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dogbites-puppylove · 8 months ago

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Devil Sins

The Batfam and the deadly sin that colors their life, and the virtue of their darling

TW: Yandere behavior (obsession, possessive behavior and unhealthy ideations), mention of suicide ideation and s/h as well as gore

Tags: Yandere! Batfam x reader

Bruce Wayne: Pride

Within Gotham, it's common knowledge that when crimes wretched hands come down to slit your neck you do not clasp your hands and pray to God, no - you whisper your tears into a puddle of blood and give your reverence to hold out for Batman. It is under no exaggeration that divinity in the cursed city leaves justice to crumbled bones and puddles of teeth and tongue, and its cruel master in the form of a man with no face. It's fitting, for a city of corruption and bile. Gotham’s god is its dark knight with steel for bones and scripture of flesh, man made Godhood with flawed creation in its wake. But man has never been meant to hold godhood, the pathway of immortals too cruel and demanding, even with those who have wielded its deadly blade of eons it rips into them. Tearing at seams and breaking into them until their pieces can be glorified in the stained windows of churches.

Batman is divinity within mortal confines. There have been prayers and hymns in his name, retribution in his name and the painful dependency of creator and creation waged on him. Batman is an entity that is nothing but iron and brimstone, unbending and unfeeling, but Bruce Wayne, the man who created this creature whose only split from being a monster is a bloodied and beaten code, is painfully human. He feels each failure weigh on him, aging him past his own casket and decaying him even as he still breathes, it cradles his head during the night and whispers the screams of those he has watched fall.

Every time Batman stands tall, Bruce can feel something small and young turn decrepit and vile in his stomach until it erupts from him like bile from the back of his throat. He thinks it must be the humanity of a son who in truth, died with his parents in that alley. It slices his open, cutting his flesh to ribbons, and gorges itself on his organs only to fill him up with something inhuman. It's with bated breath with lungs that have been clouded with smog, that he waits for Batman to finally rule Bruce Wayne unfit and strangle him entirely.

Darling: Humility

The Darling acts as the humility to his pride, dragging him to his knees so archaically Batman shrivels in your presence. You are his humanity given form, the antithesis to his claim of being the perfect hero. You lead him by the nose, walking him on a leash so flawlessly he thinks you might have been born just to keep him grounded. Every scrape or bruise seems to repel the mission Batman strives for and replaces it with nothing, but a man stricken that he hadn’t done better. Each burn or scrape, even a paper cut drives guilt into him and brings a physical ache to his body like you had beaten him with a bat. Each mark burns the shame of a failed hero and leaves only the pathetic begs and whines of a man that can only be human.

If he could, he would spend his days by your side, affected by the intrinsic need to provide for you, leaving you physically and mentally unable and robbed of the ability to want. It's a desire that burns molten in his chest and drips down his limbs, it burns and aches at him as if trying to rip out of his chest and lick at your hand like a depraved dog. He would do anything for you, would render the world silent, bring you a heart on a platter, violate himself so terribly he could not know anything but his adoration of your presence and yet it still feels inadequate. A simple compliment from you leaves him bereft of ambition and scorn, leaving him on his hands clasped in prayer.

Batman may have been his creation, but Bruce Wayne is your own tool, use him to get what you want, change him for your own needs just keep him at hand. He'll be loyally and wholly (obsessively and blindly, almost rabid) yours. God bends to nobody's will, but Bruce Wayne knows down to the electrons snapping in his synapse that his place in this world is by your side, whether you point, whenever you deem fit. You’re his god, and himself nothing but a faithful follower.

Richard Grayson: Lust

Perhaps born from watching his parents, who should have been a constant, die in front of him a painful death filled with tourists' eyes and misplaced faith, right outside of his fingers grasps Dick has an inherent need to feel. For him, want runs in his skin like a conscious, whispering what he craves, giving voice to a voracity so impossible that it turns physical. He has known denial from the start, whether it be the blood of the man who stole his parents, a want that made his tongue ache and crawled at his ribs until his bones crackled, or the sweeter craving of a relationship, something that watered at his mouth. Want is something that has haunted him, growing obsessively until it reached lust.

Though sexual desire, of course, is something that is often attributed to it, it's not the only way lust presents itself. For Dick, it appears when he closes enough to reach out and feel flesh on his own, something tangible and it shocks him like a bad dog until he reaches out to soothe his skin. It appears in the dead of night when he can feel no other warmth than his blankets, even as he arches out and reaches pathetically into the air. It is a call of pathetic loneliness, so strong that when his younger brothers are cuddled drowning within him it is to try and get rid of the sudden echo, to try and merge them into one, until he is no longer Dick Grayson, and somehow a part of them. Somewhere in between the heat of a lover and the loyalty of a son, he realizes that being a part of a couple isn’t enough.

He wants like a man starved, all instinct and need, like a child who has been ripped out of his mother’s grasp before she has fed him fully, there is always something he’s not quite satisfied with. What he truly craves is a constant, a union, melting himself, and another so they can be poured into the same mold and make something new, indistinguishable from the other. And despite the carnal behavior of his want, he knows how to get it. He smiles full of charisma, grins with the sun and serenades with the moon to get his fixes, but each one leaves him starved, stricken for more. Like a bad addiction.

Darling: Chastity

The darling brings a chastity in his life, though not to say he wants less, but in the way a husband will fully devote himself to their wife. It’s the deceptive nature of a couple announcing a pregnancy and accidentally alluding to nights spent in bed. The darling hits a spot for him that leaves him mind numbingly euphoric, like a high that is reached after weeks and weeks of suspension. Every kiss has him feral, no better than an animal and chasing after you, every negligence has him whining by your feet, clinging to you. He grows incredibly dependent on your presence, on your touch and everything beneath.

With you his sharp mind bleeds into instinct, and the charisma he wields to pry himself into others good graces is left uselessly at the door. It’s a delusional dreamy trance, every hug sends him tumbling down further and further until his panting against your neck and thinking of nothing but you, you, you. He can feel himself slipping into your existence, swearing he can taste the coffee you drank in the morning, and can feel every cut or bruise you get without him present. His want for you is wet, sticky and binding, threatening to pull you over until you lose your mind along with him.

It’s almost laughable how pliant he is with you, a touch to his arm can have him following you over a cliff, a peck to the cheek and suddenly his on your lap whining for more. For all he is hard and angry, full of vigilante fights and bruised skin you wouldn’t even have to hurt him to kill him. With you, he can indulge himself fully, so much so that he wants no other. In fact any other touch leaves him lacking, so utterly entranced by you that he can no longer feel another’s skin unless it’s yours. To him, his darling and himself cannot be separated, they won’t go down in history but their names, but by the title for lovers. Nothing to define themselves but their own love.

Jason Todd: Wrath

Anger, to Jason, is an old friend that lives in his bones and whispers in his ears with every movement. He has used it well his entire life, a melting anger of forged iron against his father to keep him defiant, a indigent anger filled with a son's tears for his mother, the roar of inequality and social class that steals from the batmobile and the blinding and rash rush that leaves him as robin. It’s at first a soft motivation that keeps him alive, any good street rat knows, or any street rat still breathing that to stop means you’re as good as dead. He covets his rage, it's youthful and idealistic and keeps his heart beating.

Of course, after the pit (after being beaten to death in a warehouse of gasoline and gunpowder, watching his own blood relax as he’s robbed of his own, coming back ripping from his own skin and drowned in green only to find out his father-father-had left him unavenged. Left him replaced and gone) his anger has grown into something primordial. Too old to be Jason’s but so familiar he leans into it. It grows from his bones like ivy and twigs, poking out against his flesh and sewing itself under his skin so that the slightest breach sends it out to take root. Jason’s wrath is something that threatens to leave him choking blood, and yet it keeps him alive with the threat of keeping him running forever. It is the anger of a child on the poster who has never been found, and their stomach full of worms that burrows into his own. The tears of a case under the corrupt policeman’s file, and the ghosts scream in a house empty of their future. It’s all those who have ever been a statistic (as he has been) boiling over under his skin. Because Jason knows the wrath of the dead and unavenged intimately, it burns his memories in green and leaves his chest heaving with permanent mourning of mothers whose children were robbed and never found. It threatens to scratch away from the inside of his ribs until its nails finally rip him open in a mocking autopsy and wail into Gotham’s plugged ears.

Jason's violence, his actions and words, the bullets in his guns and glare under the hood are all reactions to this. As long as the world spins, as long as humans turn a blind eye to victims, and allow the injustice of the world to mold them, he will move. All his actions are an answer, a bullet through a man's cranium, the vengeance of a young girl with a ripped dress, a severed head, the relief of a child who watches their family bleed out for powdered death. Each and every shout of Red Hood, every puddle of blood he coats the ground on proof that he is still moving. Because Jason’s wrath is old and an answer, to the boy in the warehouse, to the boy in the ground and mounted not as a son but a soldier. It’s a solution to the fear that manipulates his chest that should he stop moving he’d be buried again.

Darling: Patience

Jason is a man of action and violence, fear turned into anger because above all he is a man cursed with empathy. With his darling the fear that curdles his insides soothes, like a mother rubbing her child’s stomach and singing a special song to keep the pain away. The world will keep moving regardless of him taking a break, and he has the blinding panic of staying in time, and yet his darling is a perfect encapsulation of time. Something preserved beautifully, a painting stuck in motion, the words on his books that are remembered through words and tongue. The tint of red becomes a pastel pink, and suddenly he’s so, so weak.

With his darling he closes his eyes without fear of waking up decaying. A sweep of your hand against his cheek will pull a sigh of pleasure from his throat suddenly free of phlegm and blood, even a harsh hit will feel divine. His darling functions as a sort of “moment” , something trapped in time and solely for Jason. Much like opening a book, the story is forever clashing but the words stay all the same, waiting for the reader. It’s with you the anger that has kept him moving for so long, washed away, like the dirt clinging to his skin under water. It's freeing and leaves him shakily bare, with you he weeps, with you he grows and stays forever yours. You are life itself, something ancient and timeless at the same time. The nostalgia of losing a tooth and excitement of a birthday party wrapped into tender song and softer skin.

It’s a common sight to see him cry when with you, prayer in the form of tears that are just for you. He spends his days in a lovestruck haze, almost as if he’s been drugged. For Jason there is no constant, no surety but you. He would do anything to keep you perfect, safe and just as you always are. He'll care for you much like a beloved heirloom, of course he loves you with a severance that would scare most, but you are something he seeks to preserve. Nothing can hurt you, will hurt you, you’ll remain untouched until you reach out yourself. Your presence alone is enough for him to intoxicate himself with, bask in forever. But should you give I’m a sliver of your attention, allow him to enter your perfect little world? He’ll be lost forever.

Tim Drake: Gluttony

The most intimate feeling Tim knows is hunger, perhaps not for food but for anything and everything else. Obsession is his most familiar form of companionship, stuffing picture after picture of his object of affection until he can drown in them. In his house of echoing walls and emptiness he comes to emulate it. He feels hollowness in his soul, some nights he wonders if he took a knife to his own side what he would find. Would it be organs? Perhaps a heart? Or would it be the void that has eaten all that made him and left him with a constant hunger to fill himself with? For a time, he manages to satiate himself with Batman and Robin, stalking and drinking them in over and over until one day it's stolen and left him with nausea so terrible. (And Tim still remembers the rawness of his skin as he is thrashing in his room, his throat bleeding from his wails of a boy he never met)

The more he gets the more he hungers, it’s something horrific and apathetic that leads him to chasing after his own fill. Case after case solved, fact after fact filtered and sorted through, Tim is insatiable. Like a well oiled machine, the fuel that keeps him going only works to find more fuel, it's a never-ending cycle of something that can no longer be deemed as human. Half of this can be attributed to the fact that it’s all the same to him, an angelic charity to a garish murder eh takes them and feasts on them all the sometime efficiency is more of a hook then anything, pulling others in so he can feast on them, devouring their mannerisms and habits, licking up and chewing on their thoughts until there nothing left of them.

One could blame this on the fact that the identity of “Tim Drake'' has never really been sought out, so there’s no substance to him. Something useless will obviously stay shiny, clean and unused, it's logical in all the ways it makes Tim want to throw a tantrum. It drives his mouth to salivate until he’s drooling over another function he can consume, another person he can mirror, another morsel to disappear within himself. And yet with each new meal he can only feel the void echo back louder, as if he had never eaten at all. Like a fire consuming too much wood that it withers out in anger, as if the trees that had been cut never existed in the first place. It threatens to force Tim to disappear forever.

Darling: Temperance

The temperance his darling offers is in the form of a craving rather than actual fulfillment. After just his first taste of you, Tim has been enraptured for you, nothing comes close to your unique temperament, your reactions, everything that makes you, you. You leave his mouth watering for more, nothing else can settle against his tongue the way you can, nothing can mimic the way you fill his head with static and leave him filled to the brim. He takes whatever kindness you give him and uses it as an invitation to learn more about you, an invitation to bear himself fully. Any preference you have, a favorite color or show, even general food preference will settle into Tim as if it had been his all along. Where he used to drink black coffee, has grown a taste for your favorite creamer, your playlist will be playing in the back of his head as he switches through W.E. work, it’s all you, you, you. Like a puzzle finally coming together,

Tim’s brain finally quiets down and is forced to digest. Any sort of attention you give him is a five course meal, any scorn is just as quickly devoured. You don’t quite stop the habit of obsession, but you give it direction. Tim has never known such direct want until you, a den he has no plans to stop his indulgent habits. He is ravenous for anything you toss to him, your voice, a text, an opinion, even just a little note, whatever you do stays, It’s a blessing and a curse. Because while the hunger pangs back in your presence, now nothing else can even come close to keeping him occupied.

He’ll obsess over you, crafting himself to be your perfect companion just so he can stay by your side and continue feeding. Everything in your life has a shade of him, your job, your house, your hobbies, even your electronics, each one a special situation he created to have you just a bit closer. Nothing else can come close to you, he’ll make sure you're well taken care of, all he asks in return is you.

Damian Wayne: Envy

Damian’s life is a unique contradiction. He was born the sole inheritor of a Thorne he is meant to fight for, something only he can own and yet is so unworthy he is kept from it. It forces him into a sense of jealousy, inadequacy and egregious entitlement. He could have anything he needs, but only as long as he earns it, it gives him a longing sense of feeling everything is out of his reach. That even should he hold the sword in his hands it cannot be called his. Not in the way a dog can call its food their own, and not in the way a writer can crow over their own creation. It leaves him painfully envious of others, of their right to their own possession, it leaves him vicious and poisonous. Part of the reason he squirrels away animals with so much intent, is because they’d be “His.” He’s their sole owner, and as beings with a conscience they can prove their loyalty.

His envy leaves him with harsh words and even deadlier scars, it forces him into a fine weapon and while it’s an ideal state for an heir it’s a broken state for a child. It leaves the boy wanting, fearful and anxious. His envy is young and childish, something not allowed, and it’s something weaponized. It’s part of the reason he defends the title of robin so freckly, not only because he believes himself right, but because it’s his in way the throne cannot be. Because it’s not a legacy he’s supposed to take, it's one he steals from himself. It’s his, in a way nothing has been since he first cried from the pit.

But even then, the title of partner that so many others have worn, cannot soothe the constant ire, the lashing out that comes with fear of being replaceable, of being nothing but a role, comes with. Because Damian has been born as his mother’s son, as his father's legacy, but not as his own person. It makes Damian feel unfit, unusable in the way he has seen his mother discard students who cannot kill. It burns him, kills him and with time he thinks he might just be a husk. Damian is nothing but competency and a perfect successor, a successor will never be their own.

Darling: Kindness

Ironically the kindness that tempers his own envy is not his own but instead, actions of his own darlings. He fully gives himself to you, gives you his very purpose to do what you want with. Should you order him to kill, order him to die, or to live he would do it without complaint. Tell him you want his heart and he will pry himself open and hand it over with a smile, tell him you want his laugh, and he will laugh himself manic until you tire of it. He is a fine blade, a weapon that has seen battle far too much already, and it’s your own kindness that stops it from going to battle. In essence Damian has made himself a role right by you, but has given up his autonomy of your manipulation. You’ve become his master, his owner and his loyal weapon.

Every action is your doing, every remark is for your benefit, and by giving himself to you, he can have you in a way nobody else can claim. Every smile, every hug, every word that you speak to him is something unique from a dynamic he has hand crafted, and therefore uniquely his own. He will store you away from others, wary of letting them stain you, and even more wary of letting them steal you. You’re his, his love, his heart, his blood, his purpose on this earth, and he cannot let another’s touch deter you from this. His darling is a salve to his aches, a bandage that wraps tight enough to manage to hold him together, and his actions are that with the purpose of binding you to him. Your purpose will be each other.

Author's Note: Another reupload! Previously known as lovesick-laboratories.

#yandere dc #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #bruce wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #damian wayne x reader

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connorsui · 2 months ago

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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

#suiwrites🍒#love and deepspace x reader #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace #zayne x you #zayne x y/n #lads x reader #lnds x reader #l&ds x reader #lads zayne #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #lnds zayne x reader #l&ds zayne x reader #lads zayne x reader

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makingqueerhistory · 1 year ago

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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.

#queer #lgbt #transgender #queer books #lgbt books #book recommendations #queer history

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vampsywrites · 1 year ago

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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.”

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

TAGLIST: @rainbowsocks @milktealvrr @strawberri-blonde

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wandamaximoffsbadgirl · 6 months ago

Note

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

#ley writes #ley writes requests #dark!fic #dark!natasha romanoff #dark!natasha x reader #dark!natasha x wanda #dark!natasha x wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x gn!reader #natasha romanoff x gn!reader #wandanat x you #wandanat x reader #wandanat x gn!reader

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monstrousvoice · 8 months ago

Text

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.

#Hazbin Hotel #Hazbin Hotel Husk #Hazbin Hotel Husk X Reader #Husk X Reader #Smut #My Writing #I havent written smut in forever and I feel so goddamn rusty at it #please judge with a grain of salt

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kolyasupremanxy · 1 year ago

Text

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.

#demon slayer #kokushibo x reader #kokushibo #michikatsu x reader #michikatsu tsugikuni #kokushibo smut #michikatsu smut #demon slayer x reader #kny #kny x reader #kokushibo x you #kny headcanons #demon slayer headcanons #kokushibo headcanons #Michikatsu Headcanons

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diegowife · 1 year ago

Text

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 !

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mrsrookhunt · 1 year ago

Text

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

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

"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."

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

"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.'

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

"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~"

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

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

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

-June 28th, 2023

-Kaori

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theabysss · 1 year ago

Text

Hearts

pairing: sagau!Childe x Reader

summary: After Child completed your task, he returned to you with a gift.

warnings: religious + cult themes, possessive & obsessive thoughts, cannibalism, mentions of people's deaths, suggestive.

word count: 850

note: I post again at night, it seems it is becoming a bad habit. I need to do something about it. And I, successfully survived more than half of my exams, there is still a little bit left and I will be free. ＼(￣▽￣)／

Childe enters your throne room, bringing with him the thick, iron smell of blood. In his left hand, he firmly holds the casket by the handle, slippery with blood. Inside was his gift to you and he hoped you would like it. His eyes light up when he sees you sitting on the throne. Your elegant posture, full of superiority, the feeling of your power at the border of his consciousness - you were perfection, a true deity.

You gesture to him to come closer and he immediately obeys. The soft carpet leading to your throne muffles Childe's steps, he kneels in front of you at the very throne and bows his head.

"Ajax, have you dealt with those infidels?" His real name escaping from your lips will ignite the blood in his veins.

"Yes, Your Grace, no one is left alive and I gave each of the apostates the most painful death." Childe's voice is full of pride, he carried out your order, maybe you even praise him, he would really like it.

When you lift his chin and Childe meets your eyes, your beautiful eyes, he swallows noisily, enjoying the sight of your features.

"Good boy, I knew you wouldn't disappoint me." You put your hand on Ajax's cheek, completely oblivious to the blood.

Childe blissfully closes his eyes, and tilts his head, trying to cling to your palm even stronger. There is nothing that he could not do for you, because you were his everything. Give him any task and he will complete it no matter how difficult it is, just to hear you call him that again.

"I have a present for you Your Grace." Childe hands you a fairly large casket with both hands. His blue eyes, half-closed with fluffy eyelashes, burn with loyalty and reverence.

You place the carved casket on your lap and open the lid. When you see the contents you take your breath away; human hearts lie one on top of the other on scarlet velvet. You touch one of them, heart is warm and quietly continues to beat, as if not realizing that it has not been in the chest of its owner for a long time.

"It's beautiful." Your voice is full of admiration and you smile at Childe happily like never before.

"I'm very glad about that Your Grace." Childe smiles back at you and your imagination draws a fox tail wagging from side to side behind him.

Childe tilts his head and rubs his temple against your knee, silently begging for affection. You chuckle briefly at his behavior, but yield and bury your blood-stained fingers in his hair.

"I hope you enjoy the taste, Your Grace." Childe lets out a pleased hum as you scratch his earlobe with your fingernails. Your hand running through his hair made him feel butterflies in his stomach.

"Do you want to try?"

You whisper this question into Ajax's ear and a wave of goosebumps runs down his spine. Your warm breath, lips lightly touching his ear and your wonderful seductive voice, Childe hardly suppresses a sob that almost breaks from his lips.

"I would consider it a great honor, Your Grace." His voice trembles, he would take anything from your hands.

You take out one of the hearts and bring it to Childe's lips, he obediently takes a bite and blood splatters on his face. The rest you quickly eat up with your mouth wide open, much wider than a human could, and for a second you demonstrate your sharp fangs.

"Sweet." Childe licks his lips and looks into your eyes faithfully.

You absolutely love his blood-covered face, those blue eyes that make him look innocent and hide the monster from the abyss that he was. His chaotic nature, passion for battle, cruelty and complete immorality, which is why he was one of your favorite followers.

You run your thumb over his lip, smearing the blood and Childe playfully tries to lick your finger, after which you put the casket on the floor to make it more convenient to perform your next steps.

Childe's breath catches when he feels your lips on his and when you deepen the kiss, passionately responds to you. With trembling hands, he clutches at your shoulders, desperately trying to pull you closer. When, due to a careless movement, your fang scratches Childe's lip, he only groans, welcoming the taste of blood, which is now even more intense. The hot dance of your tongues, the way your palm moved from his neck to his chest, made his legs tremble and give way.

As you pull back, Childe looks at you with thirsty eyes, like a human who hasn't had a drink in weeks, desperately, hungry.

"Please Your Grace again… I've been a good boy, please." Childe's voice trembles as he reaches out his arms to you in the hope that you won't reject him.

You grin and give him another kiss, and then another and another. Until eventually Childe sits on your lap and anyone who walks past the door to the throne room can hear his moans.

Reblogs, comments, are always greatly appreciated! ヽ(o^ ^o)ﾉ

#genshin sagau #genshin impact sagau #genshin impact sagau x reader #genshin x reader #sagau #sagau cult au #sagau childe #sagau x reader #theabysss writes

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talesofadragon · 5 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬

Synopsis: Centuries spent at the House of Odin have transformed the eclectic balls into familial gatherings and council meetings into morning tea rituals. The gilded walls of the castle have become home, and its royals, family. Yet, when your wisdom crosses paths with folly, affection is born unexpectedly, senselessly—a trait you’ve never been known to entertain, but one that Thor Odinson wears proudly.

Pairing: Thor Odinson x Asgardian!Reader

Warnings: Allusions to sex. Jealousy. Unrequited Love. Love Triangles. LOKI. (we love him, though.)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort | Fluff | Mild Angst

Word Count: 6K (I have no regrets)

Based on this Request from my writing celebration.

All Masterlists | Sab's Wring Fest

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐊 into the queen’s revered gardens, let alone assault her precious snowdrops. But rationale had long been buried deeper than Yggdrasil’s roots, allowing impulsivity to reign over you.

The white petals screeched from the force of your tug, a harsh touch you’d never known yourself capable of administering. But your assault proved relentless, flower after flower limply falling to your side. Ironically, their innocent petals congregated on the fabric of your dress, painting a tinge of beauty over your despondency.

Even in their misery, they refused to be anything but enduring. Pitiful.

“Oh, how delightfully entertaining will it be to gauge Mother’s love for you once she sees what calamity has befallen her garden by your hands.”

“Go away,” you commanded bitterly, back turned to the unwanted presence.

The god behind you neglected to comment on your tone. You heard him shuffle, his feet carefully avoiding stepping on another virtuous plant. He plopped down next to you, elegantly brushing his hands atop the neglected flower stems by your side, reviving them.

“It would be a shame to forgo free entertainment,” Loki smirked, twirling the rejuvenated snowdrop in his fingers.

You craned your head to the right, eyes burning with fire even his Jotun genes couldn’t withstand. “Pity, so many courtesans have slipped from your fingers you now have to settle for my misery for pleasure.”

Loki laughed, his shoulders shaking. His gaze retained his familiar mirth as he answered, “Would your misery be associated with a certain courtesan and an Asgardian prince... fonduing, perhaps?”

“Fonduing?” Your face twisted in disgust. “What in the Nine does that word mean?”

“I heard the spangled American Captain utter it once," Loki recalled. "It’s a euphemism for two people partaking in the biological act of reproduction.”

“What?” you scoffed in disbelief. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Loki’s wry smirk reappeared. “Mortals rarely do,” he confessed.

Your face fell at the reminder of the race you were persistently attempting to forget. Focused on your previous discourse, you had ignored the snowdrops delicately sitting in the palm of your hands. Without a second thought, you resumed your previous ministrations, gracelessly tearing apart petals from the stem.

“You do not happen, by any chance, to be superseding this flower for Thor’s meek mortal friend. Do you?” Loki asked.

“No,” you were quick to reply. “She may be as delicate as a flower, but she’s as beautiful as a Ratatoskr. What do brown eyes remind one of besides tree trunks and repugnant mud?”

“The warmth of an autumn day as the sun embraces the woodlands and shelters its inhabitants from the seasonal tumult to come,” Loki poetically recited, hands drawing figures in the air and a gleam of mischief glowing in his irises.

“Sounds tedious,” you lamented.

It earned you a scoff from Loki, though not for a lack of frivolity. “Midgardians possess this abhorrent concoction called coffee,” he informed, gaining your attention. “It’s a muddy brew that staggeringly increases one’s anxiety threshold.”

“Why would someone create such a senseless horror?”

“Perhaps to use it as a metaphor for a mortal’s brown eyes.”

You scrunched up your nose at the image of the mortal in question. “Fitting. She has such a petite stature. As feeble and brittle as her thirty-year lifespan.”

“I regret to inform you that mortals can live up to a century.”

“Irrelevant. That is still a trifle of our lifespan. And do not get me started on her vexatious disposition. Has this mortal woman been raised in a cave of trolls?”

“Well, this would certainly explain her infatuation with Thor.”

“You are not helping!”

You gathered what remained of the flowers, pelting Loki with the stem and petals. He didn’t deflect your assault, accepting your sour behavior. What you hadn’t accounted for was his retaliation. He pushed your shoulder, slightly rougher than usual, forcing you to land on a bed of flowers.

You groaned, feeling the flora entangling in your hair and their pollen dusting your dress. Loki’s dulcet amusement echoed above your head. A sharp gasp escaped him when you tugged at his emerald green robes and shoved him down. Hard.

“I did not inflict a grain of harm on you,” Loki groaned, swatting the fallen petals, which landed in his hair. “This hurts, Y/N.”

“Your pride or your head? The latter could benefit from some sense knocking into it,” you rebuked.

Loki gazed at you unimpressed. “Now is not an agreeable time to spread your wisdom, Little Goddess. You’ve clearly demonstrated your dwindling abilities when you groaned and moaned about the earthling.”

“I did no such thing! I, astutely might I add, pointed out her subpar qualities that do not mirror what Asgard is looking for in a queen—”

“Thor clearly disagrees.”

“Do not interrupt me, you venomous snake! Thor has always been a dunderhead, overthinking with his brawn and underthinking with his brains.”

“And yet, you were stupid enough to fall in love with him, Goddess of Wisdom.”

“Watch your mouth!” you spat, eyes roving the expanse of the garden to ensure no meddling ears were meandering around. “I care for your brother. But do not confuse care with admiration.”

“Devotion, Y/N. Has the human’s visit caused even your accrued lexicon to recede,” Loki taunted. Had it not been for your skirts in the way and your position on the ground, you would’ve kicked him so hard in certain nether regions that he would’ve sung to Valhalla.

“I stand by what I said.”

“Apologies, Little Goddess. Allow me, as the God of Lies, to refute your statement. Both metaphorically and in the literal sense.”

That filthy little python. You scoffed, perhaps a little more at yourself than him. He elicited the responses he desired, painting a mockery out of you and your feelings. You knew you couldn’t debate the matter with him more than you already had. As the God of Lies and your, unfortunately, best friend, he’d always have the upper hand in this matter.

So, you stood up and dusted your skirts. If you weren't winning, then participating in this debate was of no use.

“Where are you going?” Loki inquired, an underlying tone of merriment hiding beneath his words.

Your eyes squinted, regarding him with indignation. “You have effectively sullied my mood even further. Your mother’s beautiful flowers do not deserve more ill will at my hands. Therefore, I’m taking my leave.”

If Loki had said anything after your response, your mind had elected to ignore it. Huffing aloud, you marched toward the castle, uncaring for the traces of mud and the wealth of fallen petals that trailed behind. On a regular day, you would’ve been more mindful, casting a simple cleaning spell to polish your appearance and ensure the poor attendants of the Odin Household would not have to partake in more work than necessary. But your anger and heartbreak had been immeasurable enough to deny you any act besides sulking over the mortal woman Thor had ignorantly brought along to Asgard.

The Norns, much like Loki, must’ve been taking pleasure in your predicament. You had rounded the corner, one gilded hallway separating you from the castle’s entrance, when the silhouette of the Crown Prince appeared.

Unlike the ladies of the court, your admiration for Thor did not stem from his ethereal beauty. It bloomed like Freyja’s primroses, a sturdy seedling that, with time, opened its foliage to a world of wonder and ardor. He was a cosmic presence—a child of the sun, with light and fire dancing around his immaculate frame in wisps of enchantment, leaving every woman breathless. Including you.

“Lady Y/N!” Thor’s voice reverberated in the long hallway, laced with excitement. "I hadn't anticipated your presence today. No wonder the day exudes such radiance."

His comment made heat rise to your cheeks. It was almost as if he had shared his warmth with you, sending it trekking along his words to your heart. You smiled at him, demure and saccharine. But your lips downturned once another presence, one less noticeable or agreeable, appeared behind him.

You cleared your throat, attempting to restrain your unease as you greeted, “Thor, Mistress Foster.”

Norns burn you if you call her by the same title you bear. The earthling, as Loki so eloquently worded it, could not match you.

Without a greeting nor a poised lexicon, the Midgardian inquired, “Why are your clothes dirty?”

Her question intrigued Thor enough for his eyes to rove your body. The warmth that had settled in your veins morphed into the embers of Helheim. You felt small and brittle under the scrutiny of his penetrating gaze.

“I beg your pardon?” you fired back promptly, indignation concealing the shame you felt at your soiled image.

Your words caused the mortal to pale, head swiveling to Thor’s side in anxiousness and trepidation. “I apologize, my lady,” she rectified her earlier statement. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Well, you certainly were, you internally chastised.

Thor took another look at your attire, meticulously examining the fabric. You endeavored to compose yourself, resisting the urge to shift your weight from one foot to another. His hand reached for your arm, his thumb sweeping across your elbow. “Are you well, Lady Y/N? You look… disheveled.”

You immediately retracted your arm, fearing his senses might pick up on your galloping heart. “I am quite alright. I was with Loki in the gardens,” you supplied.

“Loki?” The mortal regarded you with an air of cynicism. Your blood boiled at her brashness. “What were you and Loki doing in the gardens?”

“Have you no tact, you imprudent minger? Although your kind lacks sensibility and decorum, you ought to address those of elevated stature with respect while in their dominion! Neither Prince Loki nor I are your comrades to tolerate such crass mannerisms.”

“I’m… my sincerest apologies, I didn’t think—”

“Thinking is not as sparse on Asgard as it is on Earth. If you find yourself incapable of harnessing a modicum of wisdom when addressing me, then you are in the presence of the wrong Goddess.”

"Y/N," Thor interjected, his omission of your title not slipping past your notice. Nor did you miss the hand that reached out for the mortal girl.

His actions only served to fan the flames of your jealousy and hurt. Almost a millennium of knowing that male, and he had chosen a measly mortal's side over yours.

“Do not patronize me!” you ordered, jamming a finger in his broad, muscular chest. “I am not the right audience for your feigned, princely performance.”

Thor squeezed the mortal’s hand in reassurance, tugging her further to his side—as if to shield her from you. He craned his face lower to meet your gaze. Endearing as you'd always found it, it made you uneasy at this moment.

"You seem overly emotional today,” he inquired, voice low and delicate, juxtaposing his chosen words. “Has Loki said something to upset you?"

You cracked. How dare he?

“Loki may perhaps be the only male in all of Asgard who possesses an ounce of empathy and understanding when it comes to my feelings and disposition,” you snapped back, ignoring how your words seemed to slap Thor in the face. “He has been my best friend for close to a millennium and is one of the princes of this realm. So if I, as a lady of the court, find that your little mortal is besmirching his name, the least I could do is call her out on it!”

Your outburst held more weight than you had anticipated, managing to leave Thor speechless. He regarded you with an air of perplexion, his mouth open—seemingly unsure of what response was fair in this situation.

You didn’t want to waste any further time in his or the mortal’s company. You grunted, walking away. The sound of your footfall ringing louder than deemed honorable for a lady.

“Y/N, wait!” Thor called out after you, his hand shooting up to grab your arm. Though he was massively built, with the strength and mass of Asgard lying on his shoulders, his shy grasp fluttered against your skin. Featherlike, it tickled your nerves, sending a chorus of tenderness through your pulse.

You turned around, a mask of stoicism hiding your feelings. “Yes?”

“I appreciate your inclination to defend my brother, but, I, and Jane, were merely concerned over your well-being—”

“Accusing Loki of maltreatment!” you reminded Thor, swiftly retracting your arm from his grasp.

He sighed, placing both hands on his hips. You loathed how small he made you feel before the mortal. “You are exaggerating.”

“And you are heedless! Whatever Loki and I were doing in the gardens is none of your or the mortal’s concern! What’s it to you both? Maybe we decided to fondue. We do not get in your business, so do not meddle in ours!”

No sooner had the words left your mouth than your legs commanded you to retreat to another room. You didn’t understand why you had said that. Your wisdom melted into a puddle whenever Thor and his little pet were involved.

When had you become so insensitive?

Mistress Foster left. Her visit didn’t amass more than a fortnight's worth of frustrations before King Odin had deemed her visit long. If an immortal God such as Odin Allfather perceived these days as anything but transient, then Jane Foster was truly a nuisance in her own right.

The knowledge of her absence, particularly on this day, overjoyed you. The Vernal Equinox served as a portent of hope for Asgard—embracing prominent figures from neighboring realms in celebration of Asgard’s princes and in anticipation of the future.

In loose terms, it presented the Asgardian royalty with a wealth of eligible females to choose from as the next princess and queen of the realm. In broader terms, it was another opportunity to observe Loki and Thor merrily charm the ladies to appease Odin and Frigga—while satiating particular desires on the side.

You dismissed your ladies in waiting, taking a deep breath as you pulled open the door. Your feigned smile fell, and the familiar trepidation rose when you saw who stood by the door.

“Fondue?” Loki snickered, mischief practically waltzing in his bejeweled eyes. “Darling Y/N, had I known you were inclined to roll in my sheets, I would’ve bedded you centuries sooner.”

You grabbed him by the fabric of his tailored robes, pulling him harshly toward your rooms. “I panicked!” you grumbled. It was barely heard over the deafening sound of his amusement.

“Well, you certainly rectified your error by pulling me into your chambers.”

“Shut up!”

“Ah, my Little Goddess. How exquisitely appetizing do you look,” he joked, purposely raising his voice.

You jumped on him, a screech tearing through your vocal cords. Loki laughed louder, trying to grasp your hands as you assaulted him with your fists. You hadn’t expected him to bite your finger.

“You bastard!” you seethed, cradling your hand.

“What was that, Y/N? You want it faster?”

“Loki!!”

“Ah, tell me how good it feels,” he mused.

You were not impressed. “You are an idiot,” you retorted.

Your argument, if you could call it that, receded rather swiftly. You refused to look at Loki, rolling your eyes and settling them on your vanity. You weren’t frustrated, per se. Loki always had a knack for playing with your feelings like they were puppets on a string. Not in a malevolent way. The matter was, if your gaze caught him, you knew the little impish snake would expose the laughter he had succeeded in digging out of you.

Loki’s voice caught you before your thoughts meandered further. “You’re wearing the wrong colors.”

You looked down at yourself, your silver shoes peeking from the fabric of your long blue dress. It was light azure. Quaint and placid. An exterior representation of the feelings you were chasing. The fabric was tulle, whimsical and, airy like Spring’s birds merrily dancing across cloudless Asgardian sky. Its off-shoulder design, adorned with gleaming silver gems and bishop sleeves, accentuated your elegance and grace. A Goddess. A member of the House of Odin, even if you didn’t have a crown.

“If you’re insinuating I ought to have worn your brother’s colors, then I regret to inform you, that you were mistaken.”

Loki shook his head as a mischievous shadow passed over his face. “You’d appear desperate. And you, Y/N, are anything but.”

“Then what colors were you referencing?” you asked, brows creasing in thought. “Surely not your own.”

“Mine, no. But the witless oaf doesn’t have to know that.”

You didn’t comprehend whatever it was he was insinuating. Wordlessly, Loki twirled his fingers, a thread of emerald green seidr tantalizing your sight. He flicked his wrist. The magical trail shot from his fingertips to your dress, deftly pirouetting along the light azure tulle.

The colors changed from blue to green and silver to gold. The boldness of your outfit contrasted with the muted portrait you tried to paint earlier. You studied your dress, eyes roving the fabric before examining Loki’s attire. You almost scolded him for putting you in his colors when you did not intend for your farce to go further than it did. But then you noticed these colors, chosen by Loki, were darker than his.

It was a subtle contrast, discerned when in closer proximity to the God of Mischief. The royal family could immediately catch the difference. The ladies, though, wouldn’t be able to. Neither would Thor.

“Is this a wise choice?” you asked, playing with the sleeves of your dress.

Loki took your hand in his, kissing the back of it. “The answer lies with you, Little Goddess.”

Wise, maybe not. Fun? It certainly would be. You couldn’t remember the last time you went to these festivities without constantly having to clutch your heart at the thought of Thor.

“It’s a mutual agreement,” you answered diligently. “This keeps the ladies and Thor away.”

Loki tutted. “This keeps the witless oaf’s mind working. He has stashed his wits so far beneath the surface, the cobwebs have devoured them whole.”

“And you think this alliance between wisdom and mischief will decontaminate his head from thoughts of the impertinent mortal?”

“I believe my brother is a hopeless case. If it works, then by all means, enjoy the fruits of our labor. If it doesn’t, then enjoy the privilege of my company.”

“Your company?” you chortled, wrapping your arm around his elbow. “Lokes, I’ll be gracing you with mine.”

He mimicked your chortle, beginning to lead you out of the room. "I must admit, your presence has staggeringly illuminated my days in Asgard. Father is covertly hoping that I ask for your hand in marriage."

"And Frigga?" you asked, aware of Loki's deep affection for his mother and her opinion.

He covered your hand, which rested on his arm, with his free one, leaning closer to your ear. "She much prefers you with Thor." You blushed, a crimson hue spreading across your cheeks. Loki took delight in your sheepishness. "You could spare me the hassle of sifting through noble ladies by accepting a marriage proposal, Y/N. I immensely enjoy roleplay in the bedroom. And though I do not wish to lay eyes on certain biological regions of my brother, I can indulge you if that is what you fancy."

"I fancy your silence, you brute!" you chastised, stomping on his foot.

Loki barely flinched, but he placed some distance between you both. He opened the door, and before you could venture beyond your bedroom, he positioned himself in your line of sight. "You forgot something, darling." The nickname felt foreign, especially when unaccompanied by your first name. Before you could inquire about it, you felt a shimmer of magic raking through your hair.

"What did you do?"

Loki smiled fondly, passing his fingers through your loose hair. "Turned you from a goddess to a princess."

Your gaze locked with his as you lifted your fingers to your head. There was a weight there, not something unbearable but undeniably foreign. Your fingers traced the contours of what you assumed was a diadem.

"What was that for?"

Loki stepped closer to you, his taller frame engulfing yours, cocooning you with his body heat. His lips settled on your forehead, his fingers intertwining with yours. You blinked, mind racing to figure out the parameters of his new trick. “You’re precious, Y/N,” he confessed breathlessly, his voice almost vulnerable. “More valuable than the troves of Asgard and the magic of Yggdrasil. And by the Norns, whoever forsakes your treasured company deserves to be bereft of your radiance, ensnared by the unforgiving grasp of Helheim for their sacrilege, Little Queen.”

For the first time in your 800 years of life, you found yourself at a loss for words in response to Loki's. His words were carefully chosen, poignant, and endearing, befitting his poetic prowess. Yet, something about the declaration felt amiss; a subtle discordance that unsettled you. It was then, out of the corner of your eye, that you caught sight of Thor.

His cerulean eyes, usually bright with warmth, were now veiled in darkness, glinting with a silver sheen you had never seen before. Thor's demeanor betrayed a mix of emotions, his features clouded with anger and a hint of betrayal. Before you could utter a word, he turned and left, his bloody red ceremonial attire fading from view.

Loki's intentions became clearer then. He sought to deceive Thor. But why would such words incite his brother's ire? And why had Loki chosen to describe you as such?

This Vernal Equinox proved to be different. You couldn’t categorize it as either good or bad as you had yet to comprehend your perplexing emotions about the celebration. The familiar joviality and folly were missing given that Loki and Thor seemed to have reversed their roles.

Content with you on his arm, Loki’s charade persisted well into the late hours of the evening. He kept you to his side, not that you minded, twirling, discoursing, and occasionally, joking about the whole ordeal. The nobles, courtiers, and ladies had all presumed you debuting, your green dress a declaration of your choice in contenders. If not for that, then the golden diadem on your head

Frigga and Odin seemed to know better. The Allfather offered you and his youngest no more than a feeble smile, pleased to see you and Loki together, even though he knew this was all but a farce. The Allmother, while graceful as ever, did not attempt to mask her errant gaze, her bright eyes dimming as she looked at Thor.

The older son, heir to the throne of Asgard, had forgone merriment in favor of appeasing the ladies. Given that Loki had monopolized your time, all of the wayward bachelorettes traveled toward Thor. No lady was cast aside, each receiving a handful of minutes with the prince. And though that should’ve hurt you, the ache in your heart could only be attributed to the misery Thor wore.

You and Loki drifted toward Sif and the Warriors Three since Thor had abandoned his usual idle chatter and reckless drinking. Hours later, Fandral was on the verge of passing out, Hogun was inebriated yet still standing, while Volstagg recounted one of the ancient battles on Alfheim to Loki and Sif.

When it was an hour past midnight, you excused yourself from the festivities, claiming you were too tired to continue.

In truth, sleep evaded you. Your mind inundated with thoughts. But you didn’t allow yourself to entertain one more question or idea, letting your feet guide you wherever they preferred.

You reached one of the castle’s balconies, a small one on the right side of the ballroom. You could still hear the music from the festivities, although it was a gentle hum. Euphonious and dulcet, serving as the perfect ballad in the backdrop. The sky lit up, gleaming stars strewn across the darkness. You wondered if they were the Norns’ portents. If you could wish upon them and the world would hum in answer.

The sound of retreating footsteps pulled your attention away from the sky. You knew that silhouette anywhere.

“Thor?” the word tumbled from your lips before you could fully register what the night had brought.

Thor’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t respond, almost as if contemplating whether to provide you with an answer or ignore your presence. He sighed, broad shoulders deflating, before he turned around.

“I apologize, Lady Y/N. I was not aware the area was preoccupied.”

“You need not to apologize, Thor,” you stated, unsure where his usual boldness had gone. “The area is large enough to accommodate both of us.”

It almost looked as though Thor would decline your offer. His blue eyes wandered, from you to the horizon then back. He regarded you in an unfamiliar way, taking in your appearance. You didn’t want him to catch sight of your fluster, so you turned your back to him, getting lost in the sight of Asgard at night.

When you thought Thor would leave, you heard him make his way to your side.

“I wish to apologize to you, Y/N,” he whispered, uncertainly. Not because he did not mean it, no. You knew Thor well enough to tell when he was lying about something. Your friendship with Loki illuminating his brother’s traits further. Thor leaned on his side, the banister supporting his weight. His demeanor was brittle, a far cry from what you had known. Your breath was lost in your throat, unsure whether you should gasp or sob. A step forward and there would be no distance between the both of you. You never wanted to hug him more. “Had I known you and my brother were…” He paused, taking in a shaky breath. “...Courting. Had I known, neither I nor Jane would have adopted such an insensitive tone before.”

You shook your head, fingers tingling to reach out for him. “We’re…Loki and I we’re…” But you couldn’t complete your sentence. A part of you imploring to deny Thor’s claim. Another fearing Thor’s distance if you admitted the truth.

“An odd combination,” Thor smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Mischief and Counsel. Wisdom and Lies.”

“They’re opposite sides of the same coin. Perhaps, that’s why they work better than expected,” you defended, unsure why.

Thor nodded, the same meek smile unerased. He looked down at his feet, strands of his blond hair covering his face. It had grown taller from the last time he had cut it on Midgard. Now resting upon his shoulders. As if he needed more weight to bear.

“I must admit that he might be the luckiest one between us both. And he does not even know it?”

Your hand shot up involuntarily, clutching at the golden jewels across the bodice of your dress. “How so?” you asked, your thumb circling the fabric in a futile attempt at soothing your heartache at Thor’s tone.

One of Thor’s hands glided across the banister, landing where yours had laid. While his gaze held your face, your eyes couldn’t help but land on his larger hand. “Loki presumes I cannot tell his ire at the court ladies galivanting to my side. He has always been too forlorn to understand that numbers have mattered not to me.” His hand dared to reach for yours then, a featherlike caress that made your heart gallop faster than Sleipnir. “Those who choose me over Loki desire nothing more than the throne. I have nothing else to offer. No wit, no literary aptitude, or poetic charm. I am nothing but brutish and capricious. It takes a no great amount of ardor to love my brother. It takes a kingdom to love someone like me.”

You retracted your hand, the action so unexpected and harsh, Thor jumped back in surprise. He opened his mouth, perhaps to apologize, but he closed it when he saw the expression you wore. Silver misted your irises, decayed and morose, mirroring the disheartenment that haunted you.

“How can you say that?” you questioned—shrieked, even. Tears cascaded down your cheeks, your hands clawing at your dress because of the pain you felt. “Who…who made you feel as such?”

“Y/N—”

“No, Thor! You cannot utter such insidious words in my presence! You are kind, tender, and caring. A summer’s breath, warm and ecstatic. In your fierceness, you wield passion, and in your tempest resides the strength to protect. You are worthy of many things, Thor Odinson. And love is atop that wealth. I would forgo the world’s realms and riches to bask in the light of your affection.”

The words that traversed the distance between were not measured nor were they second-guessed. You had not the time to question your affections, wondering if it was worth bringing them to light or not. But you needed Thor to understand that what he felt, the dejectedness and loneliness, were unwarranted.

You need to touch him, embrace him—assure his heart that he was worthy, and if you couldn’t do it physically, then your words had to suffice.

Thor stood there, his expression a mix of shock, confusion, and something akin to hope. He reached out tentatively, brushing away the tears from your cheek with his thumb. “Y/N…”

You allowed his thumb to trace the skin beneath your eyes before wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace, burying your face in his chest. Once, you thought to yourself. Even if this was a lie, I’ll gladly entertain it, just this once.

“Those ladies who crave your affections for the crown are not worthy of you. Even if you were the second son, even if the Norns had created you a mortal, you would still be worthy, Thor. You would still be loved.”

Thor’s hands traveled from your back. One moved up to cradle your head while the other rested on your lower back, cradling you closer to his chest. You could hear his heartbeats frantically drumming against his rib cage. Almost as if they were loud enough to create their own melody.

You felt Thor plant a kiss atop of your head, close to where the diadem lay. He swayed with you in his arms, hold on you tightening and unwilling to let go. “You’re precious, Y/N,” he recited the words with complete reverence. Their familiarity registered, but you didn’t have time to question him before he continued, “More valuable than the troves of Asgard and the magic of Yggdrasil. And by the Norns, whoever forsakes your treasured company deserves to be bereft of your radiance, ensnared by the unforgiving grasp of Helheim for their sacrilege, Little Queen.”

A sharp gasp escaped your lips. “What did you just say?” you questioned, still nestled in his protective embrace.

“Loki did not compose this prose,” Thor confessed, his eyes dark with hesitation. “I wrote it. Two hundred years ago. For you.”

“What?” you breathed, the word splintering with emotion.

“I…I have always felt a connection to you. A sense of calm. Your wisdom and grace, but above all, your charm and wit captured my heart before I even knew it.”

“You never said anything,” you reminded, blinking harshly against the realization.

“How could I?” Thor’s thumb brushed the side of your mouth, drawing a choked whimper from you. “You are elegant while I am rough. A prince by title, but not by manner—”

“Do not belittle yourself in my presence.”

Thor chuckled softly, his gaze just as gentle.

“You are the Goddess of Wisdom, Little Queen.” That nickname—the Norns damn it—stirred emotions in you that you had never felt before. “What wisdom would there be in associating with the God of Thunder?”

“Is that why you distanced yourself?” The question was thick with unspoken feelings. “Is that why…why you chose Jane?” Over me. Your thought was left unspoken.

Thor’s expression darkened with remorse, his features shadowed by regret. “Have you never noticed the similarities between you two?”

“What similarities?”

“She is a smart woman. Accomplished, fastidious, attentive, and resilient despite her delicate appearance. Just as you are.”

“She is a mortal,” you countered.

Thor nodded solemnly. “She cannot be made a queen. Not in the eyes of the Asgardians.”

“Then why—”

“It would be easier to gauge her choice.” Thor shifted his weight from one foot to the other. You realized too late that he was pulling away, keeping you at arm’s length. “As I said.” His gaze traveled the expanse of your body, regret permeating the air suddenly. “Those who choose me do it for Asgard’s throne. Those who choose my brother do it for love,” he reiterated, brokenly. He added in a more fractured tone, “You look stupendous in emerald green, my lady.”

“Viridian,” you corrected, evoking his bafflement. “It’s viridian green, a darker shade than emerald. Truthfully, I had opted for my own colors. But Loki approached my chambers before I could leave, and he all but decided to trick the court to his own advantage.”

“You’re not… you’re not courting Loki?”

You shook your head. “No. He and I have long been friends.”

“Friends,” Thor repeated, but there was a shift in the air when he said the word—as if Valhalla’s gates had opened and the angels descended to Asgard, humming their dulcet ballads.

“Tell me that’s not what we were,” you ventured, figuring that courage ought to accompany wisdom. “Tell me after all that was said and done that we weren’t just friends.”

You expected Thor to flounder, to grapple with an answer to your demand. “It wouldn’t make sense,” he attested. “It wouldn’t make sense if that were all we were, Little Queen.”

The angels of Valhalla must have roared, not sung, because as soon as Thor had breathed those words, tentative and full of fealty, his lips captured your own. You understood then, the complexity that arose from his role as God of Thunder. Your lips were in a fray, lapping at each other, wet and thunderous as you were conquered by his veneration. His large hands grabbed at your bottom, hoisting you up in the air. Your dress didn’t allow you the pleasure of wrapping your legs around his waist, but that didn’t stop you from clutching at his clothes, his hair, his soul.

Thor’s lips caressed your own. There was no set direction to their motion, almost as if he couldn’t decide whether to take it slow or devour you whole. The noises you made, the noises he made, small and mellow, reverberated in the empty space, adding to the symphony of your love and desire.

You didn’t want to pull away. Latching to the thunder and lightning invading your senses, getting lost in the storm.

A shiver ran down your entire body, accentuated by Thor’s teeth nipping at your lower lip. “Y/N,” he whispered breathlessly.

Your eyes opened, your image framed by his irises—protectively and vehemently.

He settled you on the ground, lips widening at your sight. “My colors suit you best.”

You didn’t understand what he had meant until you looked down. Your clothes had changed color. Again. The accent of your attire shifted to a bold red and silver.

“You best not attempt to produce an heir tonight, brother,” Loki sounded from behind Thor. He wore a smug smirk, leaning against one of the balcony pillars. Of course that bastard followed you. “Our chambers are nearby, and I do not need to hear my brother and best friend fondue.”

You blushed, cheeks turning crimson. Thor didn’t even spare Loki a glance, focusing his attention on you. “Little Queen, you look magnificent in my colors strewn across every inch of your body.”

And before you could help yourself, you boldly claimed, “I would look even more magnificent with your love marks strewn across every inch of my body.”

Thor’s eyes darkened, a primal yearning painting his irises with desire. He tugged at your hands then, pulling you to his chest. “Let me mark you with centuries worth of love, Little Queen. Allow me to show you what lesser beings cannot do.”

“Show me, my God.”

You drowned in his ardent storm, uncaring for the waves, noise, or the chaos. It was senseless. Everything you never were. Everything Thor was. Everything you, deep down, longed to feel with him.

Thank you @crazyunsexycool for this request! It was so fun to write for Thor, you can tell since this turned out to be 6K words🥹 I couldn't stop! Seriously, this might've been my favorite fic ever! Thank you for participating in my celebration. ♥️

I might extend my writing celebration if more requests come in. For all those interested, please feel free to follow the link!

I hope you like this one, witchlings. Okay, byeeee.

#thor odinson #thor odinson x reader #thor odinson x you #thor x reader #thor x you #thor x y/n #thor odinson x y/n #loki odinson #loki x reader #loki x you #loki odinson x you #loki odinson x reader #loki and reader are friends #jealous thor #thor odinson fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #thor and reader fondue #sab's writing celebration

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