

“yes…this also means I will be having to take a large number of my household, and… though Sara shall act as the lady of Winterfell in my stead, once you are with child you will…have to return…without me, and take over the ruling of Winterfell until I am released as hand”

you were at a loss for words, this past moon you had felt lighter, the days of rotting in your bed, finding no reason to get up, having no energy to eat.

The empty hollowness you had felt for months on end has been filled, all with the help of Cregan. And now to find out that the second you got pregnant you would be shipped of and most likely never be able to return to your brothers.

You knew that there should always be a stark in Winterfell, and that their children would rule it one day, but you did not want to live in Winterfell without him.

You relied on him, in a near unhealthy way. You were often with him, in the library, or in his solar. You had already taken on the duties as Lady of Winterfell. You had liked having responsibilities, found you were good at it. But the main part of it that you liked, was that it was all with him. The friendship you once had had returned, though with trepidation as you had a first still felt empty.

You still felt the loss of your twin. Your other half. Without him you feared you would always feel incomplete, and yet Cregan had somehow manged to fill the void the death of your twin, of Luke and Joffrey.

You felt like you could so easily love him, but now.  Now a part of you resented putting this off for so long, only to know discover that you time with Cregan may be a few months or stolen moments every year.

Your mind went back to last week.

You had spent the day in each other’s company, sat in his solar as he answered letters, and you had read.

The comfort you had found with him was like no other, sitting in each other’s company. Not talking for hours and yet you felt content.

And now to learn that you may not feel the presence of him for moons on end, perhaps even years.

“I would like to stay with you, stay in kings landing” you spoke in determination, “I will not become the wife of an absent husband”

“I would not be-“

“you would sent me a thousand leagues away! So yes that makes you an absent husband!” you shook your head “I-I understand how important being hand is, how much Egg looks up to you, and I will not ask you to refuse the offer but…but I need you.” you said tearily, “without you I will…I will only find that hollowness I felt for moons, the sadness will return without you to…to comfort me, to hold me and cherish me. I cannot be alone, I may rely on you a little too much, but I cannot bear to…” you were crying now, you knew in some sense it was manipulating, but everything you had said was true. The sadness would return, he offered you the perfect reasons for you to find a purpose, a reason to wake up in the morning.

A part of you hated that you relied on another for a purpose, but all the things that once filled you with joy, with purpose, now filled you with sadness and hate.

And now, Cregan had been the thing you found some sense of joy in, and you were excited to marry him, but now part of you dreaded it, not wanting to part from him.

He stood up from his desk moving around to you and pulling you into a hug.

Cregan was a very affection person, always holding your hand or pulling you into a hug away from prying eyes.

“Cregan” you mumbled into his chest, as he stroked your hair.

“i will not send you away if you truly do not want to, but…I know the pain kings landing gives you and I do not want to ask you to spend years in the place of your torment” he said, pulling back from you slight to hold your face, “but… the babe must be born and raised here”

“I know, and I love that you do not wish for me to live in the place of such pain for me, but before… before the-the war…I loved the red keep and…I love my brothers enough to stay there” you mumbled, “If you promise not to stay the hand forever then I shall go to Winterfell if I fall pregnant during your time as hand, but i- I do not wish to be apart form you for too long”

He smiled as you said that, “how about we talk about this when the times comes, hmm?” you smiled, reaching up to place a small kiss on his cheek.

You nodded your head, stepping back from him. “i-I hope you know that I do…that I” you were stumbling over your words unsure of what to say to him. You had somehow over the course of the past moon, returned to your shy nervous self, blushing in his presence, and stumbling over your words.

“yes?” he asked smiling curiously.

“I… I feel a lot better lately, and it is thanks to you…I truly care for you and I think that I might…” you looked down nervously, unsure of if you should tell him your feelings.

“I can tell” he said before you could finish your sentence “you seem to much happier, the light in your eyes has returned and i…I want you to know that I feel the same” he blushed, “I look forward to marry you, and I hope you do also”

You nodded smiling, as you stepped back and you both continued going about your own duties, enjoying the solace of each others company.

The day of the wedding had finally come. The lords of the north had all gathered at Winterfell. The halls now full of bustling bodies, the maids running about nonstop to fulfil all their duties.

You and Cregan had been forced to spend the last day and night apart, with the north believing it to be bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other the day before the wedding.

You had instead spent the day with Sara.

“I had hoped my sisters would make it” you said sadly as she laced up your dress.

“we still have time, they may yet arrive” she said, trying to build your spirits.

Your grandsire Corlys had arrived the day before, fulfilling his long-term promise to walk you down the aisle.

You had always been close to your grandsire, with him always saying how similar to his wife you had looked.

“granddaughter” you heard him say as he had entered the room, smiling as he saw the sea horses embroidered on your dress.

“grandsire” you smiled in greeting, moving over to kiss his cheek. “do you have any news on Balea or Rhaena?” you asked hopeful.

He smiled slyly, before moving aside and allowing Balea and Rhaena to walk into the room.

“you’re here!” you had said in disbelief..

“of course, we wouldn’t miss your wedding” Baele spoke pulling you into a hug.

They had both been married themselves recently, Baela to Alyn, Corlys newly appointed heir, and Rhaena to Corwyn Corbray.

“are your husbands here?”

“yes, there both with Cregan I believe,” Rhaena said, moving to take over from Sara as she finished lacing up your dress.

“you look beautiful, sister” Balea said, smiling kindly. “Are you nervous?”

“should I be?” you asked nervously.

“do you care for him?”

You looked over at sara, as she gave you a teasing smile. She knew of your feelings for Cregan, and it seemed from that look alone your sisters to know knew.

“yes”

“then you have nothing to worry about”

“what of the…”you looked over at Corlys to see his looking slightly uncomfortable, “the night” you whispered.

“you have been betrothed for years and you have never…?”

“no!” the question shocked you, your mother had always been insistent on you waiting for marriage, saying she didn’t want you to make the same choice she had.

“never even kissed?” Sara asked shocked.

You shook you head.

“no! I’ve only ever kissed….” You wouldn’t say his name, it hurt to much. The betrayal you had felt, how you had almost given him everything. Though you were glad you never had with Aemond, for you loved Cregan. At least you think you do. “ahh” Balea almost flinched.

“it hurts the first time, but after…it can be very nice” Sara spoke, whispering.

“and Cregan is a good man, he likes you…perhaps even loves you. He will be gentle” she said, though grimacing slightly at talking about her brother in such a way.

Corlys coughed awkwardly, moving to interrupt their whispered conversation.  “it is almost time” he said, softly moving towards you.

“we better hurry up then” you said, motioning for Sara to start your hair.

Balea, Rhaena and sara had all left once you were fully ready. Leaving you and Corlsys alone.

“you are a vision” he said, as you took his arm. You started to walk through the halls of Winterfell.

you wore a dress as white as snow. With a full skirt and long flowy sleeves covered in a lace pattern.

You wore you hair down, bar tow braids at the top your head that joined at the back. Though your hair was hidden behind a lace veil, lace that matched your sleeves. Your face was covered, though it wouldn’t be for long, as you soon approached the gods woods.

“who comes before the old gods this day?” asked the northern lord officiating the wedding, as you entered the gods woods.

“y/n, of house Veleryon, She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Creagan, of house stark, lord of Winterfell and Warden of the north. Who gives her?”

“Corlsy, of house Veleryon, lord of the tides and of Driftmark, her grandsire.”

“princess Y/n, do you take this man?”

“I take this man”

“lord Cregan, do you take this woman”

“I take this woman”

“Then I pronounce you man and wife, before the old gods and the new”

You smiled at him, before reaching up and taking his lips in yours. The kiss was short and short, but caused you both to blush as cheers resounded throughout the wedding guests.

“I believe it is time for a feast!” Cregan announced as the lords and ladies cheered in response.

The feast was grand, though much different from the ones you had grown up with. It was loud and bawdy, with the lords all drunk and even singing northern tunes.

You and Cregan had kept to yourself, eating your food and talking between one another.

You had been enjoying yourself, enjoying the first few hours of marital bliss.

And then the bedding was called.

You had forgotten about the tradition.

The bride and groom escorted to their chamber. The groom by the woman, there clothes pulled of them, the bride escorted by the men, often groped and fully naked by the time they reached their chambers.

Feared courses through you as lord Bolton declared it time for a bedding.

“there will be no bedding!” Cregan boomed, as the men started to approach you.

The room seemed to flinch as the anger in his tone, “my wife will be touched by no one bar me! Anyone who lays a hand on her against her will, will have it cut off!”

You looked at him with shock, it was, grateful he was doing the right thing and saving you from a night of groping.

He reached his hand out to you as he guided you to your now shared chambers alone.

She had never been in Cregan’s chambers before, they were large. Though not as big as her chambers had been on Dragonstone. The room was mostly bare, having been mostly packed up for their journey tomorrow. It was warm, much warmer than her room in the tower had been. With a blazing fire, and dozens of blankets. The walls were filled with tapestries and the floor with rugs. Not a single wall or part of the floor was bare, allowing the room to be encased in more warmth.

“wife” Cregan spoke, capturing your attention. He moved towards you, his eyes heated as he gazed at you.

“Husband” you breathed back as he now stood before you.

He reached up to caress your face, his lips nearing yours. You shared a breath, before you both pounced.

Your lips modelled together in a heated, passionate kiss. He pushed you on the bed, your body bouncing from impact, he quickly moved over you, connecting your lips once more as he started to take of his and your clothes, never once breaking the kiss.

“gods” he moaned at the sight of your bare tits. He kissed your lips quickly before moving down to your breasts and roughly taking them into his mouth.

You moaned as he licked and sucked at your tits. He alternated between the two, savouring in your moans and whimpers.

Your gripped his hair, tugging softly at each flick of his tongue.

“you lick that?” he asked teasingly, as he let go of your nipple with a pop.

You nodded your head, whimpering slightly at him stopping.

He chuckled, “good” he said before, moving off the bed and resting on his knees “then you’ll love this” he said, as he slid the rest of your dress of you, and buried himself between your thighs.

He teasingly licked your folds, causing you to whimper.

Your gripped his hair, grinding your thighs into his face, trying to get him to lick you more.

He chuckled at your actions, before moving to grip your thighs and pull them towards his face. He buried his tongue inside of you, savouring your taste as he moved to lick your clit.

“Cregan!” you moaned as you pulled on his hair. 

The pleasure was nothing like you had experienced before. It was overwhelming, filling your senses as he continued to lick at your clit, and slowly bring his fingers to your entrance.

He groaned as his fingers entered your, relishing in the tightness of your cunt. Gods” he moaned against your clit.

He continued to lap at your slit, tasting you as if you were his last meal.

You felt your peak fast approaching, your hands gripping and tugging his hair harder, your legs wrapping around his head in away you were sure would choke him.

“Cregan!” you screamed as your peak finally hit you.

He continued his actions, riding out your peak before finally moving himself from between your thighs.

He wiped his mouth on the bed before diving back in to kiss you.

He slowly moved you to the centre of the bed, his cock positioning itself between your thigs.

“can i?” he breathed against your lips.

“yes.” You moaned as he entered you.

You felt a wave of discomfort as he stretched you out, a slight burn at the sheer size of his cock.

He slowly rocked his hips into yours, allowing you time to adjust, before you reached up and pulled him into another kiss, motioning him to speed up.

He started thrusting into you at a faster pace. Your legs wrapping around his hips and his pace became faster and faster.

He groaned into your neck, as your cunt tightened around him.

Your second peak fast approaching.

“I’m going to cum” he moaned into you, as your cunt fluttered around his cock, your second peak taking.

Your hands scratched his back as you peaked, before collapsing backwards, as he started building up to his own peak.

His thrusts became hard and fast as he finally reached his own peak, his seed filling you as he rode out his orgasm.

“gods” he moaned, collapsing on the bed, pulling you in and holding you to him.

he kissed your shoulder, stroking your hair as you both slipped off into sleep, though you both got little sleep that night.

The next day you were awoken to maids barging in and readying the remained of Cregan’s belongings. It was dawn, and you were both tired from the nights events.

 The maids had dressed you both quickly, pushing your breakfast on the table and urging you both to eat.

Cregan laughed at your bewildered face as they all rushed you both.

“we were meant to leave a dawn” he chuckled, as your maid tugged your hair, attempting to braid it, as you ate.

“then why weren’t we woken earlier?”

He sent you a look, showing exactly why they hadn’t.

“oh…must we leave so soon?” you said as you food was taken of the table before you had even finished.

“you insisted we did.”

“I-“ you looked at his smug face as your tea was taken out of your hand mid sip. “I take it back, I miss the bed!”

“you can rest in carriage” he said, as he reached for your hand.

You made your way to the courtyard, the household lined up to say their farewells, though most were accompanying you.

Balea, Rhaena, stood by the carriage, both looking as tired as you felt.

“it is far too early for this” Rhaena groaned as you approached the carriage.

Balea laughed “I cant imagine how you feel” she said, talking at you, “how much sleep did you get last night?” she teased.

You laughed “shut up!”

Sara approached you, her eyes teary, “I’ll miss you” she said pulling you into a hug.

“and I, you” you kissed her check, pulling back.

“we are leaving Winterfell in capable hands” she heard Cregan say, announcing Sara as his regent.

“don’t be gone for too long” she whispered “I was not made to rule the north” she joked, pulling away from you as you were all motioned to enter the carriage.  

Cregan walked up to the carriage window, pulling you into a kiss.

“I shall join you soon” he promised, before mounting his horse and leading the procession to kings landing.

next part

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[atrwriting]

rivalry — blackwood and bracken arranged marriage au

pt. 2 my luvs

so i wasn't an aeron girly and then a few people requested him and i was like shii maybe y'all are onto something

ok full disclosure i genuinely didn't think i would be able to write for him and then suddenly i think i wrote the dirtiest thing i've ever written in my life (like ok maybe im exaggerating but fr i was quaking in my boots)

as always, warnings: enemies to loves, smut smut smutty smut smut, blowjob, p in v sex, hate fucking, he's so pretty i cried writing this, dom!aeron, swearing, bit of pre-sex violence in an ok way, anal play, rough sex, arranged marriage, heavy on the sexism, aeron is a consent king u can't convince me otherwise

don't tell me if this sucks lmao actually please tell me im a whore for validation and critiques

_____

he did not know how he found himself in this mess.

genuinely, he did not.

when aeron bracken was a man grown, he understood duty and how he needed to uphold it. he understood that duty and tradition needed to be put over his own wants and needs, for it was for the greater good for his house.

...until that greater good came in the form of two marriages between brackens and blackwoods. his younger sister would marry a blackwood, and he would marry the younger sister of his new brother in-law. he bit his tongue at the idea — aghast at how a feud that is so engrained in their bones could be thrown away with two simple marriage pacts. how could a wound so deep, so festered — be expected to heal so fast, let alone at all?

despite the fact that it left him aghast — he would not show it on his face. his face was that of stone throughout the entire ordeal; the ceremony, the feast, the dancing — all of it. he hadn’t even had a proper look at his bride — because what would it do? it wouldn’t matter. he would bed whoever it was once or twice a month, and hope for the best.

that was until the wedding night.

there was no bedding ceremony, thank the gods — but there was throwing of cups.

lots of cups.

aeron had never had so many silver and gold chalices thrown at him in his entire life — especially not by a woman.

there the pair of you were — in your nightwear, behind a locked bedroom door, and you were throwing cups at your new husband.

aeron hadn’t even stepped within ten feet of you. he had simply sauntered into the room, greeted you, and began taking of his clothes as you were already dressed for the occasion.

“will you stop it?!” he hollered, bending to avoid the goblet hitting him in the temple. “i command you to stop!”

“you think that because we are married i will obey you?” you spat, throwing anything in your line of sight to keep him from you.

“i would hope that you would refrain from pelting me with objects until i have at least done something to fucking deserve it!”

“you’re a fucking bracken!” you spat.

aeron couldn’t believe the mouth on you, his new wife — but he could believe such atrocities came from the mouth of a blackwood.

“trust me,” he spat, dodging the next object. “i would rather be anywhere else than here!”

“you think me ugly, husband?” you responded curtly. “that i am not fit to share your bedchamber?”

“not when you’re trying to maim me — no, wife!”

“or that i am beneath you?” you spat.

suddenly you were out of objects to throw at him — but that relief was clouded by his sheer realization that your bark was just as bad as your bite.

“i never said that —" he said, trying to catch his breath. “if i recall correctly — it was your brother who referred to me as craven, and then agreed to the marriage pact. your brother began with the insults —“

“but not until you —“

“wife!” aeron suddenly hollered, his fists balled at his sides as his skin began to turn pink. he was a few feet away from you, keeping his distance. when you did not flinch at his volume or tone, he kept going, “am i bedding you — or your brother, hmm?”

“i wouldn’t be surprised —“

he couldn’t take it anymore. he stomped over to where you stood. his tall height forced him to lean down so his face was only a few inches from yours.

“whether you like it or not — you’re a bracken now,” he spat. his eyes were blown wide above you — consumed with an anger that appeared to be foreign to him. as you studied him, he continued, “we can either get this over with, or we tell our families we would not perform our duties. is that what you want?”

“you think i’d scoff at duty?” you demanded. “i refuse to be any man’s triumph — let alone a maiden on my wedding night!”

the admission caught him by surprise — but the look of fear that cross your eyes threw him much more by surprise. you weren’t a maiden, but what did that matter now? he could've scoffed at your admission. just like a blackwood to make a decision they regret.

“look,” he sighed, shaking his head. “that doesn’t matter now — and it would ruin both of us if anyone knew that. it does not bother me that you’ve been with someone else, nor will i force you to be with me. however, i will not be subjected to hatred from my wife when this is the first time we’ve spoken. if you wish —“

“get on the bed,” you spoke, sighing.

his brow furrowed in confusion.

“get on the bed,” you repeated.

he looked over you once before he pulled his shirt above his head, discarding it. as he turned, he began to unlace his pants — but he did not take them off. he let them hang loose on his hips before he laid down on the bed.

he returned his eyes to you as soon as he had laid down. when he set his eyes upon you, he realized you were bare. bare in all of your glory. he had never seen a woman so perfect in all of his life. skin as soft silk bed sheets, hair cascading down your back like that of the most coveted mare, and a figure that even the king himself would ask your hand in marriage for.

but he did not say that. any of that. his eyes were trained on you in the way any man would be on a woman as beautiful as you. and when his mouth parted slightly, his lips falling open in awe — you knew you had him and that no words would’ve been as good as the look on his face.

you fought the urge to smirk, but that did not stop you from walking towards him. you straddled his hips, letting your cunt fall right on top of where his pants hid his bulge.

“i prefer to be on top, husband,” you spoke.

he raised his eyebrows, silently conveying that he was impressed. “you’ll find no quarrel from me, wife.”

aeron bracken wouldn’t say that he was inexperienced, but he definitely did not have the confidence his lady wife had. he also never thought he would like a woman taking control… but the prospect of hurting a woman made him so nervous. he never saw he would actually see the day — him, a bracken, afraid to hurt a blackwood.

“but i must ask you one thing,” he spoke, refusing to touch her just yet. “this is of your own volition? — because i don’t want to do this if you do not wish it.”

you quirked an eyebrow at him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a loose embrace. “what of duty?”

“if duty comes in the form of forcing your wife in the bedroom — ” he spoke softly, and then continued, “i want no part in it.”

you couldn’t believe your ears. you didn’t think he would be aggressive or ruthless, but you never thought aeron bracken would want your consent — of all things! you didn’t think any man would ever understand the concept — and yet here was your husband, sitting below you and not touching you until he had your consent.

a small pool of wetness collected between your folds, and then slipped onto the laces of his pants. you didn’t think he’d notice — but you did.

he was looking at you intently — studying your face, but also waiting for your reply. you couldn’t help but give a knowing smile.

“are you pleased with the wife you received, husband?” you asked, gesturing to your naked body.

“i consider myself very lucky, wife,” he spoke, a slight smile coming to his lips. “but no one had ever conveyed to me how pretty of a face my wife had.”

“did they convey how poor my attitude is?”

“i already knew that, my lady.”

you swatted him lightly and playfully — both of you smiling.

“i want to do this with you,” you spoke, taking his hand and putting it on one of your breasts. “do you want this to be with me, husband?”

his hands were greedy with what he had been granted access to. his large hand grasped at your breast before he rolled your nipple in between his index and thumb finger. your hips jerked forward then at the sensitivity while your mouth parted slightly. aeron couldn’t help but watch as a blush rose to your cheeks, and he realized then that he wanted this very much.

“very much, wife,” he spoke, suddenly realizing he should at least try not to sound too eager.

he’d never know, but you didn’t mind his eagerness. you took it for candor, and that you appreciated.

you grabbed his other hand, and place it on your other breast. you witnessed his gaze flicker between your breasts and your face, almost like a silent question. when you bit your lip and smiled, aeron bracken did not waste any time.

his perfect lips wrapped around your nipple, which looked too good to aeron not to get a taste. his teeth had found the bud, lightly grazing it as he sucked at it. with his other arm, he wrapped it around your back with a focus on your waist. he began to thrust his hips slightly upward as he pushed and pulled you forward and backward onto his bulge.

“tell me what you like,” aeron ordered, still pinching your nipple.

you gasped at the feeling — surprised at aeron’s confident nature. you ground your cunt down harder onto his bulge, enjoying the friction from the laces of his pants. you grew worried at the prospect of soaking his pants, wondering how he would react.

“i want your cock inside me,” you mused. “and in my mouth.”

he moaned against your breast, the vibrations sending ripples throughout your entire body. he replied, “more, wife.”

you laughed, threading your fingers through his hair. “i like to be taken from behind — and i want your arm around my neck. i like it rough, husband."

for a mere instant, he thought about how other men would respond to her admission and use of coarse language. within that same moment, the thought vanquished from his mind. he realized how lucky he was to have a wife seemingly as experienced as you — for what trouble would there be now? you would tell him if he was hurting you, and you would be able to tell him what you like.

“and what do you like, husband?” you asked, running a few fingers up and down his upper arm.

he moved his hands down to your knees, running his large palms up and down your thighs. you watched his shoulder and bicep muscles tense and release as his arms extended and retracted, rubbing your soft skin. “i want to make you finish on my cock.”

you raised your eye brows at him as you blushed, laughing. “is that so, husband? i was led to believe that brackens were selfish — but now i see they're just ambitious."

you watched him as he appeared to turn over words in his head, contemplating what to say. you realized then how different aeron already was from what your family was like, and what your family believed him to be like. “can i ask you for something?”

“what, husband?”

“just allow me one night.”

you quirked an eyebrow at him. “what… do you mean?”

“allow me one night to prove that i am not what your family believes me to be.”

“my family?” you asked, stunned.

“nor you, wife,” aeron stated with a knowing grin. “just one night — for me to prove that this does not have to be a union consumed by hatred.”

you did not answer. you simply leaned down, and connected your lips with his. with both hands cupping the sides of his face, you kissed him with only sweetness and curiosity. aeron was so… different than you had ever thought he would be. he intrigued you. he honestly did. maybe it was the feud, maybe it was something else… because it didn’t matter. all you wanted to know what was the extent of his sweetness.

when he had finally discarded his pants, you marveled at his cock. it was bigger than you had ever seen, and your eyes told that. aeron smiled when he saw your surprised reaction, and couldn’t help but feel more confident at the prospect of an experienced woman being pleased with what he could offer.

you couldn’t help yourself — you immediately took him into your mouth.

aeron had received blowjobs before, sure — but not like this. oh… definitely not like this. with your hollowed out cheeks, you took him deep into your mouth and down your throat. the warmth from your mouth made him shiver, but not before his muscles tensed at the same time his mind relaxed. he had never known bliss like this. how could his pretty wife ever think he would scorn her for her experience, especially when he benefitted from it so sweetly? few hairs fell down to cover your face as you sucked on his cock, and he couldn’t help but think about how fucking lucky he was.

so lucky. so fucking lucky.

that was until you pulled off.

“does etiquette escape you, husband?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

he raised an eyebrow. “no — but your meaning does. why have you stopped?”

“because you should be holding my hair out of my face!” you snapped, eyeing him.

you didn’t let him respond. you took him back into your mouth before one of his hands picked up all of your hair and piled it on the back of your head — away, and out of your face.

good, you thought. he can take directions.

that was until you felt him begin to push down on the back of your head, causing the tip of his cock to nudge further and further down your throat. you wanted to scold him — reminding him you’re the one in charge when his cock is down your throat — but you didn’t. you didn’t because when you snapped your eyes up and saw the look on your husband’s face, you would’ve gasped if you could.

his cheeks were tinted a light pink as his eyes had drifted closed. with his mouth slightly parted, falling open in pleasure, he fought back the urge to let small moans escape his throat. with his adam’s apple bobbing — all you wanted to do was keep him teetering on the edge of not enough of and the perfect amount of pleasure.

you should’ve scolded him for pushing down on your head without asking, but you realized suddenly that it ate at your womb like the hunger for his big member inside of you. your realization occurred at the same time aeron noticed you watching him.

he smiled.

wickedly.

“are you enjoying yourself, wife?” he asked, holding your head up so you were only sucking the tip.

you narrowed your eyes at him, unwilling to give him what he wanted.

he threw his head back in laughter. you went to tell him off, but he pushed your head down again. you gagged around him, fighting the urge to cough and cry. you were growing irritated with his actions — wondering where in the seven hells he got the fucking nerve.

he noticed your anger the instant your brow began to knit together.

“you’re so pretty, wife —“ he spoke, relishing in the pleasure you granted him with a wicked smile on his face. “but you are so much prettier when your cock is down my throat and that attitude escapes you.”

he pushed your head down again, causing you to gag and a tear spring to your eye. you wanted to tell him off — but when the warmth in your womb curled with the anger in your chest, you couldn’t. you just couldn’t. you couldn’t bring yourself to scold him, because what if he stopped? what if he stopped the delicious, bittersweet feeling that he was giving you without even touching you?

“i can see it by the way you’re rubbing your thighs together,” he spoke, eyes on the backs of your legs. “can’t help it, i see. all that blackwood attitude, 's too much for you, isn't it? — all you needed was for a bracken to put you in your place.”

he wasn’t choking you, no — but the surprise attacks on the back of your head and into your throat threw you for loops. you didn’t like to be out of control, and didn’t think you ever would — but you couldn’t deny the slick that had fell from your folds and was now collecting between your thighs. you grew insecure at the thought — that if the flames from the fire or the lanterns caught the shadows just right, aeron would see your slick glisten in the light. the realization was embarrassing and exhilarating all at the same time — but you couldn’t deny you wanted more.

“that’s it, wife,” he cooed condescendingly above you. “take that bracken cock down your pathetic fucking throat.”

you did. oh gods, you did. your throat was hoarse with the bittersweet attack on its inside. you were fighting back coughs and gasps, wanting to wipe away every bit of saliva from around your mouth but you couldn’t. you were stroking the bottom of his cock and bracing yourself with your other hand — working him as fast and as hard as he wanted you to.

and then he pulled you off when you reached the tip of his cock.

you were hazy — lost in lust. he pulled you off of his cock with your mouth still open, saliva beginning to run down your chin. you were gasping for air once aeron let go of your hair, only to replace his hand around your throat.

you immediately grabbed his wrist — you weren’t sure why. to brace yourself, maybe — but that was all you could do as aeron held you before him with your back arched towards him while he sat upright.

you weren’t sure what you looked like — probably a mess; spit, tears, and messy hair. but aeron? fuck, aeron — he was himself. completely himself. confidence and pleasure and arrogance formed to make a look of power on aeron, and you couldn’t help but want him more. the pink hue of his cheeks and lips did not suggest innocence, no — but exertion of a man’s power. at that moment, all you wanted was your bracken husband inside you.

“you hate that you liked that, don’t you?” he asked, a small wicked grin playing at his lips.

you couldn’t answer. you could only gasp for air in response, throat still dry from his cock.

“cock keeps you quiet, wife?” he laughed then.

your eyes narrowed at him, even through your tears. that set you off.

“well, when you shove your craven cock down my throat —“

he chuckled then, and you were too weak to protest. “craven cock, that right?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “well, maybe i should let my reputation precede me — i guess i don’t care about fucking my wife the way she needs me to.”

“i don’t need you to,” you spat, lying through your teeth.

“you don’t?”

he held you upright then, leaving you on your knees with your back arched. he towered over you on your own knees as you felt a hand of his slip down your abdomen, and in between your thighs.

he laughed once more. “you don’t?”

you went to hit him, but he caught your hand. your cheeks were beginning to sting with want, need, and embarrassment. when his fingers began to rub circles on your clit, the fucking center of the ache — you almost doubled over onto him, hoping to catch yourself on his chest. you fought against his fingers, forcing yourself not to show any sign of enjoyment.

he chuckled darkly. “i’m going to have to fuck that blackwood attitude out of you, aren’t i?”

“as if you could,” you replied, glaring.

he raised his eyebrows at you then — a dare. you were feeling weak, and definitely weren’t able to match him — but you couldn’t let that show.

“i was going to be nice and let my pretty wife ride me,” he ordered, sighing. "get on your stomach."

he let go of your throat with a slight push on the release. your muscles were wound so tight that the abrupt action caused you to lose your balance, and fall. with a huff, you rolled over onto your stomach.

aeron couldn’t believe the sight before his eyes. the flames and the moonlight from the window caused shadows to ripple across your perfect hourglass shape and ass. aeron pushed your soft, long hair off of your back and onto the bed so that his fingers could trace the length of your spine from your neck to your tailbone.

you shivered at the feeling. you were about to scoff at him when he smacked your ass.

“bracken!” you spat. “how dare —“

he chuckled before he pulled you up the hips. you caught yourself on your knees and hands, trying to keep your balance. a blush rose to your cheeks as you realized you were… completely exposed to your husband. you felt his hand come up to the fleshy part of your ass, kneading the thick skin. you froze.

“my perfect wife…” he mused, massaging your skin.

you wriggled in his hold, and he held you still — spreading your cheeks. you gasped at the further exposure — every private area of your body now visible.

“husband…” you spoke.

his tone mocked you. “you’re still soaking, my lady — do you really want your lord husband to stop?”

“piss off — !”

he smacked your ass again, causing you to yelp.

“can’t expect better from a blackwood…” he sighed. he spat on the puckered hole of your ass, and you froze. he let the spit drop from your ass to your cunt, mixing with the juices collecting on your folds. “are you going to lose your mouth?”

“i swear —“

you felt his finger circle your puckered hole, and before you could protest — he slipped his thumb into you.

you gasped, leaning forward. his laugh vibrated through him, and you felt it against the backs of your thighs. it was only his thumb — but you had never been touched in such a way. you had never had anyone, nor anyone breach such a private area of yours. you felt it bury itself to the last knuckle, all of your muscles tightening around it. you should’ve felt violated, dirty, something of the sort… but you didn’t. all you could register was how empty your cunt felt in comparison.

“have you ever been touched here before?”

you didn’t answer, still speechless.

he smacked your ass once more. “you will answer when your lord husband speaks to you.”

“no, husband…” you whispered. “please, husband… i want your cock…”

“…i could give you my cock, couldn’t i?” he spoke, slipping his thumb in and out of you gently. a sharp intake of break was involuntary from your throat. “i could, but what would that teach you? my greedy blackwood wife would continue to think so little of her bracken husband.”

“don’t make me beg,” you whined. “i want you so bad, please…”

you couldn’t see it — but you could imagine the smirk on his face at your words. he slipped a finger inside your soaking cunt and aching clit, and couldn’t help but let out a sigh at the feeling. your cunt clamped down around his finger like you had never had someone inside you before, needing him so desperately. his circles on your clit were agonizingly slow, and soon the relief from his minuscule touch was turning into desperation.

he realized this at the same moment you did.

“who knew my lady wife could be such a whore for her husband,” he spoke lowly. your hips began to rock against his hand, wanting and needing more. so much more. “do you wish me to stop? tell me.”

“no —“ you cried. “you can’t stop, i’ll… i’ll…”

your body felt like it had pins and needles everywhere. you had been pushed and pulled toward an orgasm, over and over, but never fully brought to the peak. you were warm, cold, hot, freezing — all at once and it smashed your resolve to pieces. you were a pathetic, drooling, sopping mess that needed her husband to quell this ache; to put it to rest so that you may rest.

he ripped his hands from you, and you sobbed. you actually sobbed. you bent your hips back to meet his, but met nothing. you bit back a sigh of frustration as tears threatened to overflow from your eyes.

“seven hells…” you sighed, shoving your face into the bed cover.

then, you felt your hips being pushed down as your knees flattened. you went to turn around to question it, but then you felt your husband spread your thighs. the cool air hit your cunt like lightening and you whimpered at the feeling. you felt an arm snake around your throat as a weight settled on top of you.

you felt aeron’s lips press against your jaw — pushing your head to the side as his touch calmed you. you let your head be supported by his strong arm, whimpering when you felt the tip of his cock at your entrance.

“maybe brackens are mean…” he whispered against your ear. “an honorable husband would right that mistake, wouldn’t he?”

he didn’t wait for you to respond. he thrusted his cock into your wet cunt. once his cock filled you, a gasp left your lips on reflex. you could feel a groan rumbling in his chest as he bit down on your neck. your husband had complete control over your body, and you gave in to his thrusts as his hips snapped against yours.

“that’s what you needed,” he stated with a wicked grin against your cheek. “cunt so warm and wet — just wanted to be fucked so bad.”

“you fucking bastard —" you cried. “it feels so good —"

with a groan, he spoke, "i know it does — didn't i promise i'd make the ache go away?"

your cunt sucked him in — refusing to let him go as he thrusted inside of you. he slid his hand underneath your stomach and let his fingers find your clit and roughly rub shapes on it. you reflexively bit down on his forearm, crying into his skin. your hips wanted to move with him, or against him, fucking anything — you weren't really sure, as they had a mind of their own. the pleasure was too much — and way too much for your mind. aeron was fucking you dumb into the bed without anywhere to go.

you felt his lips by your ear, "that's it. take it for me. ungrateful cunt — can't get enough of craven bracken cock."

nothing that left your lips was coherent. you were gasping onto his forearm for dear life as his sword hand drew the greatest weapon of all — forcing the sobbing, strong woman to become clay in his fucking hands. with his own hips and arm, he held your hips down as they tried to fight against them. try they did, but they were no match for a man like aeron bracken.

"tell me you can't get enough wife — " he grit against your ear. "tell me you can't get enough of craven bracken cock."

"don't make me — "

he stilled not only his hips, but his hand.

he held your still with his forearm, locking you in place. you fought against him, trying to buck your hips back against his cock for anything you could get. with malice, he replied, "i could use my hand and hold you down on this bed as i finish all over your back. would you prefer that, wife? spilling over you like a common whore? or will you listen?"

"fucking —" you spat, consumed by frustration. "aeron, please —"

"are those words too dirty for you, my lady?" he asked condescendingly, softly and slowly moving his finger against your clit. not enough to satisfy you — but definitely enough to frustrate you further. "you want me to fuck you like other lords fuck their new wives? slow, and shallow? maybe three thrusts before they fall asleep? barely caring if their wife feels good?"

"no..." you whimpered.

"then say it."

"please, husband..." your mind going numb with frustration. "please — i need your craven bracken cock."

"that's is, love," he spoke, sheathing his long cock inside you once more. "that's all i needed. such a good little wife for me."

his fingers immediately continued their assault on your clit, and you gasped at the feeling. you could feel and hear aeron's laugh behind you as your hips jerked once, twice, thrice before you let out a cry. it filled the room and would fill the ears of anyone walking by your room. you dug your nails into his forearm as he pulled you closer against him, closer, closer, closer — kissing your forehead as you came. you came, and you came, and you came. there was nothing like it. there was nothing left of you. you had never experienced an orgasm that was so fucking earth shattering. it pushed and pulled you like nothing ever before. with each aftershock, aeron sucked on your neck and hummed at the taste. he wanted to swallow you whole, and leave nothing left for you. you were clay — barely crumbs in his hand, but only his to mold.

when you went limp, aeron let out a hearty, earthy grunt. he pushed you down onto the mattress as you lay flat on your stomach. on his knees and between your thighs, he grasped the flesh of your ass in both hands and fucked your cunt straight into that perfect spot that you had only found once or twice in your life. he was like an animal behind you; predator and prey, with the carnal need to breed you dumb. when aeron delivered his final thrust, his hips snapped against you and you could feel him against your cervix. it hurt in the most delicious way possible — almost like you could feel your hips, cervix, womb, fucking everything open for him and swallow him whole.

he collapsed next to you before he pulled you into his arms. he placed a single kiss on your forehead, long and hard and you sighed, content.

"did i prove myself to you?" he whispered as the flames from the fire begin to die down, cloaking you both in darkness.

you scoffed, nuzzling further into him as you kissed the skin of his chest.

"no need to admit it, wife," he laughed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "i already accomplished tonight's ambition."

you swatted him — and he laughed, not fearing you in the slightest.

____

lmk what u think ;)))) -L