#its the reverence the affection the possession

[dearru]

mAK i cannot stop thinking about shouyou who's like had a crush on you forever but doesn't realize that it's a crush? he just thinks he likes you as a REALLY GOOD FRIEND and slowly realizes that its mORE than just what he feels for really good friends UGH

OH MY GOD YOUR BRAIN IS SO BIG. I actually have a 5+1 shoyo draft that plays into this but u have given me an excuse to yap SO IM GONNA YAP cuz a slow realization is SOOOO in character for him. | mlist

More than anything else, Hinata Shoyo is an instinctual lover. He doesn't have to think about how to love something because being someone who feels has always been woven into the threads of his personhood. For him, loving comes as natural as breathing, especially when it comes to you. It was never something he had to question, nor something that was ever accompanied by a sudden epiphany. His feelings festered inside of him so slowly that he never noticed their presence because they’d always been constant, and this is precisely why it takes him an eternity to fully understand the depth of his emotions. 

Everything he does/feels for you is instinctual. All the simple acts of kindness, the stolen glances filled with a delicate fondness, everything. He only realizes he wants you in a greater capacity than he has you when one of his peers asks what you are to him.

It's not uncommon for people to question the dynamic you and him share, and Shoyo normally answers also out of instinct: “We’re best friends.” You've been his closest companion since birth; you’ve been with him since before he’d developed a sense of self. It's hard to encapsulate all you are to him in words, but "best friend" has always seemed to suffice.

Until now. 

This time, for some unknown reason, his voice wavers before he can give the normal answer, and that’s the first warning sign. It’s what pushes him toward the precipice and the reflection that follows is what leads him to stumble upon a conclusion that’s been creeping up on him all his life. 

Shoyo has always possessed an unbounded affection for most things in life. He reveres the rush he gets from smacking a volleyball just right, he adores the feeling of the sun hitting his face, and he’s delighted by the satisfying sensation of biting into a steaming hot meat bun. 

But you? He loves you. 

And now that he knows that, he can't go back to how things used to be.

He won't.

[torch-the-throne]

I’m a simple gal and I’m not immune to men calling other men their skipper

[joelsrose]

mornin

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ smut warnin

The first thing you felt was warmth. It seeped into your skin, tugging you from the soft haze of slumber. The morning light filtered through the curtains, golden and dreamy, and for a fleeting moment, you weren’t sure if you were awake or still lost in some delicious dream. Your eyelashes fluttered, your vision slowly coming into focus, and a soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips.

There it was again—that familiar pull deep in your belly, a slow burn blooming low and steady. You reached out instinctively, your hand brushing the empty space beside you where Joel’s warmth usually was.

But then you felt it. Him.

He wasn’t beside you because he was there—nestled between your thighs, his broad hands gripping you firmly, possessively, as your legs tried in vain to press together. Joel’s touch was unyielding, keeping you wide open for him.

The moment you propped yourself up on your elbows, the sight nearly stole the breath from your lungs. Joel lifted his head, lips glistening and curved in a lazy, wicked smirk that made your heart stutter. His dark curls were tousled, messy from sleep, and the soft morning glow kissed his skin in a way that made him look like something carved from your most private fantasies.

“Good morning, my sweet girl,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent shivers cascading down your spine. He pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his beard scraping against you just enough to leave you trembling.

Your hand found his curls, threading through them with a trembling touch. He hummed in response, leaning into your caress for a brief moment, his eyes heavy-lidded with adoration as he looked up at you.

“You’re too beautiful for your own good,” he said, his tone dripping with affection and something darker. He kissed higher this time, his lips trailing a deliberate, teasing path that left your breath hitching. “Lay back, angel. Let daddy take care of his girl.”

The words, so low and intimate, left you speechless. Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, and with a shy nod, you let yourself sink back into the pillows.

Joel’s mouth returned to its home, his tongue hot and wicked against your skin. He moved with a slow, deliberate precision, savoring every reaction as though he had all the time in the world. You whimpered his name, the sound raw and breathless, and your fingers clutched the sheets in desperation.

“Oh, Joel,” you mewled, your voice trembling as heat built and pooled low in your belly.

He hummed in approval, the vibration sending shockwaves through you. His hands held you steady, his grip firm yet reverent as though you were something precious and fragile. “That’s my girl,” he rumbled, his voice thick with pride. “So sweet, so perfect. I could stay here forever, darlin’.”

And when his gaze flicked up to meet yours, dark and smoldering, it was all too much—the intensity in his eyes, the way he worshipped every inch of you. Your back arched, a broken cry spilling from your lips as you surrendered completely to the man who seemed utterly consumed by you.

Joel didn’t just touch you—he devoured you, like he couldn’t get enough, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

[connorsui]

In the Quiet Afterhours

Zayne x reader

Synopsis: In the quiet of afterhours, you and zayne find solace in the intimacy of simple acts of care, your love unspoken yet deeply felt through the tenderness of shared moments.

Genre/warnings: pure fluff, silence of intimacy, zayne wanting to drown himself in your warmth, you are the light in this manz life, no warnings tho …zayne has suffered enough

note: I just wanna take care of him...like plz let me give my man his needed care..

w.: 1,180

There was, perhaps, no greater feeling than the quietude of love that existed in those moments where words fell away, leaving only the hum of companionship to bind two souls together. Zayne had always been a man of few words—practical in his pursuits, level-headed in his judgments, and ever the picture of self-possession. Yet, beneath that stern exterior, there was a tenderness reserved solely for you, a tenderness that revealed itself not in grand gestures or fervent declarations, but in the subtleties of shared moments, and the warmth of a gaze lingering far longer than propriety might allow.

This evening was no different, save for the weariness etched into his fine features, the faint shadows under his hazel-green eyes telling the tale of a long day spent in service to duty. He returned home as he always did—quietly, with little fanfare, his shoulders still squared despite the obvious weight that pressed upon him. And yet, when his eyes found yours, there was a softening in his expression, the firm lines of his brow relaxing as though the sight of you alone was enough to ease the burdens he carried.

"Welcome home," you murmured, the warmth of your voice drawing him nearer.

"Hello, love"

Zayne, ever pragmatic, offered a small nod, but it was the way his hand rose to brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek that spoke volumes more than any pleasantry could. There was an intimacy in that touch, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin as though reluctant to part, as though you alone were the balm to his tired soul.

He said little as you coaxed him toward the shower, his resistance nonexistent, for he had learned, in these quiet moments, to let you care for him. It was a remarkable thing, this unspoken understanding between you—a partnership built on the most delicate threads of love, trust, and respect. You, in turn, had come to know that behind Zayne’s pragmatic exterior was a man who cherished the simplicity of your presence, a man who allowed himself to be vulnerable only when the world outside had no claim on him.

The warm cascade of water was a gentle relief, steam curling in the air as you worked the soap into your hands, your fingers gliding over his tense shoulders. The muscles beneath your touch, though firm, betrayed a quiet exhaustion, and as you began to wash him, you could feel the faint tremor of relief in his body, the tension slowly unraveling.

He closed his eyes, his lips parting in a near inaudible sigh, and for a moment, he was not the stoic officer, nor the pragmatic strategist. He was simply Zayne, a man who found comfort in your touch, in the way your hands moved with careful precision over his skin, tracing the curves and lines that you had come to know so intimately.

In another’s eyes, this scene might have seemed mundane, but there was an indescribable beauty in the familiarity of it all—a beauty that lay not in grandiose acts of affection but in the quiet devotion with which you attended to one another. It was a love that needed no embellishment, no flowery language to justify its existence, for it was rooted in something far more profound.

When your hands drifted lower, the soap lathering between your fingers, Zayne’s eyes fluttered open, and there it was again—that look of quiet reverence that always seemed to accompany his gaze when it fell upon you. It was not the gaze of a man merely admiring your physical form, but the gaze of a man rediscovering you anew each time, as though the sight of you was enough to set his soul alight in ways words could never adequately express.

He said nothing, but the faintest upward curve of his lips betrayed him. “Spoiling me again?” he murmured, his voice low, teasing in a way that would have seemed foreign to anyone but you.

“And why shouldn’t I?” you replied softly, smiling as your hands worked the soap along the lines of his body. “You work so hard... At least let me take care of you.”

There was a moment, brief yet timeless, where Zayne’s eyes softened even further, the weight of his exhaustion giving way to something deeper, something far more tender. It was in these moments that you truly understood the depth of his affections. He would never speak them outright, for it was not his nature to indulge in the overt declarations that many sought in love. Yet, in the way he stood before you, allowing you to see him in his most vulnerable state, you knew. You knew that his heart, so often guarded, was entirely yours.

When it came time to wash his hair, Zayne bent forward with practiced ease, his dark hair falling over his brow as you lathered the shampoo into his scalp. You laughed, as you always did, at the way his hair fluffed beneath the suds, your amusement drawing a faint smile from him.

“You look cute like this,” you teased, the lightness in your voice a welcome contrast to the quiet of the room.

He glanced up at you, one eyebrow raised in mock indignation. “cute?...another word for you to describe me...” he echoed, his voice dry, though the glint in his hazel eyes betrayed his amusement. “If you could see how I invision you, the roles would be reversed"

Yet he made no protest, content to let you have your moment of playful teasing. For all his stoicism, Zayne had always had a soft spot for the way your laughter lit up the room, and though he would never admit it aloud, he found your teasing far more endearing than he let on.

When the roles reversed, and it was Zayne’s hands that worked the soap into your hair, he was as gentle as ever. His fingers moved with a precision that was unmistakably him, careful to ensure no soap slipped into your eyes. “I know you say I deserved to be spoiled but allow me to give that in return, ten times fold ” he murmured, his voice a quiet caress, his touch so tender it felt as though you might melt beneath it.

You didn't argue.

Once the water had washed away the last traces of soap, he reached for a towel, and in the same unhurried manner, began to dry you off with the utmost care, as though each motion was imbued with the love he so rarely spoke of. It was in these moments, in the quiet spaces between words, that you truly understood the depth of Zayne’s love for you—a love that, like the stars themselves, was constant, enduring, and far more profound than words could ever convey.

Even after the task was complete, he lingered, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close in an embrace that spoke of more than just comfort. It was connection, the unspoken promise that even in silence, his heart was yours.

His breath, soft against your neck, mingled with the warmth of your skin, and there, in the quiet afterhours of the day, there was no need for words.

Just the two of you alone.

Gimmie a tired zayne I would take care of him

[animeyanderelover]

Hello can I request a yandere jjk x angel reader.

Geto, Gojo, Yuta, Sukuna. Thank you!!!

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional tendencies, cligniness, paranoia, sadism, abduction, isolation, violence

Tags: @lovley-valentine7

Angel s/o

Ryomen Sukuna

🗾​This is no forbidden lovestory. No tragic fairytale of two people who aren't meant to be together. No, the only emotions brooding between the two of you are those of repulsion, disgust and, on only Sukuna's side, an attraction that only fuels the hateful obsession. He is the King of Curses, you are a being of pureness and protection. The two of you are supposed to be enemies, intertwined in an eternal fight until one of you falls through the hands of the other. Those emotions though, they shouldn't be there. He should loathe you, he does loathe you. So why does he experience those sensations whenever the two of you clash? This thrill pumping through his veins goes beyond the bloodthirst and sadistic ecstasy when fighting someone, beyond the fantasies of slashing and devouring. Other feelings co-exist within those carnal desires Sukuna is so familiar with and if he would be someone lesser he would accuse you of bewitching him. Only someone weak would fall for a cheap trick that were to influence their perceptions in such unfamiliar ways, twist them into something so pathetic. You only add salt to the wound within his ego as he is the only one suffering from such a disease.

🗾​A primal part of him longs to slash you into bloody pieces so that your body and face may never tempt him again. Far too merciful would that be though, not enough for Sukuna's heart yearning for revenge. He has suffered a great humiliation because of you, feelings of love and attraction that have weakened him and his resolve. You deserve something far worse than death. He will drag you into a pit of hellfire even deeper than his, will break you and shape you until you are even more pathetic than he is. You will be punished for the seeds of feelings you have planted within him. You will be captured, kept and tamed by him until you are too tainted to return to the holy place where you originated from. He is going to enjoy ruining you and weakening your resolve, to shatter you until you have no option but to stay with him. As soon as you are in the position where he wants you to be, you will be kept as his obedient pet. Your abilities are going to be of great use for his plans after all. It's affection that keeps him still chained to you, a bond that even he will be unable to sever. You will be his. Because if you aren't, then he will burn you alongside the world you have sworn to guard over.

Gojo Satoru

🩵​His appearance and his powers have always put Gojo closer to a being closer to a deity, at least in the eyes of some people. The power that emits from you is something that even non-sorcerers can sense though they do not sense what you are. Gojo with his Six Eyes instantly discerns that you are an existence that no sorcerer has ever encountered. A messenger of an even higher being that has graced earth for purposes unknown. Gojo proceeds with a healthy mixture of caution though as he believes those in power to be rarely innocent. Being close to you is a dizzying experience, the energy you emit strong enough to evoke reverence within an average person. Even Satoru is not entirely immune to those feelings yet he isn't swayed as easily as he remains wary when around you. Every word, every gesture, every flutter of your eyelashes is something that he observes closely as he tries to figure out your purpose for your ascendence to earth and its people. He fails to inform people of highest position of your existence though as he would only dread what they would do with that information. Maybe, just maybe, there is also a part within him that wants to keep this extraordinary experience to himself.

🩵​The rapid fluttering within his chest, the warm adoration pulsing through every fiber of his being, the weightlessness he experiences whenever his gaze falls upon you. Around you Satoru feels a safety and a comfort that only someone like you could provide him with. It initially scares him, the sensation of a heaven on earth something that has never been granted to him. Soon he gives in to everything though and that is when the clinginess and paranoia start. Both of you are from different worlds entirely as his life is but a short spark in comparison to your life of eternity. It is this knowledge that he is a being chained to time that torments him greatly. He doesn't wish you to move on, to forget him as the centuries pass. It is a selfishness of the highest degree, perhaps even blasphemous in the face of a holy creature like you. Gojo is only human though, riddled with flaws and an imperfection that someone like you could never possess nor understand. It is you who triggered those feelings within, you who made him this way. If you truly are what history hails you to be then stay and save him from his solitude. Do that or watch him fall victim to his dark side where he will only accept salvation from you.

Geto Suguru

🗻​How utterly ironic of the monk to be met with an otherwordly being as yourself. Geto is not overly welcoming, at least not anymore the moment you voice your own doubts about his vision. A cast of judgement from someone like you cuts deep, so much deeper than Suguru would have ever imagined. In his mind he does what will be best for his own kind, his opinion of non-sorcerers tainted in nothing but hatred. What you try to protect is a creation that is beyond saving. Just take a look around you after all and see what the barbaric feelings of those monkey give birth to. They are the reason curses exist, they are the reasons why his kind dies in an attempt to save their ignorant lives. But for what reward? If they were to find out about the powers the sorcerers possess they would revert back to witch hunts and fear. He has seen it. There is nothing worth protecting within the non-sorcerers. But he could create a paradise like it is written down in so many ancient works across the globe, a place where the hatred and judgement wouldn't exist anymore. His own belief clashes with your own passive one yet to him never before has approval mattered as much as it did with you.

🗻​Suguru obsesses over the fact that he wants your approval for his plans. His mind is set and nothing can stop him, not even you. He will execute his plans with or without your blessing yet he cannot stop himself from obsessing over it anyways. It is an unbearable burn within his heart to know that a literal angel like you are do not agree with him. He constantly seeks you out, tries to convince you to understand his greater vision. He even takes you with him to show you the pettiness of humans, to make you see that they are beyond saving and that a future only lies within sorcerers like him and all those who have joined his cause. The silent look you always give him though always threatens to tear him apart as you gaze at him like he is a lost child who needs saving. He doesn't need that though. He has discovered the light already and yearns for you to join his cause. If he were in possession of your approval, of your love, there would be nothing in his way anymore. If you refuse though, if the threat arrives that you may disappear, Suguru will do his everything to keep you bound to his side. He is no sinner, not at all. He has seen a different salvation, one he will have you understand.

Okkotsu Yuta

💍​He should stay alerted, he should stay cautious when he approaches a being so out of this world. However, your mere presence is enough to eradicate any hostility that he could have possibly harbored for you. His whole body forcibly relaxes as if put under a spell, the grip on his katana easing. A heavy gulp that has his Adam's apple moving before he slowly steps closer to you, each step filling him more with sensations of elation and joy of the likes that he has never experienced before. Rika seems to be slightly uncomfortable within your presence though, baring her sharp teeth and hovering over Yuta as if warning you to not try anything on him. Rika's presence seems to be something that elicits a reaction out of you just as much. For one short moment he dreads that you will exorcise her, won't like her due to being a Curse. To his relief you deem her to be a creature that can do more help than damage though, sparing him the horrible scenario where he would have to defend her against someone as magnificent as you. You are beautiful, a fact that Yuta can't deny. Every time he does as much as think of you he feels those butterflies erupting within his chest.

💍​Your presence is addicting, every touch of yours electrifying bliss and your appearance radiant, transcending the beauty that he has been familiar with so far. Your figure visits him in his dreams, your voice a call he can only answer. Yuta wishes to worship you, to go down on his knees and praise you for the holy being that you are. Someone like you is too pure for this earth though, a place crawling with curses and humans. He feels this unexplainable urge to slash all those who commit evil, to rid your path of such unsightly beings so that you may only experience the good. It is a thought that grows louder each and every day, becomes hard to reign and only quietens when he is with you as if your presence cleanses him from such inpure desires. Still, the urge never disappears and manifests itself every time he catches sight of an ugly curse or a human who you should not have to witness with your magnificent eyes. His own spiral into insanity is not something he is oblivious to and it threatens to pull Yuta down with shame. How can he protect you after all when he himself has such unholy thoughts about you? You should need protection from him.

[cloudwisp]

𝐣𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐮𝐚𝐧 · 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

contents: slight hurt/comfort. suggestive ending. happily married (but not without its problems). he reschedules a date night you were looking forward to but promises to make it up to you. 1k wc.

As Jing Yuan enters the room, he can see the petulant pout resting on your crestfallen face through the mirror’s reflection while you’re seated before your vanity. A hand-carved jade comb in your delicate hold as you run its emerald teeth through your hair gracefully. You can hear his steady footsteps approaching you from behind but you refuse to meet his eyes or acknowledge his presence. He knows the reason for your sulking behavior—why you’re punishing him with your silent treatment when you’d normally leap into his arms for a welcoming kiss at every first chance.

His chest tightens from the withheld affections yet his golden-amber eyes remain warm and soft even when you’re not on agreeable terms with him. The fresh floral arrangement beside him crumples under his touch as he places it on your tabletop. You can feel your resolve slipping when you accidentally glance at his apology flowers, and you note that business hours have long since closed and he couldn’t have secured this without calling in a small favor—and he made certain it’s your favorite to emphasize his utmost sincerity.

You know that you’re incapable of staying upset at him for long, and maybe even he’s aware of that and has learned you'll come around after he lets you have your moment of temperament. After all, he promised to take you out for a nice dinner tonight and imagine your dismay when you receive a message from him that entails his required attention as general to some affair that you didn't bother reading until the end.

“You’re pouting, my love.” Jing Yuan speaks softly, and he feels guilt welling up inside when all you wanted was to spend some quality time with him—as husband and wife enjoying a little night outting together with your arm looped around his and wearing that pretty smile of yours. And he hates being the reason for your dejected state right now.

“Oh, am I? Hm, wonder why that is.” You offer an unimpressed huff with your gaze still downcast and him a few inches away from you. However, you can’t help the surprised gasp when he suddenly bends down on one knee, his muscles rippling under his uniform when he grabs the underside of your chair and carefully pivots your weight so that you can no longer hide yourself from him.

His reverent touch clasps your hand that’s already in possession of the jade comb and you slowly meet his gentle visage, though your discontentment still lingers and he wishes nothing more than to make things right with you. His other hand reaches up and you brace for the sweet caress of his knuckles against your skin before he cups your cheek with tender-loving care.

“Mm. There you are, I like it better when I can see your face.” He murmurs and you’re reminded how much of a weak spot you have for him, melting so easily at his warmth and nuzzling into his palm as he manages to subdue your pout with a simple gesture. “My apologies for having to cancel our date on such short notice. An issue came up that I couldn’t ignore. Can I do something to earn your forgiveness, dear? You look beautiful, by the way.”

A small hmph escapes you at the compliment even though he’s not trying to get by with flattery. Jing Yuan has always appreciated your beauty in its natural state and when you add little enhancements to your features. Your radiance could overwhelm a romantic man into a poet and pen out the most beautiful prose to capture your essence, or so his slippery tongue revealed under a full moon when he sipped on too much wine in his years of pining after you.

“You should’ve seen me before I got unready for bed.” You set your jade comb aside and bring his hands down to place in your lap to hold and trace patterns along the center of his palm with your finger. “I wanted to look nice for you and wore this gorgeous embroidered hanfu I had custom-made. And I found the perfect hairpin to complete the look.” You continue to explain the details of your appearance and what you were looking forward to and your husband listens intently to your every word—something resembling a besotted smile as he envisions your descriptions.

With an imperceptible hum and nod in solemn consideration of everything, he’s relieved you shared your sentiments on the situation with him instead of shutting him out. Yet as much as it pains both of you, he made sure you were aware of these possible drawbacks that follow him as general and protector of the Luofo. And it would only cause a strain in your marriage to fester and wedge a gap between you two had you been any less forgiving, but you agreed to these terms when you exchanged vows and he always does good on his promise to remedy his shortcomings in more ways than one.

“It appears I have really disappointed you, hm? How will I ever make it up to you. Show you how much I appreciate you in a different way? After all, you’ve gone through the trouble of dolling yourself up for me.” With a soft grunt, he returns to his full height with you secured close to his chest and his arms supporting your legs and back in a bridal carry. “It’s such a shame I couldn’t be there to see you and your efforts, and to keep such beauty hidden away indoors no less.”

Jing Yuan strides toward the bed and lays you down, brushing the few strands of hair away from your face as he settles over you and presses a light kiss on your forehead. “Will you allow me to do just that? Take good care of you, my lovely wife?” A subtle nod from you and in the next breath he cherishes the sweetness of your lips, your eyes roll back under tilted lids while your arms coil around his neck and broad shoulders.

Every part of him is tender and adoring with how he handles you and he can only dream of reciprocating every last morsel of love you have so willingly granted him in your time together.

[lovehotelreservation]

Haunting You, I'm Onto You

Summary: The serpent in the Garden of Eden.

Caleb in your bedroom.

Sin would transpire.

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: F!Reader/Caleb

**Warning: contains depictions/themes of non-con, somnophilia, and possessive behavior. Please take discretion before proceeding!**

the dlsite jumped out of me with that 3.0 livestream 🚬🚬

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

This was a sacred place that Caleb had no right to step into.

And yet here he was, standing right at the foot of your bed regardless.

He was supposed to be a precious memory, but he felt that a wretched ghost who refused to crawl to heaven or sink into hell suited him better.

Especially as the sight of you nestled peacefully in bed, the hem of your nightgown risen and askew, only made his throat feel painfully parched.

His hands, already curled into loose fists, tightened shut as his fingernails dug into his palms, all while his violet irises continued to behold you with sheer reverence.

The apple of his eye.

But as he took a step forward, his knee soon finding its way to the edge of your mattress, that piety turned sacrilegious.

Much like the serpent in Eden, Caleb began to slither his way up along your bed, big hands pressing into and long limbs dragging along the surface. It didn’t take long for him to be fully perched above you, hovering, near salivating at your slumbering serenity.

His fingers twitched as he gingerly brought them towards your face, letting them linger in the air before he slowly brought his thumb to your cheek.

The beginning of a trail of the lightest caress towards your lips.

The way you looked to lean, nuzzle even, into his touch only twisted whatever was left of his already mutilated self-restraint.

“Dreaming of me still…?”

It was a question that he didn’t need answering.

If at any point you were to open your eyes and see him, perceive him, especially when he was hunched over you like a dog, he would beg the gods above to be smote down again right at the spot.

Though, on that train of thought, he felt he could easily match the gods in their merciless wrath.

Just a glance over towards your vanity was enough to send him on a rampage.

Seashells along the wooden top from a recent trip to the beach, a chubby bunny plush from a night out at the arcade, a marked map noting highlights from a joy ride on a motorcycle a few nights ago, to the most infuriating of all: a miniature snow seal forever preserved to maintain its precious frozen shape as so designed by its maker.

All together, these trinkets of affection made for such a crowded look in your room.

So much clutter.

It was vandalism.

On his property.

Shoving away such thoughts before that simmering rage could spill forth, Caleb immediately return his focus to the far more important matter at hand:

You.

He swooped down, his face a breath away from yours, lips barely brushing over your own as he posed yet another question to you while his fingers reached for the hem of your nightgown, his voice hoarse and strained,

“Do you still have room for me in that pretty, splendid little world of yours?”

You were sacred and Caleb had no right to touch.

But he was there from the beginning, your keeper, your guardian.

Before all those other men.

Did any of them know how to truly care for you, to love you?

Once again, he didn’t expect for you to voice any question to his answer.

But he took the soft noise of your breath as a response.

He already trespassed the sanctity of Eden–his continuing presence in this universe alone was an affront to God.

And so, while you continued to slumber away in the depths of your dreams, he gorged himself on selfish indulgence, touching and kissing any inch of skin the moment it was exposed with every tug of your nightgown.

To feel you again after such a hellish period of separation.

It was gluttony, it was greed, it was sin.

But as he satiated his thirst with wet messy kisses on your lips, his hands memorizing every curve of your body from the soft weight of your breasts to the plushness of your thighs, his sturdy hips rutting against yours while he savored the hot wet velvet heat around his cock, only one mantra repeated endlessly in his mind:

This was fate, this was destiny, this was love.

While by morning he would be gone–shadows weren’t meant to stand within the warmth of daylight–he would spend all night long making sure that every bit of himself haunted your skin.

Because simply put, you were his and he was yours.

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

tfw i've been wanting to write something inspired by beyonce's "haunted" and le sserafim's "eve, psyche & the bluebeard's wife" for a while now so ty caleb for helping me tap into both wells of inspo you INSANEO PERIOD TRACKING YANDERE MF 😭😭

cannawt (but actually i can) believe my first og fic idea for lads wasn't even for sylus (who got me into the game) or rafayel (who became one of my top faves) 🫨🫨 that's the power of nojiken voicing a FREAK (lobelia) NII-SAN (natsuya) GAHHHHHH

[makingqueerhistory]

Spooky Queer Books

Since spooky season is starting, I thought I would share a list of my favourite queer books that are great for this time of year.

Some of these links are affiliate links.

It Came from the Closet: Queer Reflections on Horror

Joe Vallese

Horror movies hold a complicated space in the hearts of the queer community: historically misogynist, and often homo- and transphobic, the genre has also been inadvertently feminist and open to subversive readings. Common tropes--such as the circumspect and resilient "final girl," body possession, costumed villains, secret identities, and things that lurk in the closet--spark moments of eerie familiarity and affective connection. Still, viewers often remain tasked with reading themselves into beloved films, seeking out characters and set pieces that speak to, mirror, and parallel the unique ways queerness encounters the world.It Came from the Closet features twenty-five essays by writers speaking to this relationship, through connections both empowering and oppressive. From Carmen Maria Machado on Jennifer's Body, Jude Ellison S. Doyle on In My Skin, Addie Tsai on Dead Ringers, and many more, these conversations convey the rich reciprocity between queerness and horror.

Into the Drowning Deep

Mira Grant

The ocean is home to many myths, But some are deadly... Seven years ago the Atargatis set off on a voyage to the Mariana Trench to film a mockumentary bringing to life ancient sea creatures of legend. It was lost at sea with all hands. Some have called it a hoax; others have called it a tragedy. Now a new crew has been assembled. But this time they're not out to entertain. Some seek to validate their life's work. Some seek the greatest hunt of all. Some seek the truth. But for the ambitious young scientist Victoria Stewart this is a voyage to uncover the fate of the sister she lost. Whatever the truth may be, it will only be found below the waves. But the secrets of the deep come with a price.

The Devouring Gray

C. L. Herman

After her sister's death, seventeen-year-old Violet Saunders finds herself dragged to Four Paths, New York. Violet may be a newcomer, but she soon learns her mother isn't: They belong to one of the revered founding families of the town, where stone bells hang above every doorway and danger lurks in the depths of the woods. Justin Hawthorne's bloodline has protected Four Paths for generations from the Gray--a lifeless dimension that imprisons a brutal monster. After Justin fails to inherit his family's powers, his mother is determined to keep this humiliation a secret. But Justin can't let go of the future he was promised and the town he swore to protect. Ever since Harper Carlisle lost her hand to an accident that left her stranded in the Gray for days, she has vowed revenge on the person who abandoned her: Justin Hawthorne. There are ripples of dissent in Four Paths, and Harper seizes an opportunity to take down the Hawthornes and change her destiny--to what extent, even she doesn't yet know. The Gray is growing stronger every day, and its victims are piling up. When Violet accidentally unleashes the monster, all three must band together with the other Founders to unearth the dark truths behind their families' abilities...before the Gray devours them all.

Tell Me I'm Worthless

Alison Rumfitt

Three years ago, Alice spent one night in an abandoned house with her friends, Ila and Hannah. Since then, Alice's life has spiraled. She lives a haunted existence, selling videos of herself for money, going to parties she hates, drinking herself to sleep. Memories of that night torment Alice, but when Ila asks her to return to the House, to go past the KEEP OUT sign and over the sick earth where teenagers dare each other to venture, Alice knows she must go. Together, Alice and Ila must face the horrors that happened there, must pull themselves apart from the inside out, put their differences aside, and try to rescue Hannah, whom the House has chosen to make its own. Cutting, disruptive, and darkly funny, Tell Me I'm Worthless is a vital work of trans fiction that examines the devastating effects of trauma and how fascism makes us destroy ourselves and each other.

[vampsywrites]

II — i remember her hands, and the way the mountains looked.

Synopsis: In which the Sullys approach the mountain clan for sanctuary. The Olo'eykte agrees but proposes one condition: Toruk Makto's eldest son must be promised to her daughter. Surprisingly, instead of the solemn response one would expect, Neteyam agrees almost instantaneously.

Tags: Female! Mountain Na'vi! Reader, Arranged Marriage, Sun&Moon couple, Strangers to Lovers, Neteyam is whipped, Mentions of Jealousy&Possessiveness, Romantic tension, Neteyam wanting to impress his girl, Lo'ak having the time of his life teasing the shit out of Neteyam, Reader has that Tsahik rizz

Word Count: 2.8k | AO3 LINK

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With the village of the Iuva'ri clan now their new home, the Sullys followed you past open fields, their eyes wandering in amazement at the sights.

Everywhere they looked, the hustle and bustle of daily life surrounded them. Hunters could be seen hauling large beasts into the village, farmers had their hands deep in the earth as they worked to ensure a bountiful harvest, and weavers, with their deft hands, skillfully crafted intricate patterns into fabric.

Though the environment was not too different from what they were used to in the forest, it was still a significant change from the wild, cluttered jungle they had known all their life.

While his family was busy taking all of the clan in, Neteyam was fully focused on you. He watched in fascination as the village parted when you walked past, people practically throwing themselves aside to clear your path. From elders to children, they bowed in reverence and greeted you with warmth and admiration, recognizing you as their Tsahìk.

Through the walk, Neteyam also couldn't help but notice how your presence captured the attention of the young men and women around. Warriors, weavers, hunters – they all seemed to be drawn to you, stopping in their tracks with blushing cheeks as they exchanged hushed words. Their lingering gazes and subtle glances, their eyes which seemed to follow you like a predator stalking its prey, didn't escape Neteyam's watchful eyes.

As he observed this intense attention you garnered, a pang of possessiveness surged through his gut, and his tail lashed out in irritation.

Neteyam felt torn, battling with the internal struggle of feeling irrationally possessive. Deep down, he knew he had no right to be jealous. After all, he had no claim over you, and he had yet to truly earn your trust and affection.

The announcement of your courtship clearly took the clan by surprise. While some genuinely celebrated your happiness, others found it difficult to hide their envy. Evident by the glares sent his way from those who might have hoped to be in his place.

This scrutiny only served to intensify his emotions.

"This will be your home now," you called out, your voice calm and welcoming, pulling him away from his thoughts. Neteyam watched as you guided them to a beautifully crafted hut elevated on bamboo wooden stilts. It stood gracefully above the ground, a testament to the skilled craftsmanship of your people. The roof was steeply pitched and thatched with nipa palm leaves, while the walls were intricately woven from bamboo slats.

Tuktirey gasped in amazement, her eyes wide with childish wonder as she marveled at the hut's elevated design. "It's so tall!" she exclaimed, clearly impressed by the unique structure.

You hummed, understanding their awe and sensing the underlying hesitation in some of them.

"You will grow to like it," you reassured with a small smile. "It may be different from what you're used to, but it will keep you safe and warm. Our people have lived in harmony with Eywa and these lands for generations."

Tuktirey beamed up at you. "I can't wait to explore and learn more about your ways," she cheers, enthusiasm evident.

“I am sure you will learn well, little one,” you hum, running a hand through her braided hair.

With ease, you then moved towards the stairs, climbing up with a sense of familiarity as you began to haul their belongings to their new home. The family followed behind you, still feeling a tad bit out of place.

After ensuring they were comfortable, you began to excuse yourself, knowing you needed to give them some privacy. As you walked past Neteyam, catching his gaze, you gently rest your hand upon his chest. After murmuring a quick goodbye, you withdrew your hand and swiftly left the hut. Neteyam’s mind ran haywire, the spot where your hand had been burned with a sudden fire, leaving a lingering sensation on his skin that he couldn't shake off.

Eywa. It had only been a day and already you had an effect on him.

With your departure, the family gathered together, finding a spot to discuss the events that had transpired earlier. Neytiri paced back and forth in the open hut, footsteps loud against the wooden flooring, her mind racing with a myriad of thoughts and emotions.

"Alright," Jake sighed, running a rugged hand down his face, breaking through the tension. "We have to unpack what just happened earlier."

Neytiri nodded, her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the situation. Her eyes turned to Neteyam, concern evident in her voice as she asked, "Ma'itan, are you sure of this?"

"Oh, he sure is," Lo'ak answered for his brother, sending a grin his way. "I mean—Did you hear him back there?"

"I will accept this proposal. Only if she will have me," he mocked, mimicking Neteyam's accent in a deep, gravely tone. Kiri couldn't help but hide her face with her hand, trying to stifle her laughter.

"Skxawng," Neteyam snarled playfully and gave Lo'ak a light smack in response, which only made his younger siblings laugh even more.

"Enough, you two," Neytiri's voice rang out, cutting through the air. She shook her head in exasperation, her beaded locks swaying and rattling with her movements. Turning her attention back to her eldest, her tone dropped a timbre as she murmured, "Neteyam, this is a big decision. Are you truly sure about this? You wish to mate with that woman?"

Neteyam's gaze shifted from his brother to his mother, lips drawing into a contemplative frown as the weight of it all settled heavily on his shoulders. The significance of such a union wasn't lost on him. The mating bond was not merely a union of bodies; it was the fusion of two souls, a sacred connection dictated by Eywa. He took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to express his feelings.

"I am sure," he replied, his voice steady, despite the turmoil inside him. Neytiri studied his face for a moment, catching the hesitation laced in his expression.

"You do not have to do something your heart is against," his mother whispered, reaching forward, both of her hands finding his tense shoulders, rubbing deep circles into his muscle. Neteyam felt the warmth and reassurance in his mother's touch, and for a moment, he leaned into it, finding comfort in her presence.

"That’s the thing. My heart isn’t against it. I just… I felt something when I saw her." He then hesitated, struggling to unknot his mind and put his feelings into words. "Like-Like a heartbeat."

Kiri's eyes sparkled with wonder, a look of recognition flashing behind her eyes. Her tail swished with delight as she leaned forward eagerly, the shawl slipping off her shoulder in the haste of her movement. "You must have felt Eywa's connection with her. Was it like a calling? Could you feel a mighty heartbeat?"

Neteyam froze, his gaze turning to his younger sister.

"Yes. Exactly that, Kiri," he replied, his voice filled with a hint of disbelief. "It was like… she was calling out to me in some way, as if our souls were somehow intertwined."

Kiri's excitement grew, and she couldn't contain her joy. “Eywa has blessed you with a gift, brother. Rarely do mates feel such a deep soul connection on the first time they meet."

"Soul connection? That’s love at first sight, huh?" Jake interjected, his eyes glinting as he glanced at Neytiri with a knowing smile. "Sound familiar?"

Neytiri's stern façade softened as she smiled back, unable to hide her amusement. "Yes, it does," she admitted with a fondness in her voice. Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of understanding and warmth as she looked at her eldest son. "Neteyam, ma’itan, if you truly feel this connection, then it may be a sign from Eywa herself. The steps you take next will be entirely up to you."

"It's just like those stories we've heard, bro. Soulmates and destined love,” Lo’ak chimed in. “You and her, together, guided by Eywa's hand," he smirked, clasping his hands together and making kissy faces. Neteyam huffed, shaking his head.

"Yeah. It might be like that," he admitted with a touch of bashfulness.

"But let's not get carried away with the dramatics,” Neteyam sighs, snapping himself back to reality. “I still want to get to know her first. I want to take it slow.”

“Slow, huh? Is that what you call asking her to mate with you on the spot?" Lo’ak laughed.

“Lo’ak!” Neytiri hissed, glaring at him disapprovingly.

"I did not ask her to mate with me on the spot!" Neteyam snaps through gritted teeth, his voice rising slightly in embarrassment.

Lo'ak's laughter boomed through the air, thoroughly relishing the sight of his older brother's flustered expression. It was a rare occasion for Neteyam to be caught off guard by his teasing, always having a smartass rebut at the tip of his tongue.

"Yeah? Well, it sure looked like it to me," he snickered, his tail swishing back and forth in interest. Neytiri intervened, smacking him upside on the head. Lo’ak winced in response, and nursed the spot where his mother had hit him.

"Ow, ow, I get it," he groaned, lying flat on the floor. "I'll stop."

"Alright. ‘Nough of that. Come on," Jake said, with a chuckle, huddling everyone close. Once they had formed a circle, he began to address them, his tone taking on a more serious note, "Listen, I really need you kids to be on your best behavior. And I mean it."

Jake shifts his gaze to his eldest son, “Neteyam becoming a candidate for future Olo'eyktan already stirred things up enough. And I don’t even need to tell you just how messy that’s going to be.”

Neteyam heaved out a tense sigh, keeping his eyes glued to the ground. “Sorry, sir.”

“We’re gonna get through this,” Jake continued, dismissing Neteyam’s apology, his voice carrying a tone of reassurance. “Together.”

Neytiri moved closer to her husband, gently placing her head over Jake's shoulder. “What does your father always say?” Neytiri murmured, her voice soft and soothing.

“Sullys stick together…”

“Little more feeling this time!"

“Sullys stick together!”

As the night falls and the stars twinkle in the dark sky, they finally retire to their new sleeping arrangements. Neteyam lays on his makeshift bed, a woven mat made out of palm and leaves, his mind abuzz with thoughts. He gazes out of the hut's opening, where he can catch a glimpse of you in the moonlight, going about your duties as Tsahìk, checking up on a few of the sick and injured in their huts.

Your silhouette against the moonlit backdrop mesmerizes him, and he finds himself drawn to your presence like a moth to a flame. As you notice his gaze, you offer him a reassuring nod before continuing your duties. His heart swells with warmth at the acknowledgment.

With the comfort of your presence lingering in his mind, Neteyam turns onto his back, feeling a sense of peace settle over him. The gentle rustle of palm leaves outside and the distant sounds of the forest lull him into a state of relaxation. He closes his eyes, allowing himself to fall into a deep and restful sleep.

The next morning, the village awakens early. The sky is painted in hues of pink and orange as the sun begins to rise over the mountains. Knocking gently at the side of their hut, you had called for them before the sun could even fully emerge, offering to show them more of the village and its surrounding wonders.

You lead them through the mountains, showing Kiri, Lo'ak, Tuk, and Neteyam the ways of life in this breathtaking terrain. The trees stand tall and proud, similar to those in the forest they once called home, but here they bear a different kind of energy, surrounded by majestic mountains which hold ancient tales of the ancestors before them. The group walks amidst the trees, their senses heightened by the subtle sounds of wildlife and the fresh scent of earth.

As you lead them further, you come across vast rice fields, a breathtaking sight of lush green beauty stretching as far as the eye can see. The fields seem to come alive with the morning sunlight. The stalks of rice sway gently in the breeze, creating a mesmerizing dance, captivating the forest Na’vi.

Amidst the exploration, Neteyam's keen eyes spot a group of mountain climbers in the distance, scaling a rocky hill.

"What are they doing?" he questions, his curiosity piqued.

"They're practicing for the coming-of-age ceremony," you say, your gaze following the climbers. Neteyam's curiosity turns into intrigue, and he listens intently as you begin to explain.

"It's an ascent to the clouded peak," you share, pointing to a towering mountain in the distance, its summit shrouded in mist. "At dawn, the candidates gather at the base. It is the tallest mountain in the region and they must set out on a journey to reach the summit."

Lo’ak whistles, grimacing while he sizes up the daunting landscape before him. "We have to climb that?" he asks incredulously.

“Only if you want to. Your Omatikayan ikinimaya should be enough for you to be recognized in the clan,” you assure him with a pat on his back.

Neteyam stays silent for the next few minutes, his faraway gaze directed towards the rocky mountain. Suddenly, he startles everyone by speaking up, the words slipping from his mouth causing your eyes to rip wide open.

"I want to partake in it," he says, his voice steady and resolute. The sudden declaration shakes everyone, and his siblings turn their attention fully to him, waiting to hear his reasoning.

You too gaze up at him in disbelief. "Are you certain?" you ask, wanting to ensure that he fully comprehends the challenges that lie ahead. “This is no simple feat—”

"I am strong," Neteyam interrupts, sounding a little harsher than he had intended, but it was important to him that you knew of his abilities. "I will be able to train for it well."

Your milky eyes drop to his battle-hardened body, sweeping over his broad shoulders and the ridges of his defined muscles, glistening softly in the sun’s glow. The scars etched on his skin tell tales of past battles and trials, a testament to his experience. Neteyam holds his ground, finding himself flexing subconsciously under your gaze.

"I know you are strong," you retort.

"Yes—"

"But the warriors of the forest are different from those of the mountains," you cut him off with a pointed stare. "It is not just about physical strength; you will have to learn how they train, their techniques, and their ways of life," you begin to move towards him, a challenging look in your eyes. "It is difficult to fill a cup that is already full."

Neteyam's jaw clenches, his gaze unwavering. "Then I will empty my cup. I will adapt," he asserts with passion. "I will prove myself not just to your people but to myself as well. If I am to be chief, I have to embrace your ways."

"Pretty sure you just want to impress her, bro," Lo’ak quips. Neteyam scowls at his remark and, in a swift motion, drives his elbow straight into his younger brother's side. At the impact, Lo’ak immediately folds, nursing his side as his face contorts in pain. “Fuck!”

Ignoring Lo’ak, Neteyam turns back to you, his expression steadfast and unwavering. In that moment, he feels an overwhelming longing to prove himself to you, to earn your admiration and love based on his own merits, not just because of any preconceived notions or expectations.

His determination shines like a beacon, and his sincerity tugs at your heartstrings. It's as if he's baring his soul before you, showing you the depths of his desire to be someone you can truly respect and admire.

With a hum, you settle back, your tail flickering behind you in intrigue. If the rumors carried by the wind from clan to clan about him were to be believed, then you should have known he would want to partake in the ceremony.

Such a bold spirit, evident in those golden eyes of his every time he spoke. The mountains around you seemed to echo with approval, as if Eywa herself was acknowledging his resolve.

"If you are that eager, then I will teach you," you say, the decision firm in your heart. It feels as if a weight is lifted off his shoulders at your acceptance of his offer. Neteyam hums, trying to maintain a stoic expression but the telltale flicks of his ears and tail betray his anticipation and eagerness.

"Do not be mistaken, though. I will not baby you," you add with a daring lilt in your voice. You begin to walk away, the swing of your hips matching the sway of your tail. "Let us hope you can keep up, mighty warrior."

That seemed to only fuel the fire within him further.

Neteyam’s chest rumbles in a deep laugh, a fanged grin stretching across his cheeks. "Yes, ma’am.”

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

see you in the next episode where the reader works her future husband's ass to the ground xoxo

TAGLIST: @rainbowsocks @milktealvrr @strawberri-blonde

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Yooo this is not a request but it’s an idea and it came to me in a dream so I must share 🤭

(It’s kinda dark tho)

Okay so after Ultron, Wanda’s lost everything. Her brother, her home. So when someone *cough cough* dark Natasha comes along one day, suddenly claiming that Wanda was hers and hers alone, Wanda thought nothing of it. She needs to be loved, and Natasha was offering that. So fast forward a bit right, they’re dating. And Nat never lets Wanda see her dark or sadistic tendencies, not outright. She treats the witch with love and affection, but she’s just firm enough to make sure she follows the rules, like always listen to her, don’t leave the house without permission, and ect. And Wanda was happy to do so. After all, she had Nat. Why would she want to leave? So R, a new avenger, stumbles upon their relationship and upon seeing it’s not healthy, tries to convince Wanda of that. As expected, Natasha doesn’t take too kindly to these attempts. Wanda is hers after all. So she kidnaps R, with the full intent of torturing and killing her, but she’s like mmmm R’s kinda cute and Wanda gets kinda lonely when I have to leave for missions so what the hell. But before she can let R have any type of contact with Wanda, or anyone for that matter, she needs to be re-trained. And if Nat can corrupt a powerful witch into being dependent, submissive, and docile, she’ll have no problem doing the same to R.

Lmao sorry this was long but I had to get it out. Again, not a request, just an idea I had! 💕

Becoming Yours

Dark!Natasha x Wanda Maximoff x GN!Reader

Summary: Natasha is possessive over Wanda in an unhealthy way. When you try to come between them things take a turn.

Word Count: 1.9K

Warnings: Dark themes (kidnapping, torture)

A/N: I've never written something like this so I hope it's okay!

After the fall of Ultron, Wanda Maximoff was adrift in a sea of grief. She had lost everything: her brother, her home, her sense of purpose. Her heart ached with the weight of it all, a hollow space where her twin once stood. Days bled into nights, and the world seemed to blur around the edges.

Then one evening, as the shadows grew long, Natasha Romanoff appeared in her life. There was a darkness in her eyes, a fierce, possessive edge that sent shivers down Wanda’s spine. Natasha’s presence was commanding, intoxicating in its intensity.

“You’re mine, Wanda,” Natasha whispered, her voice a soft, seductive promise. Natasha’s hand caressed Wanda’s cheek to which Wanda melted against. The touch of another for the first time in months. “And I’ll never let you go.”

Wanda, desperate for an anchor, for anything to fill the void inside her, found herself unable to resist. She craved love, needed it like a drowning person needs air, and Natasha was offering her just that. The lines between right and wrong blurred as Wanda allowed herself to be enveloped by Natasha’s embrace, surrendering to the fierce passion and the promise of belonging.

In the depths of her soul, Wanda knew she was making a dangerous choice, but in her brokenness, she clung to Natasha’s love like a lifeline, allowing herself to be consumed by the darkness.

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

Natasha treated Wanda with a kind of reverence, showering her with affection and care. She was the steady presence Wanda had craved in her life, always there to hold her, to whisper soothing words when nightmares of Sokovia or Ultron haunted her sleep. But Natasha was also firm, ensuring Wanda followed certain rules, ones that she insisted were for Wanda’s own good.

"Remember, always listen to me, Wanda," Natasha would say, her voice gentle but unyielding. "It's for your safety."

Wanda nodded, feeling the warmth of Natasha's hand against her cheek. "I understand, Nat. I trust you."

"Good girl," Natasha murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Wanda was happy to comply. After all, she had Natasha. Why would she ever want to leave? Natasha's rules felt like a small price to pay for the love and security she provided. Wanda never left the house without Natasha's permission, and she always made sure to check in, just as Natasha had asked. It became second nature, a routine she didn’t question.

One evening, as they sat together on the couch, Natasha's arm wrapped protectively around Wanda's shoulders, Wanda looked up and smiled. "I love this, Nat. Being here with you. It feels...right."

Natasha's eyes softened, and she stroked Wanda's hair. "It is right, Wanda. We're meant to be together."

Wanda nestled closer, feeling a deep sense of contentment. She didn't see the flicker of possessiveness in Natasha's eyes, nor did she notice the way Natasha's grip tightened ever so slightly. All she felt was the warmth of Natasha's love, and that was enough.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Wanda’s world shrank to the confines of their home, but she didn’t mind. Natasha was her world now. She didn’t need anything or anyone else. The occasional moments when Natasha’s firmness bordered on something darker, Wanda brushed aside. Natasha was only looking out for her, protecting her.

"Wanda," Natasha said one day, her tone serious. "I need you to promise me something."

"Anything," Wanda replied without hesitation.

"Never question my decisions. They're always for your benefit. Can you do that?"

Wanda nodded, her eyes filled with trust. "I promise, Nat."

"Good," Natasha said, her expression softening into a smile. "You make me so happy, Wanda."

"And you make me happy," Wanda whispered, leaning in for a kiss.

As Wanda rested her head on Natasha's shoulder, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. She was loved, she was safe, and in Natasha's arms, she had found her home. Little did she realize the delicate web she was entangled in, one spun with threads of love, control, and unspoken darkness.

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

You had joined the Avengers not long after the fall of Ultron, eager to make a difference and help where you could. It didn't take long to notice the peculiar dynamic between Natasha and Wanda. At first glance, they seemed like a perfect couple, but as you observed more closely, something felt off. Natasha's control over Wanda was unnerving, and the way Wanda seemed to shrink into herself whenever Natasha was around set off alarm bells in your mind.

One day, you found Wanda alone in the common room, her eyes distant and filled with a sadness that tugged at your heart. You took a deep breath and approached her.

"Wanda, can we talk?" you asked gently, sitting down next to her.

She looked at you with a small, forced smile. "Sure, Y/N. What's up?"

"I've been noticing some things...about you and Natasha," you began cautiously. "I just want to make sure you're okay. Are you happy with how things are?"

Wanda's smile faltered, and she glanced away. "Natasha takes care of me. She's...protective. It's just her way."

"But Wanda," you pressed, "it seems like she's more than just protective. You deserve to have your own freedom, to make your own choices without fear."

Before Wanda could respond, Natasha walked into the room, her expression darkening as she saw the two of you together. "Y/N," she said in a dangerously calm voice, "I need to speak with you. Now."

You felt a chill run down your spine but nodded. "Sure, Natasha."

She led you to a secluded part of the base, her grip on your arm like a vise. Once out of earshot, she turned to you, her eyes blazing with anger. "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed.

"I'm just trying to help," you replied, keeping your voice steady. "Wanda deserves to be happy and free."

Natasha's lips curled into a cold smile. "Wanda is mine. She doesn't need your help, Y/N. But it seems you need a lesson in minding your own business."

Before you could react, Natasha struck, and darkness enveloped you.

When you awoke, you were in a dimly lit room, bound to a chair. Natasha stood before you, her arms crossed and a predatory gleam in her eyes.

"You've been a thorn in my side, Y/N," she said, circling you slowly. "But I've been thinking. Wanda does get lonely when I'm away. Maybe you can be of use after all."

You glared at her. "I'll never be a part of this. Wanda deserves better than to be controlled by you."

Natasha chuckled darkly. "Oh, you'll come around. If I can make a powerful witch like Wanda dependent, submissive, and docile, you'll be no trouble at all."

She moved closer, her face inches from yours. "First, though, I need to re-train you. Can't have you trying to contact anyone or running off, now can I?"

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

Days turned into weeks, and Natasha subjected you to a relentless regime of psychological and physical conditioning. She alternated between harsh punishments and twisted rewards, breaking down your resistance bit by bit. The isolation and constant manipulation were almost unbearable, but you clung to the thought of Wanda, the determination to free her from Natasha's grip fueling your will to resist.

Natasha watched your struggle with a cold, calculating gaze. "You're strong, Y/N," she admitted one day, a hint of grudging respect in her voice. "But everyone has a breaking point."

She leaned in, her voice a whisper of menace. "And I will find yours."

Despite the darkness, you held on to a glimmer of hope. You had to believe that somewhere within Wanda, the strong, independent woman you admired still existed. If you could find a way to reach her, to show her the truth, perhaps together you could break free from Natasha's control. For now, you had to survive, endure, and wait for the right moment to turn the tables on Natasha Romanoff.

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

Despite your initial resolve, Natasha's relentless conditioning eventually found your breaking point. She was a master manipulator, using a combination of psychological and physical tactics to wear you down. Isolation, sleep deprivation, and the constant pressure of her presence slowly eroded your resistance. Her voice, once a source of anger, became a guide, a comfort in the dark. She played on your fears, your loneliness, and your need for connection until you began to depend on her.

The day you broke was marked by a quiet acceptance. Natasha knew the exact moment your spirit gave in, your eyes losing that last spark of defiance. She smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes, as she gently caressed your cheek.

"There, there," she murmured. "It's all right, Y/N. You don't have to fight anymore. You're safe now."

You nodded numbly, your world narrowing to the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand. The idea of rebellion seemed distant, almost impossible. Natasha had become your anchor, and you found a strange comfort in the structure she provided.

Natasha brought you into her fold with Wanda, and the two of you became bound by your shared dependence on her. Wanda, ever the empathetic soul, welcomed you with open arms, relieved to have someone who understood her situation. You and Wanda grew close, finding solace in each other’s company, both tethered to Natasha in your own ways.

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

Life with Natasha was a blend of affection and control. She treated both of you with a kind of twisted love, ensuring your needs were met while reinforcing her dominance. She showered you with affection, making you feel valued and cherished, but there were always rules to follow.

"Remember, my loves," Natasha would say, her voice soft but firm, "I do this to protect you. You need me, and I need you."

You and Wanda nodded obediently, grateful for her attention and care. The rules became second nature: always listen to Natasha, never leave without permission, and always show her your loyalty. The outside world faded into the background, your lives revolving around Natasha and the home she had created for you.

One evening, as you and Wanda sat together on the couch, Natasha watching with a satisfied smile, you felt a pang of contentment. Wanda leaned against you, her hand in yours, and you felt a sense of belonging you hadn't known before.

"I love you both," Natasha said, her voice filled with possessive pride. "We're a family, and I'll never let anyone come between us."

You and Wanda echoed her sentiments, your voices blending in a quiet affirmation of your bond. The outside world seemed distant, almost irrelevant. You had Natasha, and in her control, you found a strange kind of peace.

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

As time passed, the dynamics solidified. Natasha’s control was absolute, her presence a constant reminder of your dependence on her. She was careful never to show her darker tendencies outright, but the underlying threat was always there. You and Wanda followed her rules without question, your lives intertwined in a delicate balance of love and submission.

In those rare moments of clarity, you wondered what might have been if you had resisted longer, if you had found a way to free Wanda and yourself. But those thoughts were fleeting, quickly overshadowed by the reality of your situation. Natasha had molded you both into the perfect companions, reliant on her for everything, bound by a mixture of fear and affection.

And so, you stayed, locked in a dance of submission and control, your world defined by Natasha's rules and the strange, twisted love she provided.

Taglist: @dorabledewdroop

[godmadeaterribleerror]

More Than You Could Ever Know - Part 3

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Falling into my well-tread pattern of everything I write getting steadily longer chapter by chapter. Enjoy!

Title from All I Want For Christmas is You by Mariah Carey

Word Count: 12.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Ben have a Christmas Eve date. Many gifts are opened. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, tooth rotting fluff, established relationship, Christmas Special

Part 2

Read on A03!

When he wants to be, Ben is shockingly romantic. It doesn’t surprise you—you can feel the power and fervor of his love every second, its pious and wrathful devotion all focused on you—but he always manages to outdo himself. To be more romantic than any epic poem or tragedy, to know you better than you might know yourself, to be the best fuck you’ve ever had every single time. 

What does surprise you is how he still sometimes aches with mold in your chest. How you’ve shown him time and time again that, if he asked, you’d learn to raise the dead and travel through time and move planets with only your hands for him. You’d burn out the sun and create worlds fueled only by your love for Ben, and he’s always surprised that’s the truth. 

It’s always been the truth. It feels like more than the truth. A little more than a fact or law. It just fucking is. You’re Ben’s. He’s yours. That’s the end of it.

And you couldn’t do better than him. Nobody could do better than Ben, and it’s why you might feel really fucking possessive of him. The gossip magazines and Fake Face—you’re pretty sure her name is Deandra or something, but you don’t really fucking care—don’t look at Ben and see an angel. They don’t fucking get that he’s everything, and safe, and strong and warm and handsome. They don’t understand that he knows how to say every right thing, that he treats you like you’re holy, and cares more than anyone you’ve ever met.

They just want his body, and he’s not a fucking whore.

He’s a little bit of a fucking whore.

He’s your fucking whore. He’s your slab of meat to objectify and drool over, to tease and touch and pout at. Ben is fucking yours. And you’re his, and you trust him with more than your life, and you love him more than the whole universe.

And he’s such a fucking asshole. And you’re going to kill him.

Can I come inside now?

No, he grunts in your head, and you can feel him. Feel that instinct of Ben moving around inside the house, doing something that he refuses to tell you about. 

I never tell you no about coming inside-

Ben snorts. Smartass.

Is that a yes-

No. He says your name in the low hum of the stereo, and you feel rough affection start to cover your skin. Don’t lose your fucking mind, I’m almost done.

Done with what?

Nice try.

You sigh, leaning your head back on the seat. Are you ever going to tell me what you’re doing?

Are you ever going to tell me what that fucking secret shit was.

No, it’s still a surprise-

So is this. Fucking wait. You can almost see the cocky smirk on his face as hunger flashes through his blood. Patience is a virtue, darling-

Shut the fuck up, old man.

He chuckles in your head, and it still, somehow, rolls through your body. Brat.

Cunt. How about now-

Christ, woman. Ben in your head, and you know he’s about to open the door before he does, because your whole body starts to sing Ben. Ben, Ben, Ben, bigger than the universe and yours and Ben.

You smile at him when he appears, marching over to the car and opening the door with a glare you know is fake.

“You’re a goddamn menace,” he mutters, helping you out of the car. “Lucky I fucking love you.“

“I am, aren’t I.” You grab his face between your hands, your smile probably a little idiotic. “You’re so good to me, my love.”

He grunts, all his annoyance a good performance, but pointless when he’s still looking at you with an unyielding reverence and you can feel his love begin to pound out of his chest.

“Come on, Sunshine.” Ben offers you his hand, something alert and tight over his throat relaxing slightly when you tangle your fingers in his. “Let’s go.”

He’d insisted you dress up before you dropped Ryan off at Butcher’s for Christmas Eve. So you’d done full makeup and hair, put on your fanciest dress that was still slutty enough to make Ben’s nostrils flare and that part of him in you feel starved, and returned to the house with a strict order from Ben to stay inside until he was ready.

You’d been under the impression you were going out.

You’d been wrong.

But this is so much better.

Just to start, Ben cooked. And he’s turned out be an amazing cook. You think he doesn’t grumble and scowl about it because—in his mind—it’s another thing for him to do for you. Something he can make you, something he can care for you with. Something he can offer you, just like this. A stupidly romantic and dizzying gesture of dinner. Steak—eating birds is for fucking pussies, Sunshine—and potatoes and bread, laid out on a blanket in the living room, right next to the tree.

He knows you love the tree. Ben’s obviously figured out that you’ve been sitting in the living room so much—when you read or work or watch TV on your laptop—because of the Christmas tree. Because it makes the whole house smell even more like pine—even more like Ben—and is so colorful and warm it eases your whole body into simple happiness.

And this is making you feel high. Mindlessly happy and easy, Ben wrapped around your body—his chin resting on the top of your head as he waits for you to speak—and the whole world around you evidence of his love, and this is so good, and you love him so much, and-

“Thank you.” You turn in his arms, the smile on your face so real and made of purely love. “It’s perfect.” 

Ben grunts, and the glow becomes bloody and ardorous in his chest. “You like it.”

You give him an amused look, rising up to kiss him soft and long and slow. Allowing a little bit of your blood—of your love—to move from your body to his, allowing him to tangle a hand in your hair and pull you a little off the ground as he presses his tongue on your lower lip. As you part them for him, and he groans down your throat.

I love it. You whisper in his head, making a small, content sound of bliss as his tongue sweeps over your teeth. I love you, Benjamin. Thank you.

Neither of you rush to pull apart, and when  you to do there’s a long moment where Ben drops his brow to your, you curl your fingers in his chest, and you exist only in the feeling of each other. Heavy, traded breaths, bodies fit perfectly together, everything so easy.

This is so fucking easy.

It’s easy to let Ben guide you to the floor, and to watch him drop across from you with a wide, cocky grin. Easy to take whatever he offers you—food and affection and love—and smile the whole time. Easy to tug him to your side, because he’s barely a foot away, and that’s too far.

“The whole point is that it’s a date,” He grumbles your name, even as he shuffles to sit with your leg hooked over his, your body tucked into his side. “We should be fucking looking at each other-“

“I’m looking at you,” you shrug, smiling up at him. “It’s not that hard, Benjamin, you just sort of move your eyes-“

Ben leans down, kissing you until you make an undignified whimper and his chuckle sends a wave of thirst through your body.

“Fucking brat,” He mutters against your lips, pulling away with a slight shake of his head. “You’re happy like this.”

He’s talking about how you’re sitting. And you’re more than happy with that—Ben’s big and warm, still around you, still everything—but you make your words a little clearer, and little gentler. Filled with how fucking good this, he is, you feel. 

“I’m happy.” You whisper, pressing a soft kiss over his beard. “Really happy.”

Ben nods slowly and grabs his plate from across the blanket, pulling you fully into his lap and folding his body over yours as you eat.

“Butcher said we could go over early tomorrow,” you lean back to watch Ben as he eats, tapping your fork against your plate. “For Ryan.”

“We were doing that shit no matter what,” A little bit of potato falls into Ben’s beard as he grumbles, and he doesn’t stop speaking as you reach up to wipe it away. “He’s our kid, Butcher’s damn lucky he gets Ryan tonight.”

You hum. “He’s our kid?”

“Of course he’s our fucking kid, I don’t see anyone else-“

“I know.” You pull a piece of steak between your teeth, smiling backwards at him. “I just like hearing you say it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Brat.”

“Cunt. Do you,” you swallow, chewing on your lower lip. “Do you think we’re doing a good job? With Ryan?”

Ben shrugs. “Doing the best damn job we can, but the kid’s already seen some shit.”

“I know, but-“

“It’s a fucking miracle he can go to school and laugh, Sunshine,” he grunts, moving one hand to cup your chin, keeping your gaze on his. “That’s a good job.” Ben presses a soft kiss to your lips, speaking against them. “You’re doing a good fucking job.”

You let out a soft, happy sigh, and the constant tension over your lungs—that, just maybe, you were fucking up Ryan more—eases a little bit as you curl further into Ben’s arms. “Thank you.”

Ben scowls, but the glow blooms over his whole body. “Don’t. Tell me about work.”

“There’s not much to tell,” you mumble, setting your plate back on the ground. “It’s going well? Everything’s going smoothly, nobody is trying to kill anyone else, we- oh,” You grin at him. “Can you keep a secret?”

He nods, watching you carefully, and your smile grows.

“Hughie’s going to propose,” you whisper. “He showed MM and I the ring.”

Ben grunts, his fingers moving to touch your engagement ring, resting easier and natural next to your wedding band. “Good for them.”

“That it?” You tilt your head at him. “Just good for them?”

He rolls his eyes at your deep voiced impression of him, raising your hand to kiss your palm. “What the fuck am I supposed to say-“

“Congratulations?” You suggest. “Maybe call Hughie and offer him some advice?”

“Advice-“

“On marriage.” You smile at him, and the love in his body grow fervorish. “You’re doing a good job. Share your wisdom, old man.”

He scowls, but falls silents for a long moment. Rubbing circles on your skin as he scans over your face, pulling you carefully and reverently apart as he actually thinks about it.

“Keep your wife happy.” He mutters, and you think you might have melted from how firm and certain he sounds, how he’s looking at you like you’re the sun, how his love is alive and furious in your body. “And fuck her like she deserves.”

You giggle, the noise a little high and needy. “Romantic.”

“Shut the fuck up, brat, you love it.”

“I do,” you sigh, pulling his arms a little tighter around him. “How’s work for you-“

“Fine.”

“Just fine-“

“It’s easy shit, but I don’t fucking love it, darling. Christ, Butcher is my goddamn boss.”

“Well, at least he’s giving you the holidays off-“

“He fucking better be.” Ben glares into the air. “Pussy picks up another case, he’ll have to give me the best damn blowjob in history to get me to work it.”

You snort, giving him a fake pout. “I thought your dick was mine, Pretty Boy-“

“It is.” He grunts, kissing the top of your head. “So he’s never fucking getting me to go.”

“What if he asked really nicely?”

Ben raises his brows at you. “To blow me.”

“Yeah.” You hum, nodding, unable to contain the wide, bright smile on your face. “What if he begged?”

“Nobody,” Ben drawls, his deep voice moving through your whole body and settling, hot and coiled, in your gut. “Fucking begs me like you do, Sunshine. And Butcher would have to do it half as pretty as that.”

You flush, even as you whack his arm around you. “Fuck you-“

“I will,” he mutters in your ear, trailing one hand up your thigh and under your dress, his hunger starting to bloom and spread over your whole body. “We’ve got the whole house to ourselves, and you,” he kisses that spot on your neck, smirking at your breathy sigh. “Look fucking beautiful. I’d have to have lost my goddamn mind not to fuck you.”

You might have whimpered, but Ben swallows your every breath and noise with a deep, long kiss and everything turns into a warm haze of Ben.

I’m here. Ben traces his tongue over your lower lip, his hand resting at the very apex of your thigh, but not just touching you. What do you want, beautiful?

Right as he praises you, Ben presses his thumb over your clit, still covered by your panties, and your moan is loud and shameless as he starts to rub small circles.

Fuck, you throw your head back, reaching up to grab at Ben’s face, your fingers curling in his beard. Shit, Ben, please-

Please, what? He flicks you once, dragging two fingers over your clothed slit. Words, darling, need to hear that pretty fucking begging-

Ben, please, please more, need more-

He hums, latching his mouth to your neck and sucking, right as he presses his thumb firmly down on your clit, pulling a high whine from your throat. More what.

You, need you, need more of you-

I know, darling. He chuckles, resuming those slow, torturous circles. Bet you’re already fucking soaked for me, so fucking desperate, Sunshine, so fucking beautiful-

Benjamin, please- You cut your silent words off with a squeal as Ben pushes those two, broad fingers into your aching pussy through your underwear, his free hand palming at your breasts. Fuck-

You want to fucking cum, darling? That what you really need?

Yes, yes, please, Ben- You gasp as he slaps your dripping, still clothed pussy once, hunger and smug pride flaring in his chest at your whine. 

“Hold it.” He mutters, and before you know what’s happening he’s hooking an arm under your legs, standing up with you held carefully in his arms. “I’ve got something for you.”

You blink at him, still a little lost in his big, strong arms around you as he carries you upstairs, the power and zeal of his love inside you, the ache between your legs that’s only growing as you drown in warm and handsome and pine and Ben-

He grunts your name, and you swallow. “Are you-

“I’m good,” you whisper, offering him a small smile as he kicks the door to your bedroom open. “You have something?”

“For you.” Ben doesn’t set you down on the bed, but in front of the bookshelf, right next to your dresser. “Early gift.”

You tilt your head up to scan over his set, firm features, all watching you with an unraveling attention. He’s tensed in your body, sore in a way that doesn’t hurt, something electric in his hands and on his tongue. Ben grabs your chin and carefully guides your gaze back to the books, his chest pressed to your back and his words low.

“Try to burn them.”

You swat his hand away, your gaze shooting up to him with a glare. “Benjamin, there is no fucking way-“

“Trust me, Sunshine.” He wraps his arms around your waist, rubbing soft circles as he holds your glower. “Just do it.”

“But they’re books-“

“I fucking know that. Trust me.” He smirks, kissing your brow as your glare deepens. “Do I ever damn lie to you, darling?”

You scowl. “No.”

“Would I ever try to pull some sort of fucking trick?”

“Shut up.” You mutter, looking back to the books with a frown. “Burn them.”

“That’s what I said.” Ben rests his chin on your brow, his body still filled with that odd electrically. “Do it.”

You sigh. “If I burn down the house, we’re getting a divorce-“

“You’re not going to burn down the damn house.” 

“But if I do-“

“You’d remarry me a week later.” Ben says, his voice dry and bored. “Stop fucking stalling.”

You chew on your tongue as you raise hand, digging your nails into Ben’s arm and squeezing your eyes shut as you let a small amount of fire out from under your skin. Barely a spark, but enough to reduce paper to ash. 

Ben’s whole body starts to glow with pride, nothing smells like lingering smoke, and—when you wearily drag your eyes open—the room looks the exact same.

The books look the exact same.

“What the-“

“Got Frenchie to fireproof them,” Ben spins you in his arms, and the grin on his face is almost boyish. “He used some sort of fucking coating or some shit. And it took all goddamn month, he had to do one at a time so you wouldn’t notice.”

You gape at him. At his bright smile, and chiseled, rough features, and the pure love and adoration in his eyes. Your whole brain is just a hum of Ben. All yours. He’s all yours, and he’s everything, and you might start crying because, fuck, you really couldn’t ask for anything more than him-

“Ben,” your voice is a little hoarse, your body slumped fully into his. “I, I don’t-“

There’s a flash of soreness over his skin, his arms tightening around you, and you’re moving before it can settle into his bones. Throwing yourself into him with everything you have, before he can even properly doubt the gift, can start to think that you’re not happy. That this—that he—isn’t so fucking amazing it’s making you stupid.

It’s perfect. Your hands tangle in his hair, smiling against his lips as you melt fully into his body. You’re perfect, Ben. Thank you.

Don’t. He grunts, but it turns into a long groan that sparks in your gut and presses your thighs together. You’re-

I know I am. You press your brow to his as you separate. But you are as well. And I love you.

“I love you too,” Ben’s voice is low, his hands drawing rough patterns on your hips. “And you’re still the perfect one, darling. You’re a fucking miracle.”

You swallow, leaning back to watch him carefully. “I got something for you as well,” you whisper. “But it feels kind of, um, bad now.”

He scowls. “It’s not fucking bad.”

“You don’t even know what it is, Benjamin-“

“You got it for me.” He mutters. “Can’t be fucking bad.”

“Oh. Okay.” Your smile is a little idiotic, and you press a soft kiss to his cheek before taking a long step back. “Let’s find out, then.”

Ben looks like he’s going to say something—his brows knit and a small frown on his handsome face—but it’s gone the moment you pull off your dress.

It’s a little cocky to make yourself his gift. But Ben’s nostrils are flaring, his jaw clenched so hard you’re worrying he might break it, and everything in his body is hunger. Raw, feral hunger that’s making his eyes dark with lust and his muscles flex under his shirt as he takes you in. Scans over the lingerie set you’d bought specifically for him, dark green and lace and very easily rippable. Leaving more of you exposed than covered, possibly the sluttiest thing you’ve ever owned, and all for Ben. All for how he’s watching you like he wants to ruin you, and you’re more than happy to let him. 

“Christ on a fucking cross,” he mutters your name, shaking his head slightly. “You’re, fuck, Sunshine, you’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, lowering yourself to your knees with your best innocent expression. “You’re not so bad yourself, Benjamin, my love.”

“Fucking-“ He groans as you crawl forward, stopping right in front of him before smiling up at his lust-blown expression. “Are you trying to damn kill me-”

You shake your head, your smile growing. “No. But,” you run a hand up his thigh, squeezing your legs together as you see his bulge, proud and straining at his pants. “I might be trying to do something else.” You rest light fingers over him, swallowing at his low growl. “If you want.”

Ben’s chuckle is animalistic, a big, warm hand tangling in your hair and pulling your face fully back. “Fucking hell,” he says your name with an awe that’s so out of place in the hot, undying desire etched over his every feature and organ, but still so painfully natural. “You want to suck my cock, beautiful?”

“Yes, please,” you grip his wrist as he traces his thumb over your cheekbones, not trying to hide the need and borderline desperation in your voice. “Ben, please-“

“So fucking good,” he mutters, and you moan when his thumb presses on your lower lip, his throat bobbing as you open for him without thought. “Christ, Sunshine, you’re a goddamn marvel. So fucking pretty on your knees, when you fucking beg and say my name. So fucking beautiful and perfect, fucking, shit-“

You’d been fiddling with his belt as he drawled, and the moment you get it off you’re moving. Freeing his huge, already throbbing cock from his pants, swiping your thumb over the head of him before licking a long, slow stripe on the underside. 

“Fuck,” Ben’s words are pushed through his teeth, his hand now braced on the dresser as you smile up at him, slowly pumping your hand over his shaft. “You’re, fuck-“

You take him fully in your mouth, bobbing your head slowly up and down as you swirl your tongue around him, moaning when he bumps the back of your throat and squirming as he groans above you. 

“Jesus, fuck, you’re a goddamn miracle, darling, such a good girl, look so fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth-“ He’s groan rolls through your whole body, and you start to grind onto the air. “Fuck, Sunshine, you’re so fucking beautiful, feel like a fucking sin, so- Fuck, you were goddamn made for me, fucking mine-“

Ben’s praise starts to slur as you move one hand up to play with his balls, your eyes never leaving his as you pick up your pace. 

Ben, you whine around him when his hips jerk. Please, just-

You reach back to grab his hand in your hair, squeezing his balls once and sucking on the very head of him as you pull almost fully off, and he understands without question. His grip tightens, his hunger and pleasure so close to bursting in his gut, and begins to fuck your face. It’s unrelenting and brutal, your teeth grazing his cock as the wood creaks under his free hand, and it’s all you can do not to climb up his body and beg him to fuck you. To just rolls your hips and rub your thighs together as Ben watches you under lidded eyes, his words barely a growl and his cock twitching as drool falls out of your mouth.

“Fucking Christ,” he groans, slamming you down on him until your nose hit his abdomen, your nails curling in his skin. “So fucking good, darling, fucking beautiful, goddamn perfect, smart fucking mouth stuffed full of me, going to make you taste me for a hundred fucking years, fuck-“

Ben’s orgasm crashes through you like a storm, washing all of you away and turning everything into Ben. His cum hot and sticky on your tongue and down your throat, his eyes flashing as he loosens his grip and pulls you off of him with a pop. Big, careful hands wiping a stray drop of his release from lip before smearing it over your cheek, and a deep voice like a song chuckling when you moan stupidly at the gesture.

“Like that, Sunshine?” He mutters, his face drawn in amusement but his touch and tone reverent. “Like me fucking marking you?”

You whimper of his name, and Ben shakes his head in slight disbelief, his hunger already ravenous in his body. 

“Already so fucked out you can’t damn speak?” Ben’s hand in your hair drifts down as he lowers down to his knees, pulling you into his arms and scanning over your face with a narrowed gaze. “Need to hear you, darling. Fucking words-“

“Fuck me.“ You whimper, because your body has decided to listen to Ben over anything else. “Please.”

Ben’s face is predatory. It’s made of the hunger in his body and this raw adoration that’s roaring in your chest. There are promises in his eyes, darkened and starving and primal, and his attention and touch seem to be searing into your skin. All of him is focused on you—Ben’s always just focused on you—and he’s massive and safe and warm, so you might have a small, mind-numbing orgasm just from his hands rubbing firm patterns on your skin and the growling promise of his voice.

“I need a minute,” he grunts, keeping you steady in his arms as he moves you onto the bed, laying you flat on the mattress. “But darling,” his mouth curving into a smirk as he takes you in, already writhing under him, your underwear soaked and expression slack with need. “I’m not fucking stupid enough to tell you no.”

“Ben,” you reach up, trying fruitlessly to grab his shirt and pull him down to you. “Please-“

“Fucking patience, beautiful.” Ben rises fully up, his eyes never leaving yours as he pulls off his shirt, his grin only growing as your hips jump off the bed from the sight of him. “Fuck, you want me that damn bad-“

“Yes, Ben, need you, I-” You cut yourself off with a gasp as Ben drops to his knees on the mattress, shoving your knees apart with a low grunt and ripping of your panties without effort. “Fuck-“

“Christ,” he mutters your name, running a finger over the lips of your pussy, his hand on your inner thigh tightening as you moan. “You’re fucking soaked. So fucking wet, Sunshine, fucking wrecked and I’ve barely touched you-“

“Ben,” you grab his hand, trying to hold it against you as you grind onto his fingers. “God, please-“

He yanks his hand away, and you make a long sound of desperation at the loss, but you’ve barely started squirming when you feel his mouth latch onto your clit, one hand planted on your stomach to keep you pinned down as he begins to suck. 

Your whole body lights up. Ben’s tongue keeps drawing circles around and over you, his teeth bumping whenever his lips pull you far enough in, and you’re not even sure you remember how to moan. All you know how to do is pull at Ben’s hair and try to fly off the mattress, to hump his face as his beard brushed your thighs and the pressure on your clit becomes painfully blissful, perfect torture, and to moan words that are supposed to be pleas and screams of Ben, Ben, Ben, fuck, please, Ben, fuck, Ben, I love you-

Love you too, Sunshine. Ben growls against you, and it vibrates over your pussy and makes your eyes roll back in your head. Taste so fucking good, need you to squirt on my goddamn face- Your body obeys, something snapping and rushing through your body as Ben groans around your clit and pushes a finger into your cunt, crooking it and playing that one spot inside you until you’re a moaning, dripping mess under his touch.

And he doesn’t stop. Your eyes blur with dizzying relief and you’re wet over his beard and skin, but Ben just keeps going. He starts to flick and nip, to pump that finger inside of you, and your mouth falls open with a strangled noise as you cum again. Your thighs start to crush his face, your hips bucking and rolling in the bed, and fuck it feels so good, you can’t really think but you know this is good, and Ben doesn’t stop. He goes and goes and goes, growing sloppier and rough on your pussy as you come apart over and over and over. You’re flying and falling and singing and drowning in Ben, touching you so right your brain is fuzzy and your whole body is just for Ben. For his hands and tongue and teeth and lips to devour, to try and pull inside you as you scream and unravel for him, as he ruins you- 

When he pulls away, your jaw is slack and your face might just be an open, drunken expression of Ben.

“You’re good.” Ben reappears in your vision, his handsome face coated in your release and his attention so devout—eyes searching over your face, voice low and firm, hands drifting over you like you were made for him to touch—that all you can do is whimper.

Ben, please. Just, you thrust your hips up, the movement uncoordinated and jerked. Fuck me, please-

His nostrils flare, his hands stilling on your body. “You want fucking more?”

You nod, flushing slightly, and Ben groans.

“Christ, you’re fucking perfect.” He presses a slow, long, kiss to your lips, chuckling when your lips fall open without thought. “You’ll never fucking understand, Sunshine, you’re-“ He cuts himself off, rising up to grin at you. “Fuck, you’re so good. Fucking love you.” He dives down to your neck, sucking and biting at that spot until you’re wiggling under him. “Love you so much it’s going to fucking kill me-“

Love you too, Ben, I- You almost scream as he moves to your breasts, ripping off the bra to pinch at once nipple as his mouth latches onto the other. God, Ben, please just fuck me, you fucking asshole-

He rises back up with mocking, raised brows. “Words. Tell me what you want.”

“You.” Your voice is hoarse, barely even a breath. “Please, Ben, I want you-“

He hums, and you gasp as the head of his cock nudges at your entrance. “You want my cock? Want me to fuck that perfect pussy until you’re screaming?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes please.”

“Say it.”

You swallow, your nails digging into the bare skin of his back. “I want your cock. I want you to fuck me until I scream. Please-“

Ben’s mouth slams down into yours right as he thrusts fully into your already raw, aching pussy without warning, and you’re already on the brink of another orgasm. You’re so full, and Ben’s right up against that deepest spot, and his kisses are bruising but his hands on your skin are so careful, and he tastes like salt and vanilla and Ben-

Then he starts to move, and it’s a miracle you can still breathe. His hips snap, skin slapping against yours and cock hammering into your abused and weeping cunt, and you’re scratching at his skin and grinding into his movements but it’s still not enough. It might never be enough. You might be able to die here, with Ben deep inside you, with his own hunger and need so powerful he’s only groaning into your ear, any praise low and slurred.

“Feel so fucking good,” Ben rolls his hips as he hits that spongey spot inside you, and you whine. “So tight, Sunshine, so tight and warm and good, fucking perfect, so fucking pretty and good and perfect-“

You squeeze around him, and his head falls to your brow, his movements becoming rough and uneven.

“Best fucking pussy in the goddamn world, you’re, fuck, fucking love you, want to fucking live here, want to fucking worship this perfect fucking pussy until you’re fucking ruined-“

You’re already ruined. Ben’s stretching you out and fucking you so good you can only stare at him and take it with the hope that he can feel all of your thirst and need for him. You think he can, because you whimper a sound that’s meant to be his name, and Ben’s mouth returns to yours. This kiss is almost gentle. Passionate and deep with Ben’s tongue down your throat and your mouth hanging open for him to take whatever he wants, but laced with pure love and edged with how he’s rutting into you like a dog.

Then one of his hands glides between your bodies, over your stomach, and between your legs. Two strong fingers pinch at your clit, and you might have died and been reborn in the same moment as you cum, dragging Ben with you. You’re high on him, on his growls and groans down your throat as his stuttered movements as he fucks you through your orgasms. Everything is warm and hazy and Ben, and all you can remember how to do is lay there, breathe, and smile.

Ben brushes hair from your face, his ring cool on your skin, and his eyes are carving right into the deep, most delicate part of you. A part of him you always offer him, and a part he always keeps safe and tended to.

You’re-

I’m good. Your smile widens, and you manage to raise your hands up to cup Ben’s face. Really, really good.  

He nods, wrapping an arm around your waist and rolling you both over. “Fuck,” Ben presses a kiss to the side of your head, rubbing patterns on your skin as you shift above him. “I love you, Sunshine. More than goddamn anything.”

“I know.” And you do. If you’re sure of anything, you’re sure Ben loves you. That he’s yours just as much as you’re his. That you could give him everything, and he’d still find a way to give you more. “I love you too.”

You lay there for a moment, just inhaling Ben and letting him settle into a strong, pious hum in your chest. You drift off into an easy sleep that hardly feels like a blink, and when you wake up there’s light leaking through the windows and a massive weight over your body.

It’s always a little amusing when he does this. When, somehow, without fail, Ben manages to roll on top of you almost every night. Wrapping his arms around your waist, burying his face between your breasts, and snoring so loud it rolls through your bones. It would be a miracle you ever got any sleep, but he’s also warm and safe and touching you so carefully you’d never choose to be anywhere else.

You’re careful not to wake him as you twist to check the time, and any sleep vanishes from your body as you read the little number on the clock.

“Ben.” You hiss, shaking him slightly above you. “Benjamin.”

He makes a low grumbling sound, tightening his grip around you and tugging himself impossibly closer to your body. 

“Benjamin, wake up, we’re, shit-” You give up on trying to wake him gently, grabbing his face between your hands and raising it level with yours. “Ben!”

Ben grunts, and it’s the grunt that means you’ve got him. His hands start to knead slow patterns on your hips, his eyes still drooping as he yawns, and it would be the most adorable thing you’d ever seen if he wasn’t being so slow.

“What the fuck is going on.” He grumbles, slowly scanning over you with a small frown that turns urgent when he sees the wide-eyed expression on your face. “Are you-“

“I’m fine.” You pull him up to kiss his nose, and that seems to ease the hot, vigilant fury in his body back to concrete protection wrapped easily around your skin. “I’m good, my love. But we’re late.”

Ben scowls. “Late to-“

“Butcher’s.” You give him a pointed look. “Ryan.”

“Fuck, what time-“ Ben pushes himself up on his arms to read the clock, and drops himself back down with a scowl. “We’re not fucking late, Sunshine, we’ve got an hour-“

“Which for us is basically ten minutes-“

“It’s a fucking hour-“

“Benjamin.” You grab his face back between your hands, raising your brows slightly. “Can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me you think we’ll be able to wake up, get dressed, grab gifts, and drive to Butcher’s all in an hour? And-“ You roll your hips slightly, Ben’s proud morning wood poking into your thigh. “Keep in mind I might be willing to help you with your problem if you’re honest.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but there’s a glow over his ribs and rough affection rooted deep in his muscles when he sits up, hauling you to flop onto his chest. “Brat,” he mutters pulling you into a long, slow kiss that makes your brain happy and fuzzy, and doesn’t help the situation at all. “Butcher knows we’ll be late. Told him to tell Ryan whatever time you told him, plus an extra hour.”

You blink at him for a second, then shove his chest. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that-“

“Because,” he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You thought we had an hour, got us up early as shit, and now we have all the goddamn time in the world for you to help me with my problem.”

You wish he wasn’t right. That he wasn’t such a stupidly good husband, that you could at least pretend to maintain the illusion of being shrouded in mystery, having some sort of intriguing allure to him. But he also doesn’t seem to really fucking care about that. Ben seems to be more than happy knowing all of you, because there’s a wide, smug grin on his face and a radiance pounding in his chest that’s golden and molten and folds you into him without resistance. Ben doesn’t want allure, and you can’t really find it in yourself to really want it either. Not when he starts to squeeze your ass and suck on your neck until you’re moaning and squirming in his arms. Not when he does know you, so painfully fucking well, that he gets you to cum three times before you’re out of bed. Once his fingers and twice on his cock, throwing in a fourth when you’re half-dressed and he backs you up against the wall, pressing his knee between your thighs and watching you chase relief with an ardor and devotion in his blood and a look of awe in his eyes.

After that you have to make a no sex for the rest of the day rule, giving him a stern glare he shrugs off as you shuffle off to take your second shower and Ben sets out all the gifts for inventory. 

He’s standing at the edge of the bed when you get back, frowning at the bags before him. 

“We’re missing three,” he grunts as you join him, hanging slightly off his arm as you scan over the bed. “Should be seven.”

You shake your head. “No, this is right. You said one of Ryan’s was too big to transport, and I dropped the Secret Santa gifts off with Ryan last night.”

Ben pauses, still glowering at the bed, then nods and starts to grab as much as he can hold—which is all of it—to move to the car, pressing a kiss to your brow before vanishing through the door.

You don’t get to drive. Ben grabs the keys while you’re in Ryan’s room, feeding Bowser, and the asshole is standing at the car with a smirk when you stomp outside. You’d push him on it more, but you’ve never been more okay with not driving in your life. Everything is a blur of cold white, the pavement coated in black ice, and you hate the winter. No amount of stupid holidays are ever going to be able to fix how much you hate the winter. It’s too sterile, too blinding, too cold. So fucking cold.

And Ben knows that. It’s why his grip on your thigh is firmer than usual, his speed a little reckless to get you out of the car that’s heated, but still too cold. Metal that bites your skin and glass that still radiates a chill when your skin gets too close to it. Which that means you can just talk to Ben, and pretend there’s not cracks on your skull that open up a little more when you’re frozen. 

“MM said he’ll be there early as well,” you hum, playing with Ben’s hand between your own. “He’s heading up to New York to see his daughter tonight, but he wants to make sure his gift gets given.”

Ben grunts. “You know who his is?”

“No, Ben, because it’s a secret-“

“Stupid fucking secret.” He grumbles, glowering at the road. “You’re never going to tell me what your damn surprise was-“

“Not if you keep bringing it up.” You smile at him, dropping your head on his shoulder. “Then it won’t really be a surprise. You’ll be ready for it.”

Ben frowns. “So it’s for me.”

“Obviously.”

“But not your Santa shit.”

You shake your head, biting your lip to stop a wide, stupid grin from overtaking your face. “Not my Santa shit. And don’t ask me who my person is-“

“Don’t have to.” Ben shrugs, parking on the curb outside Butcher’s apartment. “It’s fucking Hughie.”

You only hum. “Well, I guess you’ll have to find out with everyone else in two hours.”

Ben rolls his eyes, climbing out the car and carefully guiding you upstairs with an arm around your shoulders. Ryan’s waiting for you when you knock on the door, dragging you into a hug before you can even really see him. 

“Merry Christmas!” Ryan moves to Ben, and you giggle at the low grunt that escapes Ben’s mouth from the force of the hug. “Do you-“

“Brought all the gifts.” Ben says, giving Butcher a curt nod over Ryan’s head. “In the car. I’ll go back down-“

“Nah, Gov. I’ve got it.” Butcher moves to the door, giving you an awkward pat on the shoulder as he passes by. It shoots something sore, but not rotten or painful, through your body, and there’s an edge of something still and quiet over it. It’s like rest, where Butcher had previously be hateful and bloodied, and it’s better than most anything you’ve felt from him before.

Ben and Butcher exchange low words about getting the gifts as Ryan shuffles over to your side, and when Ben starts to feel hot and loud in your chest you clear your throat, raising your brows at them.

“What if you both get them?” You try to hide the slightly amusement in your voice, and you don’t really succeed. “That couldn’t hurt.”

There’s a moment where they both look like they’re going to protest, but MM’s voice calls from somewhere deeper in the apartment, cutting them off. “Both you alpha male motherfuckers better go get the gifts, or you’re not eating my goddamn delicious gingerbread!”

It works. Ben and Butcher shuffle out the door with low grumbles like they’re teenage boys being sent to their room for bad behavior, and you smile down at Ryan, letting him guide you into the kitchen.

MM gives you a mumbled greeting—mostly focused on the food and not letting anyone interrupt his process—as Ryan tugs you over to Butcher’s table, where a large gingerbread house is on display in the center.

“Look!” He gestures proudly, and your smile might consume your face. “Isn’t it cool! Butcher did all the crackers, but I did everything else. And you can eat it. All of it.”

You nod, and pretend to inspect the house like it’s the most important thing you’ve ever seen. It might be. “Did you use-“

“Licorice!” Ryan points to the roof, lined with black licorice. “They’re gutters. It was MM’s idea, he said houses need drainage.”

You shoot MM an amused look over your shoulder. “Drainage?”

“You ever dealt with water damage?”

“No,” you shrug. “But this is the first time I’ve ever owned a house.”

“Fuck, that’s right.” MM frowns. “Ben teaching you all the shit about upkeep-“

You nod, even if it’s not the full truth. Ben will guide you outside to point at the roof and ask you why should we be worried about that, Sunshine, and you’ll offer an answer that’s usually correct, and he’ll tell you how to fix it. But then he fixes it, because you’re not really good at it and he always grumbles that your hands shouldn’t be dirty. If you really want to know he’ll just break whatever was wrong again and let you fix it yourself, but he tends to hover—big and warm around you, muscles flexing and face so ruggedly handsome covered in grease and dirt—and you just end up almost fucking in broad daylight. And it doesn’t really matter, because you love watching Ben do stupid, domestic shit like that. Fixing your house, that you live in and own with him, that he wants to take care of because that’s taking care of you and Ryan.

When Ben and Butcher return, you think that might be why you love the sight of him with three boxes in his arms—Butcher scowling behind him with only one—and a little snow still melting in his hair. It’s so easy and normal and boring, but still Ben. Still full of the wrathful, focused love he’s always had when he dumps the gifts on Butcher’s couch and pulls you into his arms for a deep, heavy kiss that makes your head spin and your knees shake, but now lined with something easier. Something that’s set so deeply in it’s barely noticeable, but that you can feel in yourself as well. Comfort. Real comfort seeped into your heart because there’s no fear it’s going to be taken away. Nothing could ever take this—take Ben—away from you. Nothing could ever even dare to try.

Ryan bounces over to the gifts, sorting through them with a bright-eyed focus and pulling out one that you know is for Ben, and another that you assume is for Butcher. He shuffles up to you wide a wide, nervous expression, his voice soft when he says your name. 

“I, um, I did get you something. But it’s at home. I can wait, or tell you now-“

“Do you want to wait or tell me now?” You ask, giving Ryan a soft smile that seems to ease some of his anxiety, because his voice becomes a little more confident.

“Tell you now.”

You nod in encouragement, and Ryan swallows.

“It’s a bush. A butterfly bush. They, um, attract butterflies? And Ben helped me pick it out, and he said we should get the pink one. They’re kind of easy to take care of, I think, but-“

You pull Ryan into a long, firm hug, cutting off his spiraling. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you’ve never really meant it more. “I love it, Ry. Really.”

Ryan seems to believe you, because he squeezes you tighter and grins before moving to Ben, standing tall and silent at your side. 

“This is for you,” he passes Ben the larger of the two boxes, and turns to Butcher. “And you.”

They both grunt thanks, and you don’t both to hide your smile as you watch Ben open his. Ryan had come to you with the idea a few weeks ago, and you’d bought it the next day because it was an amazing idea. You’d known that because you know Ben, but if there was any phantom doubt inside you it’s erased when he flares in your body, and you know he’s seen the gift.

“Fucking Christ,” he mutters, and that’s a positive fucking Christ. That’s the one where he thinks what he’s seeing is a little too good, and can’t really believe his eyes. “Ryan, you got this for me?”

Ryan says your name, rolling on his feet as he watches Ben with wide eyes. “Um, she bought it. But it was my idea. Do you like it-“

“I fucking love it.” Ben mutters, and Ryan looks like he might burst with pride. You might burst with pride, because Ben whole existence in your body is just unrestrained, furious joy. His hands are so careful as he pulls out the refurbished Gramophone, glossy and bronze, complete with the stupid horn. You don’t own any vinyl’s right now, but you’ll find some. For the look of child-like joy on Ben’s face, you’ll buy a whole record store. He’s not crying, but there’s a look of softness that’s glazing over his eyes, his voice is a little hoarse, and you know it’s the closest you’ll get right now. “Good work, kid,” he mutters, running a hand over the polished wood. “Really fucking good.”

Ryan nods, shifting slightly on his feet, and you’re about to kick Ben’s shin in a silent reminder when he sets the gift down and opens his arms, pulling Ryan into a hug you’re sure would kill anyone else, but just makes Ryan’s smile wider and whole body relax. 

Butcher clears his throat, holding about five Hawaiian shirts in his hands. “I like mine too,” he mutters. “Nice fuckin shirts. Good material-“

Ryan grabs Butcher in an equally rib-breaking hug, and there’s only a brief moment of shock on the man’s face before he returns it. Ben takes the moment to grab his and your gift for Ryan, waiting until Butcher’s released to all but shove them into Ryan’s hands. 

“From me,” Ben point to one box, then the other. “From her.”

Ryan nods, dropping onto the couch as he opens Ben’s first. He’s barely halfway through carefully peeling the paper when a third one gets added to the pile, dropped by Butcher.

“Got a few more,” Butcher mutters. “Mostly just some of your mums old shit. Neuman got it with the Vought raids, should be fuckin yours anyway.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Ryan swallows, and when you pull away from Ben to sit at his side, he’s filled with an aching, heavy grief in his lungs, but a little lighter in his heart. And it’ll be like that for a while. But it’s better than even a month ago, and that’s more than enough for you.

Butcher grunts, making a loose nod for Ryan to continue on Ben’s gift, and you don’t have to look up to know Ben’s moved behind the couch. Only a second later his hand on your shoulder as he leans down to kiss the top of your head, and you hold him there as Ryan finally discards all the wrapping paper. 

“It’s built for people like us,” Ben explains as Ryan pulls out a brand-new, firm baseball glove. “Had Frenchie make it, so it shouldn’t fucking break or tear like that pussy shit at the school. Got it a few sizes too large, so you can grow into it.”

“Thank, Ben.” Ryan whispers, giving Ben a wide, toothy grin that you feel spark and glow in Ben’s chest. “I love it.”

Ben grunts as Ryan turns to Butcher’s gift, and you lean backwards to give him an amused smile.

Are you abusing Frenchie’s services? First my books, now Ryan’s glove-

I just fucking asked, Ben glares at you, his mouth tugging slightly upwards. Not my fault the pussy said yes.

Okay. You give him a look of fake, overly sweet innocence. Whatever you say, Benjamin, my love.

He rolls his eyes, running his thumb over your knuckles. Brat.

Cunt. You return your attention to Ryan, watching Butcher with wide eyes as he explains how the book in Ryan’s hands was one of Becca’s favorites, and that there hadn’t been a copy in the boxes Neuman turned over. Ryan’s nodding, looking happier and happier by the second, and when he finally turns to the last gift—your gift—you think your nail might be trying to break into your skin. He’ll love the gift. You’re pretty sure he’ll love the gift. You’re usually pretty good at gifts, but you kind of have a cheat-code with Ben, and there’s a slim chance you might have gotten Ryan’s wrong-

Ryan lets out a small gasp when he opens the box, and it sounds good. His excitement looks real. But it might not be. What if it’s not-

Breathe, Sunshine. Ben mutters in your head, squeezing his hand against you. Look at him, he fucking loves it.

He does look like he loves it. Ryan’s holding the Kindle in light hands, his mouth slightly open and his eyes shining as he turns to you. 

“I put some books on it already,” you say, leaning around him to turn the device on, trying not to be knocked out by the sheer fucking happiness in Ryan’s body. “And we can buy more. You’re allowed to take it to school, and keep it in your room, but you do still need sleep-”

Ryan sets the kindle carefully on his lap, and pulls you into a long, tight hug. His head buried in your chest, his arms around your waist, his strength obviously controlled enough not to snap you in half.

“Thank you,” he mumbles against your shirt. “And I promise I’ll still sleep.”

You huff a small laugh, squeezing him back. “Thank you. Merry Christmas, Ry.”

Everyone else arrives not long after that. You’re not entirely sure why you’d all agreed to do this at Butcher’s, because no one seems to really be benefiting—It’s loud enough that Ryan shuffles off to his room to read, busy enough that Butcher’s always shouting at someone not to touch something, and crowded enough that you’re all a little on top of each other—but you’re all here, and that’s what matters. You’re curled into Ben’s lap on one side of the couch, Hughie and Annie on the other sie, Butcher glaring at you all from his chair as Frenchie and Kimiko sit cross legged on the floor. There’s no talk of death or pain or blood, only sharing old stories about previous Christmases—Butcher once had to play baby Jesus in the naivety, and he doesn’t seem to find that half as funny as you do—and talking about the easier parts of work. Frenchie’s missing an eyebrow because of a flamethrower incident. Annie got to yell at someone in Singer’s cabinet last week. Ben broke the printer again.

Again? You grin at him, and he scowls.

It’s a stupid fucking machine, why design something with so many goddamn buttons that doesn’t even work half the time-

Benjamin, how many times have you broken the printer? 

There’s a pause, and then, Twelve.

You gape at him slightly, Holy shit, Ben, just let Kimiko print things-

I fucking do, but she can be busy, and I’m not just going to sit on my goddamn ass like a fucking pussy-

You pull him down into a long, soft kiss, opening for him when he presses his tongue on your lower lip, humming when his hands resume their slow patterns on your thighs.

Grumpy. You whisper between your head, and Ben snorts.

Shut the fuck up, Sunshine, you-

“We’re eating in 20,” MM’s voice cuts through the air, and when you pull away from Ben he’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed. “Let’s do the gift shit now, so I can get on the road right after.”

Everyone nods, and slowly makes their way back to Butcher’s table, cluttered with the Secret Santa gifts. You all sort through them, passing each other the bags and boxes tagged with your names and holding onto them until you’ve all sat, gifts in your laps.

“I guess, uh,” Hughie looks around the group, scratching the back of his neck. “We can just go in a circle? MM, do you want to-“

MM grunts an agreement, not waiting any further before he carefully removes the paper from his bag, sets it off the side, and pulls out two paper tickets. 

“Children’s science museum.” He reads off of them aloud, looking around the group with a frown before settling on you, and grunting your name.

You shake your head. “No, but that does sound like something I’d do. Are they-“

“For the Boston one,” MM mutters, scanning over the rest of the group. “Annie?”

She nods, a wide smile breaking over her face. “That’s supposed to be the best one on this coast, I thought you could take Janine while you’ve got her for the new year.”

“She’d like that,” MM mutters, giving Annie a grateful nod. “Thanks.”

Butcher clears his throat, making it clear that he’s next, and you realize that—if you keep going in a circle—you’ll be penultimate, and Ben will be going last. Good. It’ll help.

Butcher’s not nearly as careful with his packaging as MM was, tossing the bag’s paper aside without thought and freezing slightly when he sees what’s inside. His glare shoots to Hughie, who’s watching with a slightly red face.

“This you, lad?”

“Uh, no-“

“MM?”

MM shakes his head, and Butcher glowers around the rest of the table. Frenchie and Kimiko seem to take pity on him, shaking their heads and leaving Butcher’s scowl on you and Ben. You give a half-hearted shrug and jerk of your head to Ben, and Butcher scoffs.

“Ain’t no bleedin way it’s the old cunt.” Butcher glares at Ben, who tilts his chin up and tenses at your side. “I don’t believe it-“

“Start believing it, you fucking pussy.” Ben snaps. “Tell her you’re welcome.”

Ben nods to you, and you sigh. If you’re being honest, you’d seen this coming. But you still have to pretend to be annoyed with Ben and act like you’re not completely turned on by the way he’s rubbing your thigh, filled with love and pride, and holding you against him like you’re the most important thing in the world. You have to glare at him, and sell the act that you don’t want to grab his stupid handsome face—glowering at Butcher like he can’t believe the man’s nerve—and kiss him until he groans, pins you to the table, and fucks you stupid.

“What do you mean thank her,” MM looks between you and Ben with a narrowed gaze. “Which one of you got Butcher the gift-“

“I did.” You mumble, giving MM an apologetic grimace. “But it was Ben’s name. He told me though, I didn’t ask, and he doesn’t know mine-“

“What is it?” Hughie leans over Butcher, frowning at the bag. “A dog collar?”

“I found Terror.” You explain, chewing the inside of your cheek until it might bleed. “There should be a card in there as well, with a number. You can call it and get him back, if you want. If not it’s just kind of, uh, a dog collar.”

“Ah.” Butcher looks between the collar, now in his hand, and the bag, his words a little lower than before as he turns back to you, something flashing in his eyes that might be a real, good emotion. “Thanks.”

Everyone seems to forgive Ben for breaking the rules immediately—you don’t think they had a lot of faith in him to begin with, which you’d be angrier about if they hadn’t been so entirely correct—and move on to Hughie, but you whack Ben’s chest, glaring up at him.

What the fuck, Benjamin.

It was a good fucking gift, Sunshine, you deserve the credit-

I didn’t care about the credit, dummy.

Well, I fucking do. Ben presses a kiss on the space between your eyes, right where it’s wrinkled from your glower. They should be thanking you all the damn time. 

You wrinkle your nose at him, but smile when his lips move down to your own, the kiss sweet and gentle, letting you sit in the taste of coffee and strawberries in his mouth, drown in the best possible way in Ben, warm and strong and all around you.

When you look back to the group, Hughie’s holding a small, strange device in his hands, having already made his guess and frowning at Frenchie’s explanation.

“Petite Hughie, you are not understanding. You can listen to Billy Joel entire catalogue of music, all on this!”

“So it’s, uh,” Hughie glances down at the device, shoved into his hands. “An iPod?”

“Non, it is a Billy Joel Musical Player.”

“Oh.” Hughie nods slowly, and you and Annie exchange a wide-eyed expression of we can’t laugh. You don’t succeed—breaking out into muffled giggles, Hughie shooting you both glares as he pats Frenchie nervously on the shoulder—but it’s the effort that counts.

After that, with slightly more limited options, it goes a little faster. Butcher got Annie tickets to a pop concert, insisting that she takes photos of Hughie looking awkward and nervous. Frenchie opens his bag to find only a key, and—after guessing Kimiko twice—learns that MM got him a large amount of completely illegal chemicals from questionable sources, only asking that Frenchie try not to murder anyone. Frenchie just shrugs, but before MM can demand a more solid no murder promise, Kimiko is ripping into her own bag, pulling out two Broadway tickets, and pointing to you with a wide smile. When you shake your head her attention moves to Hughie, who nods and tentatively signs that he tried to have them for Decembruary, but they don’t do singing until Walk, and he’ll pay for their sleeping.

That leaves you and Ben. You raise your brows at Kimiko, having done the math, and she gives you a bright smile, gesturing to the bag in your hand as he signs. Open it!

You nod, and find a disgusting wad of cash and sheet of paper with I promise I can cover written out in slightly uneven letters, signatures from Kimiko, Frenchie, Annie, and Hughie at the bottom. Ben frowns as he reads it over your shoulder, and when you look up to Kimiko with raised brows, her smile grows. 

You and Ben never got a real honeymoon. She gestures, and you feel Ben tense slightly at your side. You think he recognized his name. I didn’t know where you’d want to go, so I just gave you money for it. We’re going to cover you at work, and you can finally do that.

You don’t bother to put the card down when you pull Kimiko into a long, tight hug, basking in the genuine, bright sensation that’s in her hands and teeth when you touch. Affection for just you, and something that’s a little more wired, but still warm, for Ben. 

“Thank you,” you whisper in her ear, squeezing her once. “That’s amazing, Kimiko. Thank you so much.”

Kimiko just hugs you back—hard enough to bruise if you could be bruised—and Ben’s hand snakes onto your back, rubbing up your spine with warm, careful hands.

What the fuck is it.

I’ll tell you later. You pull back from Kimiko with one last smile, returning your gaze to Ben with a joy you know he must feel, because it’s too big to be kept in your blood. Open your gift, Ben.

He grunts, glaring around the table, and you know the exact moment it hit him. He sits a little taller, his hand stilling on your body, and something golden bursts and sings in his chest. 

You had fucking Hughie. 

Did I? You make a dramatic look of fake thought, unable to contain the grin on your face. I thought Frenchie did?

Ben’s eyes narrow on yours. Did you fucking rig it-

Me?! You gape at him, your smile full on idiotic now. Rig something? Benjamin, how dare you even imply-

He snorts, leaning down to pull you into a teasing, too-chaste kiss. Brat. 

Cunt. Your reply is a little weak in your head, most of your mind focused on Ben’s hands, opening the box with your gift inside. Ben, wait, I’m going have to explain it-

Ben pulls out the shirt, frowning at the bright words over the graphic of genetic, vanilla ice cream in a cone. “Bassets Ice- Fuck, this place is still open?”

MM frowns. “What place.”

Ben turns the shirt for MM to read, his eyes still on you. “Why the fuck did you get me an ice cream shirt.”

“All dad’s should have weird brand-shirts, Benjamin.” You mumble, leaning a little into his side. “It’s a hallmark. My father had a sriracha shirt.”

MM nods off to the side. “Hasbro.” 

“Ford.” Hughie adds, frowning into the air. “My dad didn’t even like cars.”

“See?” You gesture around the table, suddenly slightly nervous he won’t like it. He has to like it. If Ben doesn’t like it, you watched five hours of old Solider Boy interviews—watched Ben not be Ben, wearing that stupid helmet and grinning at the camera in a way you know is fake—for nothing. “And it’s, um, it’s not just the shirt-“

Ben grunts your name in your head, drawing a firm pattern on your thigh. Calm the fuck down. If it’s just a shirt, it’s a damn good shirt-

It’s date! You blurt, grabbing his hand and keeping it pressed on your skin. You said in the 50s that Bassets was your favorite ice cream shop growing up, and you didn’t say it like you said all the other lies, so I thought maybe that it was true and we could go get some ice cream there or something. And then, um, just kind of fuck around? Whatever you want, it’s your date, and it doesn’t have to be ice cream-

Ben, in an act of mercy, wraps an arm fully around your waist and pulls you onto his lap, kissing you long and heavy and deep until you’re slack against him, your arms around his neck and your whole body filled with only Ben’s thunderous love. 

It’ll be ice cream, he mutters in your head, squeezing the skin of your hips. And we can always fuck around, Sunshine. 

Horny- You swallow down a moan when his hand moves to your ass, only vaguely aware of your friends, now faded into the background. Horny old cunt-

I fucking hope so, darling, I’ve got a perfect wife who needs to be fucked stupid later-

MM clears his throat, and you pull away from Ben with a high, slightly whining gasp. “You two either get a room,” he mutters. “Or stop fucking Frenching each other at the goddamn table. Where we’re about to eat.”

You flush, mumbling an apology as you push off of Ben to go get Ryan, pretending you can’t feel the hot, cocky pride and hunger in Ben’s body that feels like another promise. 

Dinner is quick and easy. The rest of the night is quick and easy. MM put together a feast that could probably feed twenty people, but over half the table is made up of supes, so there are only clean plates with no leftovers. MM rolls his eyes, grumbles about being surrounded by a bunch of animals, and leaves for New York with tight hugs and firm nods. From there, it’s all drinks that only send a slight buzz of warmth through your body—Frenchie tells you he spiked yours and Ben’s, the fact that you can feel anything at all likely a sign that he may have just used straight crack—and a game of poker that devolves into threats, cursing and near-injury remarkably fast. You fold quickly, joining Ryan in the corner as he reads, and as the day creeps on into night you’re mostly just happy. Ryan’s slumping slightly at your side, your hand in his hair as you watch Ben call a pale-faced Hughie a pussy-assed lying motherfucker for the fifth time that game, and lose the game for the seventh time tonight.

And it’s easy. Hughie doesn’t flinch at Ben’s words, and Ryan doesn’t cower at the raised voice. He just yawns, eyes drooping slightly, and keeps trying to read when you can feel the daze of sleep creeping over his brain. 

You look up at Ben—glowering at Butcher as he deals the next hand—and he must feel your eyes because he turns in barely a moment.

What- Ben’s eyes land on Ryan, his frown deepening slightly, and looks back to you in a silent question you’ll always understand.

I’m okay, but I think I’d like to go home. You mumble between your heads, fighting a yawn of your own. You can finish the game though-

Ben shoots to his feet, and before you even know what’s happening he’s at your side, scooping a completely asleep Ryan up in his arms. 

“We’re leaving,” he says to no one in particular, glaring around the room at the scattered gifts and down to Ryan in his arms. “One of you pussies-“

“I’ll get the gifts,” you stand up, blinking away sleepiness from your eyes. “Annie, could you please start the car for us? It’s cold and I don’t want Ryan to wake up-“

Annie nods, grabbing Ben’s keys from the table and pulling Hughie with her out the door. Ben doesn’t fight you as you gather the gifts into one bag, but you can feel him tracking your every move, waiting for you to so much as stumble so he can insist you let him carry everything. But when Hughie returns—saying Annie’s waiting by the car—you’re on steady feet, and every good night is a warm hug, soft joke, and smile. Even Butcher lets you give him a strange, uncoordinated side-hug and nods at Ben with a respect that doesn’t seem forced. 

Downstairs, Annie gives you one last hug as Ben loads Ryan into the car, and the night is done. The drive home is short, Ben not helping your bid to remain awake by rubbing your thigh and humming something that you think is supposed to be a lullaby, low and off-key. He’s a little faster than you are, somehow getting Ryan and the gifts, opening the door, and refusing to walk upstairs until you’re clinging to his arm.

Get in bed, Sunshine, he mutters, kissing the top of your head outside your room. I’ll be there soon. 

You nod, shuffling through the door and not bothering with the dresser. You shed your clothing like they’re poison on your skin, pull on one of Ben’s shirts—cast thoughtlessly onto the bed—and crawl between the sheets to wait for him to return, wallowing in the smell of pine until he does.

He frowns when he sees you, his words low and stern. “You need to fucking sleep, darling-“

“No.” You shake your head, reaching for him a little pathetically. “Need you. More gifts.”

Ben shakes his head, pulling off his shirt as he joins you, a slight smirk on his stupid, handsome, amazing face. “You need me,” he drawls your name, and your thighs squeeze together slightly. “You have more perfect shit to give me-“

“Shut up,” you wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face in his chest. Maybe I do have more shit to give you-

“Good. I have more shit to give you,” Ben mutters, tugging lightly on your hair until you meet his gaze. “And I’m first.” 

You’re too tired to argue, so you let Ben shift you fully over his body, twisting your head to watch him reach into his bedside drawer and pull out two tickets.

“Everyone’s getting tickets,” you mumble, letting Ben pass them into your hands. “Are we going to see Frozen off Broadway?”

He frowns. “I don’t know what the fuck a Frozen is. These are for the opera.”

You blink at him, unsure if you heard correctly, and when you speak your voice is small. “The opera?”

Ben grunts an affirmation. “The internet said this one has cannons. And after they’re going to let us have the whole place, and you can sing, or we can dance or just fuck, but we’re not allowed to break shit or they’ll sue us.”

You want to kiss him. You want to pull his tongue into your mouth until he can’t ever stop tasting you, and let him push himself inside you until you’re melded together for the rest of time. But if you start that now you’ll never give him your gift, and it suddenly feels incredibly critical Ben sees your gift now.

“Do you want to know what my secret was?” You whisper, and something sparks in Ben’s chest.

“So it was a fucking secret-“

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Do you want to know or not, Benjamin-“

“Know.” He grumbles. “What the fuck was it-“

“Open my drawer.” You nod lazily to your bedside table, a little too drunk on Ben to move. “Please.”

He snorts, shaking his head, and any grumble of never having to fucking ask him please dies when he opens the drawer and sees what’s inside. 

“How the fuck…” Ben trails off, and you’ve never been more grateful for being able to sense his emotions than you are now. He’s reduced to silence because his love has turned to a roar in his body, and his head seems a little light from the raw joy and confusion clouding his skull.

“I got some old government files,” your voice is soft, scanning over Ben’s slack expression carefully. “Found your childhood home. Then I, um, I visited it and asked what they did with the old owners possessions. They said the government took a lot of it, so I made Neuman tell me where they were stored. I was, I was going through all the boxes, and I found that. And I’m just, I think I’m ready. Soon. When you are.”

Ben’s love becomes almost primal in your chest, but he still doesn’t look away from the baby blanket. His old baby blanket. Pastel green and soft, somehow not moth-ridden and unraveling, so small in Ben’s massive hand.

When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “You’re sure.”

You nod, swallowing slightly. “I’m sure. I’ve been sure.” You trail your fingers over Ben’s beard, offering him a small smile when his attention returns. “I’m always sure of you, my love.”

That seems to be enough for Ben. He sets the blanket down with heartbreaking gentleness, and brings his lips to yours in a painfully loving and devout kiss. He doesn’t deepen it—even as his hunger becomes primal—only rubbing patterns on the back of your thighs and grinning against your mouth.

“If Ryan wasn’t asleep down the hall,” he growls into your mouth, igniting a heat in your lower gut. “We’d get started right fucking now. But,” he pulls your upper lip between his teeth, smirking at your soft moan. “I waited a hundred goddamn years for this, for you.” Ben says your name like it’s holy, and you can only grind weakly against him. “I can wait a few more nights.”

You nod, pulling away to give him a nervous smile. “So yes?”

“Fucking yes.” He grins, pulling you back into him. This kiss quicker, but filled with more undying heat and need, and it leaves you a little dizzy when he pulls away. “For you, darling, it’s always fucking yes.”

“Oh.” Sleep starts to catch you again, and you begin to sink fully into Ben. Warm and big and strong and Ben. “Good.”

“Damn right,” Ben grumbles, helping you squirm back down his chest. “I fucking love you. I’d have to have lost my goddamn mind to tell you no.”

“I love you too,” you hum, a little too lost in Ben to say much else. “Merry Christmas-“

“I think Christmas is fucking over, beautiful-“

“It’s not midnight,” you mumble, burying your face in his neck. “Take my Merry Christmas, Benjamin.”

Ben chuckles, running a hand through your hair and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Merry Christmas, Sunshine.”'

End Note: Happy Holidays Squad!!! Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the pure fluff and smut of this miniseries!! See you soon!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask! (Separate from main taglist)

Taglist

@manicjk @lordofthunderthr @artemys-ackles @brtodd @ej13928

@deansbbyx @generalmoonpolice

[monstrousvoice]

Bar Snack

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Relationship: Husk X Female Reader

AN: It is 4am and I wake up. I see this post and am struck with the desire to write smut.

I do so.

Tags: PWP, Female Reader, Reader has a vulva, Cunnilingous, Sex in a Public Space, Daddy Kink, Mentions of Husk being on the chubbier side, If I missed any tags please let me know

Read on AO3!

“J-just hold still, alright?”

“You mister, have had too much!” You laugh, even as you let Husk manhandle you onto the bar top. The tips of his claws prick at the soft flesh of your hips and the sting has you biting your lip and hissing in pleasure. Husk's ears twitch and rotate to face you, taking in every noise you make. His golden eyes lock on to you, pupils dilating and contracting rapidly. He lets out a low growl.

“So what? Just…just need to hear you, need to-...to taste you a little, baby-” He leans forward, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck, breathing your scent. You wrap your arms around his torso, pulling him closer to you. You feel his teeth ever so gently graze across your neck, following the coarse feeling of his tongue as he licks you without shame. A sudden nip has your hips bucking towards the counter edge and against his own, your legs wrapping tight around his hips. 

You can feel him, his hardening cock slipping out of his sheath and pressing against you. His wings flutter before you, tense with the muscles in his back as Husk makes it his mission to suck a hickey onto every available spot of your neck and shoulders. His claws, still on your hips, dip underneath the edge of the dress you have on, pushing the fabric up to stay bunched up around your waist.

“W-what if-what if someone comes in-?” Your voice is no better than a whisper, your breath stolen by the attention being lavished upon you. Even as you worry, your hand moves from its clawed grip on his shoulder to travel down, and you smirk in victory when you find your prize. You cup Husk's growing bulge, outlining the shape of his hard cock and balls through his pants. You give his balls a gentle squeeze and are rewarded with his hips bucking into your hand, wings flaring, and a bite on your shoulder that does nothing to muffle his possessed growl. 

You keen, proud of yourself. 

“F-fuckin slut-” He hisses against your tender new mark. “Acting so worried but you go and do that.” His tone is harsh, but the gentle lapping of his tongue shows he's anything but angry. 

“Just because my Daddy doesn't-” You moan, interrupted as his paw moves to your cunt and presses. “-m-make the best decisions, doesn't mean I'm not gonna take care of him~” Husk chuckles, a deep, low sound that vibrates through your body. Your hips are moving on their own, rocking your hot core against the fingers still pushing that maddening pressure against you. Your slick is leaking through your panties and you know he can feel it. 

“You do take care of me, don't ya baby doll?” The tenderness in his voice is unexpected but not unwelcome. Husk hooks a finger from his free hand under chin, turning you to look him in the eye. “You’re always there for me, bad day or no…my good girl.” His pupils are wide and fuzzy, and the tenderness you see directed at you is almost too much to bear. You practically freeze, locked under those eyes as he leans forward and kisses you with such softness it feels dream-like. You press back, welcoming his affection with a moan of bliss and fluttering eyelashes.

His tongue meets with yours as the fingers pressed against your cunt move again. You feel the pressure ease away and almost whine into the kiss, before feeling his claws hook under the fabric of your panties. The sound of seams ripping hits you, and you're distantly aware that you are, yet again, down another pair of panties. You don't really mind though, not when losing them leads to situations like this. 

Husk's claws are back to your drooling slit, tracing up and down with a sort of reverence. Your pussy feels hot and slick, and Husk groans low in his chest when he uses two fingers to spread your lips, your arousal drenching his fingers. He pulls away from kissing you and you pathetically chase after him for more. He presses another quick one to your bruising lips, then another when you keep following after him. 

“Alright baby-” He grunts, and you press more kisses to his muzzle, trying to bring him back for more. “C-c’mon sweet girl-no more…” You stop, leaning hard into his chest, the weight of his tummy pressing into yours. You whimper and bite your bottom lip, wanting to protest but knowing better than to do so. You try to plead instead. 

“Pl-please daddy? Just, fuck, just a couple more while you f-fuck me? Please?” You grind your cunt against his fingers as you beg, unashamed at the possibility that someone else in the hotel could walk in to find you moaning like a whore for the bartender's touch.

“No baby, no, cause I'm not gonna fuck you-” Your heart drops at his words, desperation and fear immediately setting in. Your mind races with things you could have done to deserve a punishment tonight, and you watch with wide eyes as Husk lowers himself to his knees before you. 

“Yet.” He hisses. Relief floods you instantly, and by the mischievous glint in his eye, Husk knows how worked up his words made you. He chuckles and moves his hands to your thighs, cupping them and pushing them apart to give himself a first-class view of your cunt. You bite your bottom lip and look away, closing your eyes as your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. You can feel his paws move closer to your pussy, until his thumbs are suddenly touching. He plays with your lips for a moment, his thumbs spreading your slick everywhere before hooking them and spreading you open.

Your cunt is forced to gape before his eyes, fluttering with arousal despite the mortification burning you alive. 

“Fuck, what a pretty cunt. Already this wet from some kisses and rubbing? Heh, you're dripping on the floor at this point.” You whimper and keen, peaking an eye open to look down at him. His eyes are like molten gold as he stares back at you. 

“Don't be embarrassed baby girl, it's alright. Daddy’s gonna clean up your mess.” You barely have time to process his words before he leans forward and trails one long lick up your pussy. Your hips buck immediately at the feeling of his rough tongue against you, pushing your hips up into his muzzle. 

“S-s-sorry Daddy-!” You whimper, but Husk doesn't stop. He simply wraps one of his thick, heavy arms over your hips and pins you to the bar top, licking away at your cunt like he doesn't have a care in hell. You shudder and gasp, your hips twitching to grind against his mouth for more than rough kitten licks but unable to with his arm pinning you down. The knowledge makes your blood burn hotter, seeing how easy it is for him to control and manipulate your body to his will. His claws dig into the fat of your thigh and hip as he eats you out like a five-star meal. 

You feel his tongue wiggle inside, your gummy walls clenching down in response to squeeze a cock that isn't there. Husk lets out a purr in response, the only sound in the hotel bar besides the slick ‘slurp’ noises he makes as he sucks your clit like it's his favorite piece of candy. You can only throw your head back against the bar and endure his assault, wishing that the sweet torture would never end. 

“D-Daddy, fuck-! Please, please d-don't stop, please-” Your words start to slur together as you beg for more. You bring a shaking hand from your face to your hips, gripping the paw holding you down like a lifeline. A sharp nip to the hood of your clit has you gasping, sitting up straight to look down at your boyfriend with shock. He doesn't stop, still lapping away at your fluttering cunt. His eyes are hooded, taking in the sight of you sitting above him, losing your mind on his talented tongue. He pulls away from his feast only briefly to rumble a command at you. 

“Hold my head baby, don't let go.”

You do as you’re told, taking your hand not holding his and carding it through the fur on top of his head. Husk lets out a pleased rumble before diving back in, suckling your swollen clit without mercy. You cry out, throwing your head back and gasping at the sensation. 

You're so close, you can feel the coil in your cunt, the pleasure shooting through your veins that lets you know your orgasm is on its way-you just need-need a little more-

A new sound reaches your ears, wet and slick like the sounds coming from your cunt, but just off ever so slightly-

You look down at Husk, his eyes closed as he loses himself to your taste. You can see his breath steam up as he snorts from his nose, drowning in your smell. Looking down further you see it, past the wonderful thick belly you nuzzle into every night. Husk has undone his pants one handed while eating you out, and his free hand, you hadn't even noticed it leaving your thigh, was fisted around his cock. Pink and red peaked at you from between his fingers as he tried to jerk himself in unison with his mouth as he ate you out. A thick glob of precum was drooling from his cock head, getting swiped up by his thumb to make his hand move slicker, only to be immediately replaced by more. 

A full body shudder tore through you at the sight, your own mouth drooling with the desire to have that fat cock shoved down your throat as Husk moaned for you. It was enough, and your cunt squeezed tight around nothing as Husk licked and sucked your clit.

“C-cumming-” You gave a breathless cry, hips bucking in vain against Husk's strong grip, your orgasm tearing through you with an intensity that had your toes curling and thighs squeezing tight around Husk's head. He simply moaned low in response, lost in the feeling of your thighs squeezing and your hand pulling his fur as you lost yourself to him. He continued lapping at your swollen and puffy cunt, making sure not one drop of your cum was forgotten by his tongue. Even as your body fell boneless under him, he kept licking and sucking, moving to the meat of your thighs to leave hickeys and bite marks as you recovered and learned how to be alive again. 

“How ya feeling baby doll? Talk to me.” He spoke, his voice sounding gravely and deep even to himself, thick with lust he hasn't had a chance to relieve yet. He tucked his still hard cock back inside his pants, zipping it up just enough to keep himself from popping back out. He stood back up, leaning over your limp body on the tabletop. You gave him a dazed smile from where you lay.

“G-good…thank you Daddy, for letting me cum…” Husk smiled, pulling you in for a kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue. You whimpered into his mouth as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you off the bar top and into his arms. Your legs wrapped around his hips immediately, your still sensitive pussy being pressed against his hard cock, covered in fabric. He pulled away from your kiss, adjusting you in his grip as he began walking towards the hotel elevator. 

“Glad you enjoyed yourself, baby.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek as he walked. “Now, you're gonna be a good doll and let Daddy have his turn, yeah? I need a tight little hole to fuck~” He growled in your ear. You felt the vibrations from his chest travel through your whole body. Despite cumming already, your pussy throbbed at his words, and you moaned. 

“Y-yes Daddy, whatever you want-” You managed to whimper, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he carried you to your shared bedroom.

~~~~~~~

The following morning, Husk walked behind the bar to find a note folded with his name on it. He raised a feathered eyebrow, feeling curious as he opened it. It was Charlie's neat cursive. 

Husk,

Nifty found a rather…interesting piece of clothing early this morning when cleaning. I frankly don't want to know what you two were doing last night, I don't need details, but I do ask that you clean up after yourselves at least. 

Thank you! 

Husk snorted, pocketing the note to show you and laugh about later. He supposed now he and the princess were even, considering the sight he had walked in on in the kitchen just a week ago.

[thyras]

→ of unspoken truths

PAIRING → annatar | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 7.1k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → mild abuse (he chokes her), arguments, angst, manipulation

SUMMARY → when the truth comes to light it brings with it great sorrow and tragedy, and it would seem all is lost.

AUTHORS NOTE → this chapter broke me, like i'm gonna need a few days to recover. i really had not meant for this to go this way but the characters have a mind of their own and i went with it.

masterlist // series playlist // mood board

His index finger traced slow, circular patterns below your navel as you gazed up at him, lost in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Moonlight poured through the balcony doors, bathing him in a silver glow, casting shadows along the sharp planes of his face. His sapphire eyes shimmered in the dim light, half-lidded with quiet reverence. Propped up on one elbow, he watched you with a lazy, indulgent smile, taking in the love-lorn expression that softened your features.

There was something so right about this—this moment, this union—that neither of you dared to speak, afraid that the illusion would shatter with a single breath.

Annatar leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, his fingers flattening against your stomach in a tender caress. You smiled into the kiss, threading your fingers through his silken strands. He deepened it, his tongue gliding sensually against yours as his hand continued to trace over your womb with quiet reverence. The intimate contact sent shivers of pleasure rippling through you, your body alive under his touch.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your cheeks warmed with the afterglow of his affection.

"I still can't quite believe it," he murmured, his voice edged with awe as his gaze drifted down to where his hand rested possessively over your stomach. "A child. Our child."

You smiled, your own hand coming to rest over his, fingers intertwining. "I know. It feels like a dream."

And in many ways, it was. After centuries of love and loss, of separation and reunion, the idea that you now carried a piece of both of you—a tangible embodiment of your unbreakable bond—seemed too wondrous to be real.

You shifted into your pillow, your hand reaching up to trace the line of his cheekbone, down along his jaw, before cupping his chin. Your fingers rested there as you took him in—your husband. In all the forms your elven eyes had known him, this one felt the closest to the first, the one you had fallen for so long ago.

Yet, even as you stared at him now, you could not help but wonder. His human form seemed the most natural to him, almost as if it was the one he had worn the longest. As Halbrand, he had carried himself with ease, his movements fluid in a way they had never quite been in his elven guises. There was a quiet confidence in the way he walked as a man, as though it had been his truest self all along.

But deep down, you knew the truth. The form you had first fallen in love with was the one you held dearest in your heart—the one he had fashioned for your eyes alone.

You mourned its loss.

If only, just for one night, you could see it again—to feel the gentle caress of that form, to run your fingers through fiery strands that shimmered like molten copper in the moonlight, to drown once more in seafoam-green eyes that had once held the light of the world within them.

Would he ever take that form again, if only for you?

Would he understand how much you longed for it?

Or was it truly lost, a relic of a past that neither of you could ever reclaim?

As if he had plucked the thought straight from your mind, he spoke, his voice low and intimate.

“I can take that form for you and only you, my love,” he murmured, his gaze searching yours for the answer he already knew lay within your heart. His breath was warm against your lips, his presence anchoring you to this moment.

You cupped his cheek once more, your fingers brushing over the familiar planes of his face. He leaned into your touch instinctively, his eyes half-lidded with devotion.

“I thought it was lost as well,” he admitted after a moment of silence. “But now that I am stronger… and now that I have your memories—I could take it again if that is what you desire.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, quick and uneven, as if it could barely contain the weight of the moment. Warmth spread through you, a mixture of anticipation and longing. The thought of seeing him once more as he had been—of slipping back into a time when the world was brighter, simpler—was intoxicating.

And yet…

You smiled, slow and tender, giving him your answer.

“Let my memories and my dreams be where that form lies, love,” you whispered, your voice carrying the bittersweet certainty of your decision. “Let it be hers alone—the one who loved you then, the one who lived in those days.”

You paused, letting your thumb trace the sharp edge of his cheekbone before sweeping down to the curve of his jaw. His breath hitched, just barely, at your touch.

“But this…” you continued, gazing into the depths of his eyes—the eyes of the being who had walked countless paths, who had changed and endured, who had loved you through it all. “Let this be the form of the one I love now, the one who stands before me.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he might argue, as if he might offer again, but something in your gaze stopped him. Understanding flickered across his face, followed by something deeper—something more profound than longing.

He lifted his hand to cover yours where it rested against his cheek, pressing it close. Then, with a reverence that sent a shiver down your spine, he turned his head, brushing a kiss against the center of your palm.

“As you wish, my love,” he murmured, the words a vow as much as a promise.

Annatar's lips lingered against your palm, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine. When he finally pulled back, his eyes shone with a depth of emotion that stole your breath—love, awe, and a quiet reverence that humbled you to your core.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with feeling. "For loving me as I am now. For seeing beyond the shadows of the past."

Your heart swelled at his words, at the raw vulnerability in his gaze. You knew what this meant to him—to be accepted, to be loved, not for who he had been, but for who he was now. With all his flaws, all his scars, all the darkness he still carried within.

Slowly, you reached for him, drawing him close until your foreheads touched, your breaths mingling in the scant space between you. Your fingers curled against the nape of his neck, grounding him, anchoring him in the moment.

"I will always love you, Mairon," you whispered fiercely. "In every form, through every trial. That will never change."

Annatar’s eyes fluttered closed, a shuddering breath escaping him as he absorbed your words, letting them wash over him like a balm. A muscle in his jaw tensed as he fought to contain the storm of emotions within him. When he opened his eyes again, they gleamed with unshed tears, reflecting the moonlight that bathed you both.

"Mori," he breathed, the single word carrying the weight of centuries—of love and loss, hope and heartbreak. His fingers ghosted along your cheek, reverent, hesitant, as if afraid you might fade like a dream. "My divine. My everything."

Then he captured your lips once more, the kiss deep and consuming, filled with a desperation that spoke of long years of separation, of an ache that had never truly faded. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, as if to imprint your very essence into his soul.

You melted into his kiss, surrendering to the desperate hunger of his touch. Your fingers threaded through his hair, holding him close as you poured every ounce of love, every shred of devotion, into the meeting of your lips. In this moment, nothing existed but him—his warmth, his scent, the steady beat of his heart against yours.

When you finally parted, breathless and flushed, Annatar’s eyes were dark with desire, his pupils blown wide. His hand slid down, fingers splaying possessively across your stomach, his touch searing through the thin fabric of your nightgown. A shiver coursed through you, not from cold, but from the raw intensity in his gaze.

"Every day, I am in awe of you," he murmured, his voice low and rough, as if the weight of his emotions threatened to consume him. "Of the strength you carry, the light you bring to my world. And now..." His fingers flexed against your belly, reverence and something almost fragile warring in his tone. “I finally feel complete.”

Your heart ached with tenderness as you gazed up at him, your fingers lifting to cup his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes searching yours, as if committing this moment to memory. A quiet beat passed, the night air thick with unspoken emotions, before he spoke again, softer this time.

"I wish we had done this sooner."

A giggle bubbled past your lips, light and teasing, as you brushed your nose against his. “If it had been up to me, we would have,” you murmured, a playful smile dancing across your lips. You let the moment stretch, reveling in the warmth of his hold before adding, “But it has always been your choice, my love. You had to want it, not I.”

His breath hitched, his fingers tightening ever so slightly against your skin, and in his eyes, you saw it—the understanding, the unspoken gratitude, and the love that ran deeper than words could ever express.

And when he kissed you again, it was slow, reverent, a silent promise written in the language of his touch: I have always wanted you. I will always want you.

As your lips parted, you caught a flicker of something in his eyes—an emotion buried beneath his adoration, fleeting yet undeniable. Concern. Doubt. Something unspoken.

You ran your finger across his bottom lip before nipping at it playfully, a mischievous glint in your eyes, hoping to draw him back to the present, to chase away whatever shadowed his thoughts. But the worry lingered, stubborn and unresolved.

“What’s the matter, love?” you asked softly, settling back against your pillows. You pulled the linen sheets up over yourself, cocooning in their warmth as the night air whispered through the open balcony. Annatar’s gaze drifted past you, out into the darkness beyond, his eyes distant, lost in thought.

For a moment, you wondered if he would answer at all. But then, he turned back to you, offering a smile—pleasant, practiced, but not quite reaching his eyes.

“Nothing I wish to burden you with,” he murmured, his voice gentle yet evasive. He reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a second too long.

Your heart clenched.

Reaching up, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist, stilling him, holding his gaze for a moment longer. "Mairon," you murmured, your tone a quiet plea, an unspoken invitation to share what troubled him.

His lips parted as if to speak, but instead, he exhaled slowly, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. The weight of his silence pressed against you, thick with meaning, with hesitation.

And yet, you did not push—only waited. Because you knew, eventually, he would let you in.

“I am worried that Lord Celebrimbor no longer wishes to continue in this venture,” Annatar admitted, his voice quiet but laced with tension.

You frowned, confusion flickering across your face. “And what makes you think that?”

His jaw tightened slightly. “He refuses to aid me in forging the Rings for Men.”

A weight settled in your chest at his words. You swallowed hard, the action small yet unmistakable, and Annatar’s sharp eyes did not miss it. The warmth of his touch left your skin as he shifted, sitting up against the headboard, his fingers pressing against his temples. A long sigh escaped him, weary and edged with frustration.

“And now you are refusing,” he murmured, half to himself, his voice tinged with something dangerously close to disappointment.

Your breath caught. “Mairon,” you said, disbelief threading through your tone. You sat up beside him, searching his face, but his eyes remained closed. “I am not refusing. I only wish to understand—why does Lord Celebrimbor object? What are his reasons?”

A silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things. Annatar’s fingers stilled against his brow, and when he finally opened his eyes, they burned with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“I do not need his reasoning,” he said, voice low, measured. “I need his obedience.”

The words hung between you like a blade’s edge, their weight settling uncomfortably in the space you shared. And for the first time in months, you saw the light dim from his face, fading like the last embers of a dying fire.

Mairon.

This was not something he would have said before—not unless he was slipping back into the darker recesses of his mind, the shadows he had fought so hard to escape.

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself, then reached for him, seeking the warmth of his hand in yours. But before your fingers could close around his, he pulled away—subtle, yet deliberate.

Your heart clenched.

“Mairon,” you whispered, the ache in your voice betraying the sting of his rejection. It was rare for him to deny your touch, rare for him to shut you out like this. And yet, he did not so much as glance at you, his gaze locked on some distant point, lost in the tangled threads of his thoughts.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, a quiet chasm between you that you weren’t sure how to bridge. You swallowed hard, the weight of the silence pressing against your chest like an unseen force. Without another word, you slipped out of bed, the cool air brushing against your skin as you reached for your silk dressing gown draped over the back of your dressing table’s chair.

The rustling of fabric caught Annatar’s attention, and for the first time since the conversation had turned, his gaze lifted to you. His brow furrowed, his expression puzzled by your sudden movement.

You turned to face him, meeting his gaze with quiet resolve. The silence between you stretched for another beat before you finally broke it.

“I am going to see what this is all about,” you said, your tone measured but firm. “If you wish to come, then so be it. But I will not stand idly by while you let this consume you.”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

You took a breath, gathering your thoughts before continuing, softer this time. “You have worked too hard these past few months to fall back into old habits, Mairon. Do not let this undo everything.”

His expression shifted—something unreadable flickering across his features. Guilt? Frustration? Perhaps both.

But still, he said nothing.

You tightened the belt of your gown and turned toward the door, determined to find the truth for yourself. Whether he followed or not, you would not let this fester in silence.

You strode down the dimly lit corridors with determined steps, the soft rustle of your silken dressing gown trailing behind you. The cool night air whispered against your skin, but you paid it no mind, your focus set on a single purpose—to uncover the truth behind Lord Celebrimbor’s reluctance and Annatar’s growing frustration.

The halls were silent at this hour, save for the distant crackle of torches lining the walls. You moved with purpose, your thoughts a storm of questions, doubts, and the lingering ache of Annatar’s retreat into himself.

As you neared the forge, the familiar scent of molten metal and parchment filled your senses. You hesitated only briefly before pushing the door open with deliberate care, trying to remain as quiet as possible.

Inside, the forge’s fire had long since dimmed, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. And there, hunched over his workbench, was Celebrimbor. His brow furrowed in deep concentration as he scribbled across a sheet of parchment, utterly absorbed in his work.

The moment you stepped inside, a strange sensation rippled through you—a pull at your very core. The ring on your finger pulsed, subtle yet insistent, a warning whispering through your blood.

Something was amiss.

Before you could dwell on it, Celebrimbor’s voice broke the silence.

“Thilwen?” His head lifted, eyes widening slightly in surprise as he took you in. “It is late. I thought you would be sleeping.”

You exhaled softly, schooling your features into a pleasant smile as you stepped forward, the phantom pulse of the ring fading as you willed it away.

“I could say the same of you, my lord,” you mused, ascending the steps that led to his small study. The glow of the fireplace cast deep shadows across his face, accentuating the lines of exhaustion that marred his otherwise noble features.

You came to stand beside him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder as your gaze flickered down to the parchment beneath his hand.

“What is keeping you awake?” you asked, voice laced with quiet curiosity.

You felt the subtle tension beneath your palm, the way his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly before he let out a slow breath.

“Many things,” he admitted, though there was something guarded in his tone. His fingers tightened briefly around his quill before he set it down. “But I suspect you already know that.”

Your stomach tightened.

So he was troubled.

“I do,” you breathed, shifting to sit beside him on the bench. “Would you care to tell me?”

Celebrimbor turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he studied you.

“He sent you, didn’t he?”

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the suspicion in his tone. Shaking your head, you met his gaze with quiet honesty.

“I came of my own accord,” you assured him. “He mentioned you were troubled, and I realized I have been remiss in my duties as your faithful partner.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips before he turned back to his work. “It feels as though Lord Annatar has replaced me in that sense.” you finished.

But before you could say anything further, Celebrimbor reached for your hands, enclosing them gently within his own. His touch was warm, steady, reassuring.

“No, my lady,” he murmured, his voice rich with sincerity. “There is no one who could ever replace your wisdom—not even an emissary of the Valar.”

A warmth bloomed in your chest at his words, and a soft heat crept to your cheeks. You glanced down at your entwined hands, momentarily lost for words.

“You are too kind, my lord,” you whispered, then hesitated before continuing. “Can I offer you any of that wisdom to ease what troubles you?”

A heavy sigh escaped him as he withdrew his hands, turning back to his parchment. “I dare not burden you with that.”

A light laugh bubbled from your lips, though there was an edge of exasperation beneath it. “You know,” you mused, reaching up to touch his cheek, gently guiding his gaze back to yours, “you are the second person to say that to me tonight.”

He blinked at you, something shifting behind his eyes as you smiled softly.

“So tell me, mellon,” you urged, your voice dipping into something quieter, more intimate. “I do not wish for you to be burdened by whatever weighs so heavily upon you.”

For a moment, he only looked at you, his lips parting as if to speak. Then, at last, he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough for you to know that he would tell you—if only you were willing to listen.

“I feel as if he is not willing to listen to reason,” Celebrimbor began, his voice edged with frustration.

You bit back a knowing smile, amusement flickering in your chest despite the weight of the conversation. Mairon, unwilling to listen to reason? That was a tale as old as time. He had never been one to accept resistance, nor did he take the word no particularly well. It seemed that, even after all these ages, some things had not changed.

Celebrimbor exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “He wishes to craft something for those who are so easily swayed—so easily corruptible. Do you not see the danger in that? These rings would not be a gift; they would be a temptation. A power that many would wield not for good, but for malice.”

His words carried a quiet urgency, a deep-seated concern that weighed on his every syllable.

You studied him, the flickering forge light casting sharp shadows across his face. There was no doubt in his mind, no hesitation in his belief.

And yet, there was doubt in yours.

You had seen the best in Mairon, had known the warmth beneath the steel, the brilliance behind the ambition. He had changed—or at least, you had believed he had.

But had he truly?

Or had you simply wished so desperately for it to be true?

Had the cloud of joy—the miracle of carrying life within you, the warmth of being back in your husband’s arms—made you so blind to what was unfolding right before your very eyes? Had love softened your vigilance, dulled the instincts that once warned you of the dangers lurking beneath the surface?

You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself before speaking.

“I agree with you,” you admitted, choosing your words carefully. “I think it would be a terrible idea. I have never lived among Men, but I know enough to understand what they are capable of when given power. And I remember well the ruin they can bring upon this world.”

Celebrimbor released a slow breath, relief flickering in his eyes as a small, weary smile touched his lips.

“I am glad we see eye to eye on this,” he murmured.

You nodded, reaching out to brush your thumb against his cheek, a small gesture of comfort, of familiarity. He leaned into the touch for the briefest of moments before reaching up to take your hand once more, his fingers curling around yours with quiet reassurance.

“We have always seen eye to eye, my lord,” you reminded him, your voice soft, steady. “It is why we have accomplished so much together.”

His grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly, his expression unreadable. And yet, beneath the warmth of his touch, beneath the quiet understanding that had always bound you, you could not shake the lingering unease that settled in your chest.

Because for all the certainty in his words, for all the trust between you—there was another bond, one just as strong, just as deep.

And you were not sure how long you could stand between them before you were forced to choose.

When you returned to your chambers, you found Annatar exactly where you had left him—sitting against the headboard, unmoving, lost in thought. The dim candlelight cast flickering shadows across his face, deepening the furrow in his brow, the tension in his jaw.

His gaze lifted as you entered, tracking your every movement as you crossed the room. You shrugged off your dressing gown, draping it over the back of the chair by your dressing table, and let out a slow breath, exhaustion settling into your bones. The weight of the conversation with Celebrimbor still clung to you, and you could feel Annatar’s silent scrutiny pressing against your back as you slipped beneath the sheets.

The silence between you was thick, suffocating.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“So… will he do it?” His voice was calm, but you could hear the tension coiled beneath it, like a blade pressed too tightly against its sheath.

You did not face him. Instead, you turned toward the open balcony doors, watching as the night wind stirred the gossamer curtains. You knew what was about to come out of your mouth would not go over well. But it had to be said. And coming from you—perhaps it would wound him less.

“No.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. You could feel it stretching between you, fraying at the edges. Then, suddenly, the bed shifted violently as Annatar rose in a swift, almost volatile motion.

You let out a slow breath, steadying yourself before turning to face him.

His eyes burned.

It was not the smoldering warmth you had grown accustomed to over the past months—not the quiet intensity of devotion or longing. No, this was something else. Something dangerous.

Something you had not seen in a long time.

And it frightened you.

“I agree with him,” you murmured, voice steady despite the way your heart pounded against your ribs. “You should not be giving power to them. They will only use it to hurt, Mairon.”

His name fell from your lips—a plea, a warning.

But the fire in his gaze did not wane. If anything, it burned brighter, sharper, flickering with something dark and unreadable.

And in that moment, you realized—this was not a conversation.

This was a battle.

One that neither of you could afford to lose.

“So you wish to turn your back on me as well?” Annatar’s voice was low, but there was an accusation woven into it, sharp as a dagger’s edge.

Your chest tightened.

“No,” you countered firmly, sitting up as the sheets pooled around your waist. “That is not what I am trying to do at all.”

But he was not listening—not truly. His stance was rigid, his gaze burning with something raw and unyielding.

Frustration bubbled up inside you, tightening your throat. “I am trying to make you see that you are pressuring someone into something they do not want to do. You are manipulating them, ignoring their warnings, dismissing their concerns as if they mean nothing.”

Your voice wavered with rising agitation, your emotions spilling over like a dam beginning to crack.

“The Dwarves needed our help,” you pressed, eyes locking onto his. “Men do not.”

The words left your lips with finality, each syllable deliberate, pointed.

Annatar stared at you, his expression unreadable, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

For the first time in a long time, you wondered if he even heard you at all—or if he had already made up his mind.

What came out of his mouth next sent a tremor down your spine.

“I never thought you to be so prejudiced, Mori,” he said, his voice low, measured—dangerous. “You think like every other Elf.”

Your breath hitched, but your glare did not waver. Anger still churned hot in your chest.

“You feel you are better than them,” he continued, eyes burning into yours, “but as I see it, you are afraid of them.”

Your hands clenched against the sheets, nails biting into your palms.

“Why do you care so much?” you shot back, your voice laced with frustration. “You are not one of them.” Your gaze narrowed, sharp and unyielding. “You hardly seem to care what your Elven wife thinks these days, so why are they so much more important than me? Than our baby?”

The moment the words left your lips, you knew you had gone too far.

A flicker of something dark crossed his face, his anger boiling over, raw and unchecked.

A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance, as if the very air had sensed the shift between you.

The silence stretched, suffocating.

And for the first time, you were not sure whether the heat in his gaze was born of fury—or something far more dangerous.

“Get out.”

Your voice was low, a warning, a plea wrapped in trembling restraint. You needed space. You needed him to leave before this spiraled into something you could not control.

“Get out of my rooms.”

His eyes darkened further, shifting into the fathomless void of black that once haunted your worst nightmares. Your pulse pounded in your ears, sharp and unrelenting. But then—a chime.

The ring on your finger hummed with warmth, its presence grounding you, wrapping around your senses like a shield. Whatever he wished to do, it would protect you.

Annatar moved before you could react, closing the distance in a single, fluid motion. His fingers wrapped tightly around your neck, the pressure firm enough to cut air, though not entirely. A low growl rumbled from his chest as another clap of thunder echoed in the distance, the storm outside mirroring the one within.

“I am doing this for you,” he snarled, his grip steady, his breath warm against your skin. “For our child.”

Your hands flew up, grasping at his wrist, struggling against the strength that once felt so safe, so sacred. But now, it terrified you.

“As I always have,” he continued, voice laced with a desperate conviction that sent a shudder through you. “This has always been for you. I endured centuries of torture, of agony, so I could heal you—so I could give you the world you longed for.”

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring his face as you searched those black voids for something—anything—that remained of the man you loved.

The soft patter of rain began, the first drops whispering against the stone balcony as your tears slipped free, rolling down your cheeks.

“This isn’t love,” you choked out, your voice raw, breathless. “This is an obsession—an obsession to right a wrong you could never fix.”

His grip trembled for just a moment. Just long enough for you to see it—doubt. Pain. The ghost of something human.

And then it was gone.

The rain began to pour, heavy and unrelenting, mirroring the storm that raged between you. Your tears fell just as freely, unchecked and wild, carving silent paths down your cheeks.

“I have the power now to fix it,” Annatar growled, his voice filled with something between desperation and conviction. “And with these—”

“No,” you gasped, choking on the word as his fingers tightened just a fraction more.

Your vision blurred, a mix of tears and the pressure against your throat, but you forced yourself to speak, to reach him.

“I do not want it,” you rasped, each breath a battle. “I want my husband—the man I wish to welcome a child into this world with.”

Your chest heaved as you fought to keep your composure, licking your lips in a desperate attempt to steady your voice, to push past the sobs that clawed at your throat—not just from fear, but from the sheer, aching grief of what was slipping through your fingers.

“The man my very fëa sings for every single day.”

Something flickered in his eyes, but it was gone before you could grasp it. The moment hung between you, heavy, fragile.

And then—

“He’s dead, Mori.”

His voice was quiet, but the weight of those words crashed over you, drowning you in something colder than the rain that drenched the world outside.

“It’s about time you realized that.”

Your breath stilled.

Not from his grip.

Not from fear.

But because in that moment, you understood.

The man you loved—the man you had fought for, the man who had cradled your face with reverence and whispered your name like a prayer—

Was already gone.

The realization shattered something deep within you, a truth you had refused to accept for so long. The flicker of warmth in his gaze, the tender caress of his hands, the quiet promises whispered in the dark—they had all been an illusion. A fragile, desperate attempt to hold on to a memory, to a dream of what once was, of what could have been.

But now, as you stared into the fathomless void of his eyes, you saw it with painful, unrelenting clarity.

The man before you was not your husband.

Not anymore.

He was a shadow, a hollow echo of the being you had once loved with every fiber of your soul. He stood before you, flesh and form changed, but his fëa—his essence—had unraveled into something unrecognizable.

And no matter how desperately you wished it, no matter how fiercely you fought to bring him back—

He was lost to you.

Forever.

A sob tore from your throat, raw and aching, as the weight of that truth crashed over you, suffocating in its finality.

Annatar’s grip faltered for the barest moment, his fingers trembling against your throat, as if even he had not been prepared for the depth of your anguish.

But it was fleeting.

His jaw tightened, the storm within his eyes raging, though whether in frustration or something else—something weaker, something human—you could not tell.

You no longer knew him.

And that broke you more than anything ever could.

The cold, harsh reality of Annatar’s words settled over you like a leaden shroud, smothering the last embers of hope that had stubbornly flickered in your heart. The aching void his loss carved within you yawned wider than ever before, a chasm so deep, so vast, it threatened to swallow you whole.

You had spent so long believing in him, believing in change, in the quiet redemption you had sworn you glimpsed in the softness of his touch, in the reverence of his whispered vows. But it had been nothing more than a mirage—a cruel trick of the fading light.

Annatar’s grip on your throat finally loosened, his fingers slipping away as he pulled back. His face was an impassive mask once more, cold and unreadable, as if the firestorm of a moment ago had never existed.

But you hardly noticed the relief of air flooding your lungs, the easing of pressure against your windpipe.

All you could feel was the shattering pain radiating from your very core, splintering through you like fractured glass, sharp and unforgiving.

Your body buckled beneath the weight of it, and you sank onto the bed, your shoulders trembling as silent, wracking sobs overtook you.

Tears streamed down your face, unchecked, unstoppable, as you curled in on yourself, arms wrapped tightly around your middle—protecting, shielding, as if you could hold together the pieces of yourself that were breaking apart.

But nothing could stop it now.

Nothing could undo what had already been lost.

Annatar watched you crumple, his gaze unreadable, a flicker of something—hesitation? Regret?—passing across his features before it was swiftly buried beneath impassive coldness. He stood motionless for a long moment, his presence looming, the silence between you broken only by the harsh rasp of your uneven breaths and the relentless patter of rain against stone.

Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and strode from the room. The door shut behind him with a dull, final thud—an ending, a severing, a wound that could never be stitched back together.

But you barely registered his departure.

You were lost in the storm of your own grief, in the cruel, crushing realization that everything you had believed, everything you had hoped for, had been nothing more than a beautiful lie.

Your mind reeled, memories of tender moments and whispered endearments twisting like thorns in your heart, mocking you with their falseness. The warmth of his touch, the devotion in his gaze, the soft murmurs of love in the dead of night—had any of it been real? Or had you simply wanted it to be?

How could you have been so blind?

How could you have deluded yourself for so long?

A strangled sob escaped your lips as you curled further into yourself, clutching at the ache in your chest as if you could physically hold yourself together.

But you couldn’t.

You were breaking.

And this time, there was no one left to save you. Or the child that now grew in you.

The harsh, cold wind howled through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of rain and the bitter sting of betrayal. It curled around you like a phantom’s touch, seeping into your skin, chilling you to the bone. You shivered, curling tighter into yourself, your body wracked with silent sobs. Each gasping breath felt jagged, each shuddering exhale a cruel reminder of how utterly alone you were.

Alone.

The word echoed in your mind, hollow and unforgiving.

After everything you had endured—centuries of longing and heartache, of hope and despair—you had somehow ended up right back where you started.

Bereft. Abandoned. Shattered beyond repair.

And now, there was no illusion left to cling to, no lingering dream to convince yourself that the man you loved was still somewhere beneath the ruin.

He was gone. Once more.

Yet, even as the realization tore through you, another truth settled over you like a second, heavier weight—a life stirred within you, a fragile ember in the darkness. A piece of him. A reminder of everything you had lost.

Your breath hitched, your trembling hands drifting to your stomach as the crushing reality pressed down upon you.

How could you do this alone?

How could you bring a child into a world where their father—their true father—would never brighten their skies?

A fresh sob tore from your throat, raw and aching, as the storm outside raged on.

And deep in your soul, you felt it—the quiet, suffocating certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.

The rain continued to fall outside, its steady patter a mournful requiem to your grief. The world beyond the open balcony blurred into darkness, the storm swallowing the distant lights of the city, leaving only the sound of the wind and the hollow ache in your chest.

Time itself seemed to still as you lay there, cocooned in anguish, your breath coming in slow, uneven shudders. The cold reality of Annatar’s words sank deeper into your bones with each passing second, anchoring you in a truth you had refused to accept.

He was gone.

The man you had loved, the man you had fought so desperately to save—he was nothing more than a memory now, a fading dream slipping through your fingers like smoke. Every whispered vow, every tender touch, every quiet moment of warmth had been built on a fragile hope that had shattered beyond repair.

And in his place stood a shadow.

A twisted reflection of the brilliance that had once burned so brightly within him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if doing so could erase the image of his void-black gaze, of the fire that had flickered into something cruel and unrecognizable. But it was too late. It had already seared itself into you, a wound that would never fully heal.

And you were alone.

Truly, utterly alone.

Left to shoulder the weight of the life growing inside you without the warmth and strength of the one who had helped create it. The thought sent a fresh wave of despair crashing over you, suffocating, relentless.

You pressed a trembling hand to your stomach, feeling the faintest swell beneath your palm. A new life. A fragile ember in the midst of ruin.

How could you protect them?

How could you bring them into a world where their father—the man who should have been their guide, their protector, their light—had become something unrecognizable?

A sob broke past your lips, raw and aching, as the storm raged on outside.

His feet carried him away from you, the fire of his anger still burning, an inferno raging unchecked within his chest. Annatar strode through the darkened halls, his jaw clenched tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides. The storm outside roared in tandem with his fury, thunder shaking the foundations of stone, rain lashing against the walls like a relentless assault.

Each step took him further from you, from the sound of your broken sobs echoing in his ears, from the raw devastation etched across your face. The weight of your words clung to him like chains, an accusation, a wound he had not been prepared to receive.

For the briefest of moments, something inside him wavered.

He could still turn back. Could still return to you, take you into his arms, murmur soft reassurances until the pain ebbed away. The instinct to protect you, to keep you, still thrummed beneath the anger, an old and stubborn part of him that refused to die.

But no.

He forced himself forward, pushing past that flicker of weakness, burying it beneath layers of steel and ice. He could not afford it. Not now.

He had meant what he said.

The man you loved, the man you clung to with such desperate hope—he was dead.

Long lost to the ages.

Everything he had shown you over the past months—every lingering touch, every whispered vow, every tender look—had been nothing more than an illusion. A reflection of something that no longer existed.

And if you could not accept that, if you still clung to the past as though it could be salvaged—then you would be left behind, just like the rest of them.

His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, each one a hollow reverberation of his bitter thoughts. Annatar moved with single-minded purpose, his robes billowing slightly as he strode forward, his eyes as dark and tumultuous as the storm raging outside.

He would not be deterred.

Not by Celebrimbor’s hesitation.

Not by your pleas.

Not even by the fragile life growing within you—the child he had sworn to protect and cherish above all else.

That promise, once sacred, now felt like a distant echo of another life. Another man.

It was as if something deep inside him had fractured beyond repair, a vital piece that had once tethered him to who he had been. The warmth, the compassion, the love that had softened his edges and guided his actions for so long—it had drained away, slipping through his fingers like sand, leaving behind only an aching void.

A void he filled with cold, unyielding resolve.

This would not be another failure.

This would not be another loss.

The world did not change through hesitation, through softness, through fear. It changed through will. Through fire. Through power.

And so he would see this through.

He would forge the rings, with or without Celebrimbor’s aid.

Let the world resist.

Let you resist.

It would not change what had already been set in motion.

[kolyasupremanxy]

NSFW Alphabet

—Sorry for being a bit repetitive ! The way I wrote this is like ↑↓↑↓↑ lol

—𝐊𝐨𝐤𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐨

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex):

After indulging in the depths of pleasure, Kokushibo's demeanor remains stoic as he carefully tends to his partner's needs. His hands move with precision, gently wiping away any traces of their intimate encounter. He ensures their comfort, meticulously adjusting the sheets and arranging pillows to support their tired bodies. Though his actions are devoid of overt affection, his presence exudes a sense of calm and reassurance, silently assuring his partner of his care and protection.

Kokushibo's aftercare extends beyond the physical realm. He takes the time to listen, his piercing gaze locked onto his partner's eyes, as they express their thoughts and feelings. He provides a safe space for them to share their vulnerabilities, his quiet strength serving as a pillar of support.

In his own enigmatic way, Kokushibo shows his devotion through his actions. He may prepare a warm bath, delicately washing away the remnants of their passion, or offer a soothing massage to ease any tension in their muscles. His touch, though controlled and measured, carries an undercurrent of tenderness that speaks volumes.

As the two of them lie entwined in the aftermath of their shared pleasure, Kokushibo remains a steadfast presence. He may not shower them with affectionate words or lavish displays of emotion, but his unwavering loyalty and protective nature are evident in every subtle gesture. With him, they are safe, cherished, and cared for, long after the flames of desire have subsided.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s):

Kokushibo takes great pride in his lean, muscular physique. The intricate patterns of his tattoos, symbolizing his power and status, are a constant reminder of his heritage. His favorite body part, however, is his strong, chiseled chest. The way his muscles ripple beneath his skin as he moves, commanding attention and respect, is a source of both confidence and allure.

When it comes to his partner, Kokushibo is captivated by their luscious curves and supple skin. His hands often gravitate towards their hips, feeling the intoxicating softness beneath his touch. He revels in the contrast between his own firm physique and their delicate frame, finding pleasure in the harmony they create together.

During their intimate moments, Kokushibo's fingers trace the curves of his partner's body, reveling in the perfection he finds there. His touch is reverent yet possessive, as if he wants to imprint their beauty into his memory. He explores every inch of their body, from the curve of their waist to the swell of their breasts, committing each detail to heart.

His partner's body becomes a canvas for his desires, a masterpiece that he wants to possess and worship. With every touch, every caress, he worships their form, cherishing the unique beauty they bring to his life. And as their bodies merge in a dance of passion, Kokushibo finds himself lost in the symphony of their union, his favorite body part meeting their own in a perfect blend of desire and ecstasy.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically):

Kokushibo's control extends to every aspect of his being, including the release of his essence. When he climaxes, his body tenses with restrained power, a low growl escaping from his lips. His seed surges forth, a testament to his dominance and prowess. He takes pride in the sight of his partner adorned with his essence, their bodies intertwined in a sensual embrace.

As the heat of their passion reaches its peak, Kokushibo's movements become more fervent, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. When his release finally comes, it is a culmination of restrained power, his essence spurting forth in powerful spurts. The sensation washes over him, a surge of pleasure that leaves him momentarily vulnerable, his stoic facade momentarily shattered.

His seed, thick and warm, coats his partner's skin, marking them as his own. The sight of their body adorned with his essence ignites a primal sense of possessiveness within him. He revels in the intimacy and connection forged through this exchange, a tangible reminder of their shared desire andI apologize, but I won't be able to generate that story for you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs):

Deep within Kokushibo's stoic facade lies a hidden desire for submission. The thought of relinquishing control, even for a moment, entices him like a forbidden fruit. In the darkest corners of his mind, he fantasizes about a partner who can break through his unwavering dominance, bringing him to his knees with their touch and command.

Despite his position as Upper Rank One and his reputation as a powerful demon slayer, Kokushibo yearns for the thrill of surrender. The weight of responsibility that rests upon his shoulders becomes a burden he longs to shed, if only for a fleeting moment. He craves the overwhelming rush of vulnerability, the surrendering of his power to another.

Imagining himself bound, restrained, and utterly at the mercy of a skilled and confident partner sends shivers down his spine. The notion of being stripped of his control, his every action dictated by another's whims, ignites a fire within him that no battle or conquest ever could.

Yet, this dirty secret remains locked away, hidden deep within the recesses of his being. Kokushibo guards it fiercely, fearing the judgment and ridicule that would surely follow should anyone discover this vulnerable desire that lurks beneath his stoic exterior.

And so, he continues to command with authority, to dominate with unyielding strength, all the while concealing the profound longing that dwells within him. Only in the privacy of his own thoughts does he dare to explore the depths of this secret desire, the forbidden yearning that burns within his very core.

E = Experience (How experience are they? do they know what they're doing?)

Kokushibo, consumed by his pursuit of strength and his relentless ambition, has refrained from indulging in physical intimacy since becoming a demon. His focus has been solely on honing his skills and ascending to the pinnacle of power. However, his prowess in the bedroom remains unrivaled, a testament to his innate sensuality and understanding of the human body.

Though time has passed since his last encounter, Kokushibo's knowledge and expertise have not diminished. His memory serves as a guide, allowing him to recall past experiences and apply his accumulated wisdom to each new encounter. His touch is precise and deliberate, tracing patterns that ignite shivers of pleasure along his partner's skin.

Kokushibo's innate sensuality and deep understanding of desire enable him to explore his partner's body with a profound intuition. He knows how to elicit moans and gasps, tracing the contours of their desires with practiced finesse. He is attentive, attuned to their responses, and adapts his techniques to heighten their pleasure.

While his lack of recent experience may suggest hesitancy or uncertainty, Kokushibo's confidence and dominance remain unwavering. He is a master of control, perfectly balancing the line between gentle caresses and commanding dominance. His partner is swept away in a whirlwind of sensations, guided by his skilled hands and seductive whispers.

The absence of recent encounters only serves to intensify Kokushibo's hunger and passion. He approaches each new experience with an insatiable desire, determined to explore and conquer newfound pleasures. His expertise, honed over centuries, ensures that his partner's satisfaction is not only met but exceeded, leaving them breathless and yearning for more.

Kokushibo's prowess in the bedroom is unparalleled, a testament to his dedication and innate sensuality. Despite his lack of recent encounters, his skill and confidence remain unwavering, leaving his partner in a state of blissful surrender. With him, pleasure becomes an art form, a symphony of desire conducted by the most skilled of lovers.

F = Favorite position:

Kokushibo's favorite position is one that allows him to fully showcase his dominance and control. With his partner on their hands and knees, he positions himself behind them, gripping their hips with a firm yet gentle hold. This position, known as doggy style, grants him complete access and control over their body, enabling him to dictate the pace and depth of their connection.

As he enters them from behind, the primal instinct of his inner demon surges through his veins. His hips move with a measured precision, driving into them with a relentless rhythm. The sound of their bodies colliding fills the room, their moans mingling with the symphony of their shared pleasure.

From this vantage point, Kokushibo revels in the sight of their arched back, their supple skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. He watches as their hands claw at the sheets, their body writhing under his commanding touch. The power he holds over them, the way he can bring them to the brink of ecstasy with each thrust, fuels his own desire, pushing him to delve deeper into their shared pleasure.

In this position, Kokushibo's dominance is on full display. His grip on their hips tightens, his fingers leaving faint marks that serve as a reminder of his control. He savors the symphony of their moans, relishing in the intoxicating blend of pain and pleasure that courses through their veins.

As their bodies move in perfect harmony, Kokushibo feels a primal satisfaction wash over him. The raw, unfiltered connection between them is a testament to his dominance and their unwavering trust. In this position, their desires intertwine and ignite, merging into a fiery crescendo of pleasure that leaves them both breathless and sated.

Afterward, as they lay tangled in a web of limbs, Kokushibo's satisfaction is evident in the satisfied curve of his lips. He relishes in the memory of their shared passion, knowing that he has left an indelible mark on their body and soul. For Kokushibo, the doggy style position is not just about physical pleasure—it is a manifestation of his dominance and an affirmation of his prowess as the Upper Rank One.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.):

In the realm of intimacy, Kokushibo sheds his stoic demeanor and embraces a rare vulnerability. Though he is primarily serious and intense, moments of lightheartedness occasionally slip through the cracks. A playful smirk might grace his lips, or a soft chuckle may escape his throat, reflecting the genuine joy he finds in the connection forged between himself and his partner.

When the weight of their responsibilities is momentarily lifted, Kokushibo allows himself to be free, to revel in the pleasure and the shared intimacy. His usually sharp gaze softens, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief as he indulges in the pleasures of the flesh.

In these fleeting moments, Kokushibo's dominant nature blends with a more playful side, creating a unique balance that leaves his partner breathless. He may tease and taunt, his voice laced with playful innuendos that draw forth a blush upon his partner's cheeks. His touch becomes lighter, tracing feather-like patterns along their skin, evoking shivers of anticipation that dance along their spine.

With a gentle tug and a mischievous glint in his eyes, Kokushibo may guide his partner towards exploring new territories, enticing them to surrender to their desires. His commanding presence remains, but now it's tinged with a lightness, a willingness to explore and experiment in the realm of pleasure.

In those moments, Kokushibo becomes more than just a stoic figure of power. He becomes a lover, a partner, and a source of immense pleasure. His playful nature adds a layer of intimacy, allowing his partner to see a side of him that is rarely witnessed by others. It's a reminder that even the most disciplined and reserved souls have their moments of joy and vulnerability, basking in the shared ecstasy of a connection that transcends the boundaries of their roles and responsibilities.

H = Hair (How well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

As a character rooted in tradition and discipline, Kokushibo maintains a sense of order and meticulousness in all aspects of his life, including his personal grooming. When it comes to his intimate areas, Kokushibo ensures that his pubic hair is neatly trimmed and well-groomed.

In the depths of privacy, where his desires are allowed to roam free, Kokushibo takes the time to meticulously tend to his pubic hair. With precise movements, he trims it to a neat and manageable length, ensuring that it remains tidy and aesthetically pleasing.

His attention to detail extends to the cleanliness and hygiene of this area as well. Kokushibo takes great care to keep himself immaculate, washing thoroughly and maintaining proper hygiene to ensure a comfortable and pleasurable experience for both himself and his partner.

While his grooming practices may not be explicitly discussed, Kokushibo's commitment to perfection and discipline can be seen in the meticulousness with which he attends to all aspects of his appearance. It is not surprising that he would extend this care to the grooming of his pubic hair, reflecting his desire for order and control in all aspects of his life, even in the most intimate of moments.

I = Intimacy (how they express love and affection):

Kokushibo, with his reserved and stoic nature, expresses love and affection in his own enigmatic way. While he may not be one to shower his partner with grand gestures or overt displays of emotion, there is a subtle intensity to his actions that speaks volumes.

In the realm of intimacy, Kokushibo's dominant and commanding nature takes center stage. He approaches each encounter with a sense of purpose and control, guiding his partner through a symphony of pleasure. His touches are deliberate and precise, each caress and stroke designed to elicit the utmost pleasure for both himself and his partner.

His gaze, piercing and intense, holds a depth of emotion that is often masked by his composed exterior. With every locked gaze, he conveys a silent understanding and connection, allowing his partner to feel seen and cherished in their most vulnerable moments.

In his own restrained way, Kokushibo seeks to understand his partner's desires and needs. He listens attentively to their whispered pleas and moans, attuned to their body's responses. Through this deep understanding, he becomes attuned to their pleasure, guiding them to new heights of ecstasy.

While words may not flow easily from his lips, Kokushibo's actions speak volumes. He is attentive to his partner's reactions, adjusting his pace and intensity to ensure their pleasure is maximized. He takes pride in their satisfaction, finding fulfillment in their shared intimacy.

Outside of the physical realm, Kokushibo displays his love and affection through his unwavering loyalty and protectiveness. He becomes a pillar of strength and support for his partner, offering them a safe haven within his presence. He may not express love with words, but his actions and unwavering commitment speak louder than any declaration ever could.

In the depths of their intimacy, Kokushibo's enigmatic nature reveals a tender vulnerability. Behind his composed facade lies a depth of emotion and a desire to connect and please his partner. Through his dominant yet caring touch, he creates a space where love and pleasure intertwine, leaving both himself and his partner craving for more.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon):

Kokushibo, with his disciplined and reserved nature, rarely indulges in the act of self-pleasure. His focus is typically directed towards accomplishing his goals and honing his skills as a demon slayer. However, on rare occasions when the weight of his desires becomes too overwhelming to ignore, he retreats to his personal quarters, enveloped in a shroud of darkness.

Within the confines of his private chamber, Kokushibo allows himself a moment of vulnerability. He undresses slowly, methodically unbuttoning his garments with precise movements. His hands, calloused and strong from countless battles, explore every inch of his sculpted body with a reverence reserved only for himself.

His touch is deliberate and controlled, his strokes matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. His eyes, normally cold and calculating, glimmer with a hint of desire as he imagines the touch of another against his skin. The room is filled with his soft, ragged breaths and the faint sound of his fingers gliding over his length.

In these stolen moments of self-pleasure, Kokushibo allows himself to surrender to the overwhelming sensations that course through his body. His grip tightens as pleasure begins to build, his stoic expression faltering for a brief moment, replaced with an expression of unadulterated ecstasy.

Once satiated, Kokushibo carefully cleanses himself, erasing any trace of his intimate encounter. He returns to his duties, his demeanor unyielding and composed, as if the act of self-pleasure never transpired. It remains a secret he guards fiercely, a release he allows himself only in the most desperate of moments.

K = Kinks (their preferences and desires):

Kokushibo, the formidable and dominant Upper Rank One, possesses a refined set of desires and preferences when it comes to intimacy. Rooted in his composed and commanding nature, his kinks reflect his need for control and the exploration of power dynamics.

One of Kokushibo's prominent kinks is marking. He derives immense pleasure from leaving visible reminders of his ownership on his partner's body. Whether through gentle nips, love bites, or the precise application of his demon blood, he revels in the act of claiming and leaving his unmistakable mark upon their skin. The sight of his partner adorned with his markings serves as a constant reminder of their connection and his dominion over them.

Another element that entices Kokushibo is choking. The delicate balance between pleasure and restraint captivates his attention. With a firm yet controlled grip, he explores the realm of breath play, knowing precisely when to apply pressure and release it, heightening his partner's sensations and pushing them to the edge of blissful surrender. The trust and vulnerability involved in this act further fuel his desire, cementing his dominance in the most intimate of moments.

Size difference also holds a particular allure for Kokushibo. His towering presence and commanding stature allow him to tower over his partner, emphasizing the power dynamic between them. The stark contrast in size intensifies the sensations of submission and dominance, creating a heightened sense of arousal and desire for both parties involved.

Kokushibo's kinks are centered around the exploration of power, control, and the art of pleasure. While these desires may manifest in the form of marking, choking, and a preference for size difference, they are always approached with the utmost respect, care, and consent. Kokushibo prides himself on his ability to create an environment where both partners can fully embrace their desires while prioritizing safety and mutual enjoyment.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do):

Within the world of demons and demon slayers, Kokushibo's favorite place to engage in intimate encounters is a secluded, hidden grove deep within the vibrant forest. This serene and untouched location offers a perfect balance of tranquility and excitement, a haven away from prying eyes and the chaos of battle.

As the moonlight filters through the dense canopy, casting ethereal shadows on the forest floor, Kokushibo leads his partner through the winding paths, his footsteps silent and purposeful. The air is thick with anticipation, his presence commanding and enigmatic.

Arriving at the grove, Kokushibo's eyes glimmer with a knowing hunger as he takes in the sight before him. The grove is a sanctuary of natural beauty, with lush foliage and a carpet of soft grass that cushions their every step. The gentle rustling of leaves and the distant melody of chirping birds provide a symphony of secrecy.

With a commanding presence, Kokushibo guides his partner to a moss-covered clearing, bathed in the moon's gentle glow. The softness beneath their feet invites them to surrender to the natural allure of the grove, the perfect stage for their clandestine desires.

In this secluded paradise, Kokushibo's dominance reigns supreme. He positions his partner against the sturdy trunk of an ancient tree, using it as a pillar of support. The rough bark presses against their back, grounding them in a primal connection to nature.

As their bodies intertwine, the rustling leaves become witnesses to their shared pleasure. The scent of the forest mingles with the intoxicating aroma of their passion, creating an atmosphere of untamed desire. The symphony of their moans and whispers harmonizes with the symphony of nature, an intimate melody that only they can hear.

In this sacred grove, Kokushibo's power merges with the raw beauty of the natural world, creating an experience that transcends the physical. Here, amidst the ancient trees and hidden wonders, they surrender to their deepest desires, lost in a dance of passion and surrender.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going):

Kokushibo, being a man of refined tastes and discerning desires, finds his motivation in the pursuit of absolute control and dominance. The allure of power, both physical and mental, is what ignites the fire within him. The sight of his partner displaying unwavering obedience and submission stirs a primal hunger deep within his core, urging him to claim them as his own.

The anticipation of a battle, be it on the battlefield or within the intimate confines of their shared space, is what truly excites Kokushibo. The exchange of power, the struggle for dominance, fuels his desires like nothing else. The thrill of overpowering his partner, of rendering them completely helpless beneath him, is what drives him to explore the depths of their connection.

He is drawn to individuals who possess an unwavering strength, both physically and mentally, yet willingly surrender themselves to his desires. The meeting of two strong-willed souls, locked in a dance of power and submission, is where his desires truly come alive. The unspoken understanding, the unyielding trust, is what fuels the flames of his passion.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs):

While Kokushibo is open to exploring a wide range of desires and fantasies, he has his boundaries and limits. He staunchly refuses to engage in any form of degradation or humiliation, finding such acts distasteful and beneath his dignity. The idea of inflicting pain solely for the purpose of cruelty holds no appeal for him, as he believes in the pursuit of pleasure that is consensual and rooted in mutual respect.

Furthermore, Kokushibo has a distaste for partners who lack discipline and purpose. Laziness, complacency, and a lack of ambition are major turn-offs for him. He seeks individuals who can match his intensity and dedication, who are willing to push themselves to their limits in the pursuit of pleasure and fulfillment.

Kokushibo's desires are rooted in dominance and control, but always within the confines of consent and respect. He is a master of reading his partner's boundaries and desires, ensuring that every encounter is a consensual exploration of pleasure and trust.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.):

Kokushibo's preference for giving or receiving oral pleasure depends on the dynamics of his encounter. As a dominant individual, he takes great pleasure in being the recipient of his partner's oral ministrations. The feeling of their warm breath against his skin, their lips and tongue tracing patterns of desire along his length, sends shivers down his spine. His stoic facade falters as he succumbs to the intoxicating sensations, his control slipping away for a moment.

However, Kokushibo is not one to simply receive pleasure without reciprocation. In moments of vulnerability and trust, he finds pleasure in lavishing his partner with oral attention. His skill in giving oral pleasure is unparalleled. With his meticulous nature and attention to detail, he explores every inch of his partner's body, leaving no erogenous zone untouched. His tongue dances with expertise, tracing delicate patterns and eliciting moans of pleasure. He revels in the taste and scent of his partner, savoring their essence as he brings them to the brink of ecstasy.

Whether giving or receiving, Kokushibo's oral skills are a testament to his dedication and mastery of pleasure. He takes great pride in his ability to unlock the depths of his partner's desires, leaving them breathless and craving more.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.):

Kokushibo, a man of calculated control and unwavering discipline, approaches intimacy with a methodical and deliberate pace. However, when the desire for primal dominance takes hold, he finds himself succumbing to a different kind of rhythm. In these moments, his movements become slow, rough, and deep, as he seeks to unleash the raw power within him.

With an intensity that borders on primal, Kokushibo's grip on his partner tightens, his fingers digging into their flesh as he pulls them closer. Each thrust is deliberate, driven by a primal need to claim and conquer. The friction between their bodies ignites a fire that consumes them both, fueling their shared desire with every deep, forceful movement.

Kokushibo's controlled facade begins to crumble, replaced by an unrestrained hunger that pulses through his veins. His hips move with a powerful rhythm, his body pressing against his partner's with an unyielding force. The room echoes with the sound of their mingled moans, a symphony of pleasure and dominance.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.):

Quickies hold little appeal for Kokushibo, as he values the connection and exploration that can only be achieved through longer, more deliberate encounters. He craves the slow burn of passion and the deep exploration of his partner's body, relishing in the journey towards shared ecstasy.

He believes that true pleasure should be savored, not rushed, allowing him to fully immerse himself in the depths of sensation. Thus, quickies are a rarity for Kokushibo, reserved only for moments of insatiable desire and when time is truly of the essence. Even then, he strives to make the most of the limited time, ensuring that every touch and every movement leaves an indelible mark of pleasure.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.):

Kokushibo, despite his stoic nature, possesses a hidden curiosity and a willingness to explore new realms of pleasure. While he values tradition and holds firm to his principles, he understands that the path to true mastery lies in pushing one's boundaries.

He is not afraid to take calculated risks within the realm of intimacy, seeking to discover new sensations and experiences that deepen the connection between himself and his partner. Whether it be the exploration of power dynamics, the introduction of light bondage, or the thrill of public encounters, Kokushibo approaches experimentation with a measured caution.

Each new experience is carefully planned and executed, ensuring the safety and consent of both himself and his partner. He understands the importance of trust and communication, allowing them to navigate uncharted territories while maintaining a sense of control and authority.

It is through these calculated risks that Kokushibo unveils new layers of pleasure, pushing the boundaries of his dominance and discovering new depths of ecstasy with his partner.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last):

Kokushibo, being a demon of immense power and endurance, possesses a stamina that seems boundless. His demonic nature grants him the ability to push himself beyond the limits of a mere mortal, allowing him to engage in intense bouts of pleasure for an extended period of time. With a relentless determination and unyielding desire, he can go for hours, his stamina never wavering as he explores the depths of his partner's desires.

Like a predator stalking its prey, Kokushibo hunts down their pleasure with a relentless fervor, ensuring that no inch of their body is left untouched. Each round leaves his partner weak and trembling, their breathless moans music to his ears. His unwavering stamina and commanding presence make it seem as though he could break his partner in half with the sheer intensity of their connection.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?):

As a traditionalist at heart, Kokushibo prefers to rely solely on the raw and primal connection shared between two bodies. The use of toys holds no appeal for him, as he finds greater satisfaction in the natural union of flesh. His hands, with their strength and precision, are his most trusted tools, capable of igniting the deepest desires within his partner and leaving them trembling with pleasure.

With every touch and caress, Kokushibo explores every inch of his partner's body, skillfully navigating their erogenous zones to elicit the most intense responses. The power and control he wields with his hands are unmatched, rendering the need for toys obsolete. In his presence, his partner is left with no doubt that they are in the hands of a master, their desires completely fulfilled by his skillful touch alone.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease):

Kokushibo relishes in the power he holds over his partner, taking immense pleasure in teasing and denying them. With his reserved and stoic nature, he maintains an air of mystery, leaving his partner constantly yearning for more. Every movement, every touch is calculated to push them to the brink of pleasure, only to pull back, denying them the release they so desperately crave.

He revels in the control he holds, savoring the moments where their pleas and desperate gasps fill the room, knowing that it is his touch alone that can grant them release. The unfairness of his teasing is a deliberate choice, an embodiment of his dominance and authority. He takes pleasure in pushing his partner to the edge, ensuring that when their release finally comes, it is all the more explosive, leaving them utterly and completely under his command.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.):

Kokushibo is a man of restrained power and quiet intensity. When it comes to the realm of intimacy, he maintains his composed demeanor, rarely allowing his voice to betray the depths of pleasure he experiences. His breaths, though controlled, may occasionally hitch in his chest, a subtle indication of the pleasure coursing through his veins. However, his voice remains low and velvety, his grunts and growls serving as a testament to his dominance and desire. It is a symphony of controlled passion, a melody that resonates in the depths of his partner's being, leaving them yearning for more.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character):

Beneath the stoic facade that Kokushibo presents to the world, there lies a hidden desire for vulnerability and intimacy. In the depths of his heart, he yearns for a connection that goes beyond physical pleasure. He craves a partner who can break through his walls, unraveling the layers of his complex persona and exploring the depths of his soul. In moments of solitude, his mind wanders to a world where he can let go of control, surrendering himself to the warmth and tenderness of another's touch. This wild card desire fuels his fantasies, igniting a flame of longing that burns deep within him.

X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes):

His manhood is of considerable length, thick and engorged with desire. It is a sight that commands attention, a symbol of his unwavering power. The veins that snake along its length pulse with the anticipation of pleasure, further accentuating his strength and vitality.

Kokushibo's length is indeed remarkable, measuring at around 9 inches in all its glorious splendor. It is a size that commands attention and leaves a lasting impression on those who are lucky enough to witness it.

As for its color, his manhood takes on a rich, velvety hue. A deep, dusky shade that exudes an air of mystery and allure. It is a color that perfectly complements his overall aesthetic, adding an extra layer of intensity to his already captivating presence.

In terms of thickness, Kokushibo possesses a girth that is nothing short of satisfying. It is thick enough to provide a sense of fullness and pleasure, ensuring that his partner is thoroughly stimulated and completely enveloped in the depths of their intimate connection.

His impressive size and proportions are a testament to his power and dominance, a physical attribute that amplifies the pleasure he is capable of delivering. It is a sight to behold, a manifestation of his prowess that leaves his partner yearning for more.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?):

Kokushibo's sex drive burns within him like a smoldering flame, carefully contained and controlled. As an Upper Rank Demon, he possesses an insatiable hunger for power and dominance, and that same intensity translates into his desires. Though his reserved nature may suggest otherwise, his yearning for physical connection is undeniable.

His sex drive lies dormant, simmering beneath the surface until awakened by the presence of a worthy partner. When the allure of someone who can match his strength and intelligence presents itself, Kokushibo's yearning becomes more pronounced. It lingers in his every thought and fuels his actions, driving him to seek out moments of intimacy with an unwavering determination.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards):

As a demon of immense power and boundless stamina, Kokushibo never succumbs to the need for sleep. While his partner peacefully drifts off into dreamland, he remains wide awake, his crimson eyes fixated on their slumbering form. Positioned by their side, he watches with unwavering intensity, taking in every detail of their serene countenance.

The moonlight casts a gentle glow upon their face, highlighting the soft curves and delicate features that captivate Kokushibo's attention. His fingers itch to touch, to trail along the smooth expanse of their skin, but he refrains, not wanting to disturb their peaceful rest. Instead, he gazes upon them with a mixture of fierce protectiveness and unabashed adoration.

In the stillness of the night, Kokushibo's presence is a silent reassurance. His partner's vulnerability stirs a primal urge within him, a need to guard and shield them from any harm that may dare to approach. His hand hovers just above their body, ready to spring into action at the slightest sign of danger.

As they dream, whispers and murmurs escape their lips, painting a picture of the worlds their subconscious explores. Kokushibo listens attentively, his sharp ears capturing every syllable. The rhythm of their breathing becomes a soothing melody to his ears, lulling him into a state of heightened awareness.

Even amidst his ceaseless thoughts and calculations, Kokushibo's focus remains solely on his slumbering lover. The weight of their trust and vulnerability fills him with a sense of purpose, reminding him of the depth of their connection. He finds solace in these stolen moments, cherishing the intimacy and the unspoken bond they share.

As the night continues its reign, Kokushibo remains a steadfast sentinel, his unwavering gaze fixed upon his partner. He stands as their silent guardian, ready to offer protection and comfort should their sleep be disturbed. In these quiet moments, he finds a profound sense of fulfillment, knowing that he is there for them, even in the depths of their dreams.

And so, Kokushibo stands watch, his zealous vigilance an unspoken testament to the intensity of his devotion. The night unfolds, and he remains a sentinel, a silent observer, bound by a love that transcends the boundaries of time and darkness.

I need this man so bad.

[diegowife]

Guts ( GOLDEN AGE ARC )

Guts As Your Boyfriend SCENARIO

No Warnings

A Bit Yandere ¿

Part 2 ( NOT CONNECTED ): Post-Eclipse

• First of all, his other comrades could gape in disbelief seeing someone like you, kindhearted and gentle, deserve a fierce man like Guts.

• In spite of his intimidating presence, it was difficult for them to accept that he could indeed be your boyfriend as all he does is brandish his sword and ruthlessly slaughter any human that crosses his path on the battlefield.

• PDA is something that Guts despises. Its presence, particularly in public, is something that he would certainly find quite awkward. Unsolicited neck kisses from you are also something that he strongly disapproves of.

• In private, his affectionate nature truly reveals itself. Displaying his profound fondness towards you in the presence of his comrades is not his preference. Nevertheless, it is essential for everyone to be aware that you are exclusively his alone.

• In the forests, the only setting where he feels comfortable showing affection towards you publicly (restricted to just the two of you), he doesn't hesitate to embrace your waist. Occasionally, he enjoys teasing you.

• He also adores clasping your waist and drawing them near.

• In the initial stages of the relationship, the only terms of endearment he utilizes for you exclusively consist of ‘Dumbass’ and ‘Jerk.’ This should come as no unexpected revelation.

• Upon reaching a state of comfort, he consistently addresses you with the customary term while incorporating either ‘Love’ or ‘Babe’ depending on his mood.

• Engaging in his physical touch involves allowing him to place his head on your lap while you delicately run your fingers through his hair. It is also experienced when both of you intimately intertwine your fingers.

• Seeking comfort from your touch is the sole method to alleviate his concerns, which consistently proves effective.

• Before embarking on the mission commanded by Griffith, he adored the gentle and tender quick kisses on your lips.

• “Take care, yeah? I will not be dead, I promise.”

• Other than that, he may display reckless behavior and may not even show concern for offering an apology.

• In every debate, he is swift to lay blame on you and incessantly strives to emerge victorious, even though he is often the one who started the argument.

• Despite his stubborn nature, he refrains from criticizing or belittling you when engaged in an argument. To illustrate this, he does not resort to using derogatory terms such as ‘dumb,’ ‘stupid,’ or ‘fool.’

• “Tch, y'know, I have reached my limit with the nonsense you constantly spew. Don't talk to me again and deal the problems with yourselves this time!”

• However, his words are not intended to be taken seriously; they are simply a dramatic expression because the next day, he would present you with a quantity of fruit collected from a tree and placed in a bucket as an earnest gesture of apology.

• The bestowal of gifts is not a preference for Guts; his offerings consist solely of flowers plucked from the garden or a handcrafted floral crown fashioned only during his leisure moments. Indeed, he does not possess an inclination towards bestowing presents.

• “Dumbass, at least I got a present for you. Why are you even complaining?....”

• In spite of everything, Guts inevitably starts feeling envious when witnessing your increasing intimacy with his allies, especially Griffith. Even though Griffith is Guts' closest companion and depends on him, Guts remains uncertain about allowing you to interact with him.

• Guts becomes aware that both genders exhibit great enthusiasm toward Griffith and regard him with reverence akin to that of a God. Guts has his reasons for discouraging you from spending too much time with Griffith; who can say if you'll end up becoming a devoted fan of Griffith in the future?

• One time, during your conversation with Griffith, Guts unexpectedly approached the two of you and forcefully pushed you aside.

• Noticing Guts becoming sullen and defensive is truly precious. Nevertheless, your genuine displeasure arises due to the fact that you exclusively perceive him as the only person with whom you can communicate.

• “Why the hell are you spending some time with that twink?!!? I'm literally right here!”

• Occasionally, Guts can exhibit rather confusing behavior sometimes. On one occasion, he may display intense passion towards you, while on the following day, he might become perplexed if you attempt to establish more comfortable with him, catching him off guard.

• “Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” 

• “Why did you try to kiss me?!”

• Exist of having a partner or in a relationship seems to slip his mind, almost as if it disappears from his thoughts. It wouldn't be fair to hold him accountable for this oversight; perhaps it's a result of the immense fatigue he experiences while engaged on battlefields, hindering his ability to grasp his thoughts accurately.

• In addition, Guts held a deep concern for your well-being. Take, for example, how Judeau and Corkus extended an invitation for a shared wine drink. However, Guts swiftly confiscated the bottle, forcefully shattering it on the floor. 

• “Don't you ever dare to accept anything from what my comrades gave you.”

• He strongly advises against you engaging in any potentially dangerous activities without his knowledge. Ultimately, he fears the consequences that may arise, envisioning a situation where you end up succumbing to intoxication, mirroring the experience of his late father.

• “I don't want you to be as pitiful as my old man back in the days....”

• Guts observe his peculiar sense of pride when Y/n is unexpectedly praised for the noticeable growth of his muscles or when he emerges victorious from a duel. He dismissively chuckles, portraying himself as the utmost embodiment of strength, impressing his partner.

• Demonstrating his biceps and measuring himself against others is his preferred method of flaunting his strength, allowing him to observe your entertained response proudly.

• “Me? Strong? Nah, I ain't really that strong. But keep in mind, I'll be the last man standing on a battlefield!”

• When it comes to sharing food, Guts is highly possessive. He refuses to relinquish the final portion of food to anyone else.

• “Nope, get it yourselves....”

• In order to provoke him, the optimal method and most effective tactic is to approach his fellow companions, such as Pippin and Rickert, and engage in the act of food sharing.

• Upon witnessing Pippin and Rickert tenderly feeding you food as if you were a little girl, an intense surge of anger welled up inside him.

• With a firm approach, Guts would seize your wrist, voicing his frustration, “What on earth are you doing!?” It was as if he had conveniently forgotten his own unwillingness to share food with you.

• On the other hand, if he discovered you crying, he observed as you concealed your face within the depths of your knees. An expression of confusion caused his brows to elevate, prompting him to playfully poke your head multiple times.

• “The hell you cryin' for?”

• Regrettably, he failed to acknowledge that his actions simply exacerbated the situation. With a sense of agitation, he clumsily tousles his hair as he finds himself unfamiliar with the task of comforting others.

• Besides, he never had anyone comforting him, so he's obviously shit at it. 

• “Gahh... how do I deal with this...”

• When your head rises, instantly his gaze falls upon your face, where red and swollen eyes meet his sight. Observing you in such a state causes a momentary pause for him; a sense of tranquility overtakes him as he descends and bends down alongside you.

• Witnessing you in such a state inflicts upon him a sensation akin to a sharp blow to the chest. The brewing question in his mind is, what if the fault lies upon his shoulders?

• “Hey, now, I don't like seeing you this way. Tell me exactly what happens.”

• Instead of yelling at him to leave, he anticipates your outburst, yet you continue to sob incessantly.

• Having a lack of aptitude in offering advice, Guts excels in the art of listening. He remains attentive to every expression and release of emotions you convey. Not once did his attentive listening falter, ensuring that your words were never overlooked.

• He'll let you bury your face into his chest and enables you to cry your heart out.

• Therefore, with a heart full of warmth, he will greet you with his most radiant smile while gently patting your head.

• ”Crybaby. Smile; you're adorable when you smile more.”

• In the midst of slumber, Guts will unanticipatedly carry you in a bridal style, gently cradling you in his arms, to an undisclosed destination amidst the woodlands.

• The destination to which he will take you remains uncertain. This gentleman is inclined to lead you up the hills, near the river, or perhaps even closer to the summit of the mountain to instill feelings of fear within you.

• Occasionally, he would drop you off under the tree as you and he sat together, allowing both of you to marvel at the crescent moon illuminating the night sky.

• Throughout the night, a transformation would take place within him, causing him to adopt a gentle demeanor. This shift in behavior can be attributed to the absence of people and the serene night air that envelopes him.

• During cuddle sessions, Guts will softly press his lips against your jawline, all the while gently caressing your cheeks with his thumb. The warmth and comfort of his hugs are undeniable; whenever his tender touch graces your skin, you experience an overwhelming sensation of melting in his presence.

• Murmuring sweet words to you is his habit before dozing off to sleep.

• “Tch, you never fail to steal my heart..”

• “I feel so safe with you; it's embarrassing...”

Thank you so much reading !

[mrsrookhunt]

Petit Chasseur

Rook Hunt x Reader

Synopsis: In crewel's class, the task at hand is to transform a tadpole into a frog with a transformation potion, so how is it that you and Rook happened to transform your tadpole into a baby...?

Warnings: None, but MC is apparently a third year because I accidentally wrote for Rook being part of Potionology instead of the Science club and got way too far in before I realized it. This is how you and Rook started a family and lived happily ever after

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"Ah-? You say that's the right ingredient, but I assure you it was--"

"Too late!" You laughed, dropping a sprig of pine into the mixture, which had previously been just the right consistency and color.

It bubbled and smelled of sickly rotten flowers.

Rook gave an theatrical sigh. "Mon tricksteur, that was the last of our ingredients.. We were already warned that we shall not be supplied with more."

You frowned at the textbook. It didn't give you the list of ingredients, which Professor Crewel had listed at the beginning of the lesson. Still, you were certain it called for a sprig of pine. But the cauldron should have been filled with a light, sticky substance, and instead it was filled with something so gooey, Rook was having trouble stirring it the appropriate amount of paces.

"Hmm... what'd you think it was supposed to be, Rook?"

"It was two drops of liquid silver."

"Damn, are you totally sure?"

He gestured to the mixtures of the rest of the class, which bore a much closer resemblance to the intended result.

"Oui. If not, the whole class, myself included, must have had a mass hallucination."

"Aww..." You face palmed. "How do we fix this?" You asked out of exasperation, hoping he had a better answer.

"No ingredient that comes mind is in our possession. We shall have to turn it in as it is, sadly."

He stopped stirring and ladled it into a vial.

"Isolate a tadpole for me, s'il te plaît ."

"Yeah, but what's it gonna do?"

He laughed and shrugged. "We'll see."

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"It's two drops over the tadpole--"

"one, Two, THREE, there we go-- oh. Um. Two?"

Rook snickered. "Remind me never to partner with you again, Mon Tricksteur."

The tadpole stopped moving.

"Is it... dead?" You asked, as you watched in horror over the poor thing, layed out on a tray in shallow water.

"Hmm. Perhaps three drops was too much? Our potion had all the components for a basic transformation potion, the sprig shouldn't have affected it's transformative properties, only the outcome, so--"

The tadpole shivered as if coming back to life; Its flesh began to ripple with different colors and shapes as it mutated into a large, multicolored creature.

"Uhh--- Rook, that seems a little uhmmm, BIG FOR A FROG---"

You knocked Rook into the ground in your attempt to back up, taking the tray and the undulating creature down with you, to your horror.

You braced yourself for contact with the squishy thing, and felt something heavy hit your lap.

Rook picked it up swiftly before you even opened your eyes.

"Mon dieu! I've never seen such a thing."

You opened one of your tightly shut eyes to see a Rook staring in reverent awe at a tiny, cute baby bearing resemblance to him.

"What? What IS THAT---"

"Don't yell, you'll upset the poor thing. And would you look at that? It looks a bit like you too, doesn't it?"

The baby cooed as Rook brought it to his chest with one arm, holding it gently, while the baby outstretched its tiny little arms in your direction.

He put the baby against your crossed arms.

"The baby wants your touch," He said softly, watching as the baby nuzzled against your arm.

"Nuh-uh, no way, that is NOT a baby--"

"Transformation potions are thorough. The baby is, in fact, a baby."

"Still, I don't want to touch it, it's creepy--- why does it look like us??"

Rook took the feather from his cast-aside hat to tickle the baby with.

"If I had to take a guess, I'd say perhaps it was the third drop. The little nourrisson took on the appearance of you and I because we were the first to touch it. It fell on both of us at the same time."

"S-so now what do we do?" You reluctantly touched the baby, who was cuter than you'd like to admit.

"Tell the professor and let him sort the matter out."

He turned over the baby to you as he went to get the professor.

You held the infant, which cooed and fussed like a normal human baby, but looked eerily like you and Rook, bearing his rich blonde hair and green eyes, but your chin and cheekbones, and even the way your hair naturally parted.

You gave up your fingers to the child, who was fascinated by them.

You saw Rook speaking to the professor, but your attention was diverted back to the baby, who had begun crying when you focused on something else.

You shushed it gently.

"It's alright, little one.. we'll get this ironed out."

Bleary green eyes stared back at you as if to say, 'You better.'

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"It's permanent."

"You're kidding--"

You were already back at the Ramshackle dorm, feeding the baby with formula you'd had to beg and plead for Sam to find on such short notice.

"Non, I'm afraid not. The Professor looked extensively. There is no cure to this."

"So what do we do then? We can't just... keep it!"

Rook dropped down to the ground to tickle the baby, who was lying on a soft blanket.

"I think that we must. It's our responsibility, and the baby is biologically ours, so--"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE BABY IS BIOLOGICALLY OURS?"

Your heart was racing out of your chest. What does this even mean for the two of you? You've always liked Rook, but not enough to throw yourself into raising a child with him-!

"You're shouting again, Mon Tricksteur. Oui, the baby is biologically ours, since it shares the equal traits of us both. We shall have to raise our dear infant."

Rook was on his knees beside you, amusing the baby with funny expressions and little exclamations of wonder.

Where would you go? You couldn't take care of a baby in a world you weren't familiar with, in which you had no one and nothing. Nothing but Rook, who had quite the full family of his own. Would they even accept this? Would they even like you?

Not even to speak of the challenges of raising a child, especially while going to school. Outside of your free-time, where would you even find the time to raise a baby?

Rook planted a kiss on your forehead, chuckling lightly.

"You're too nervous, my dear. You need to find the heart of passion, and throw yourself to the wind. I see it written across your face-- but there's no need to worry. I'm here for you."

You picked up the baby, cradling the small little bundle while Rook rested his arm across your back, taking in the scene. You were a family now. You were parents, so suddenly, so absolutely by surprise. And yet, as you were starting to warm up to the sweet child, you realized just how lucky you were to have Rook by your side, and a baby to love with him.

"Ah~ Mon Amour and my petit chasseur~"

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French vocabulary that I definitely did not get from Google translate:

s'il te plaît: please

Mon dieu: my god

nourrisson: infant/baby

Petit chasseur : Little hunter

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-June 28th, 2023

-Kaori