#kindle for the hearth

[robotsafari]

misc kindled hearths doodlez xD

last image is a reference to a video i keep tagging as them. yep ^_^

[daughter-of-inklings]

word count: 1,108 excerpt: Kindled Hearth: Wings of Vhallor

“Little songbird… it’s time to wake up…”

Mother…? Is that you? I can’t- I can’t see you-

“The snake beckons and calls, little songbird. It’s time to wake up, our work isn’t finished.” 

Wake up-? But I’m not asleep, I- 

A pause lingered in the moment, as the weight of reality set onto Morg’ana’s shoulders. The words were strange in thought, heavier in tongue. 

I died— I’m not asleep, Mother, I’m dead— 

“Oh, little bird… I thought we’d have more time than this…” 

There was darkness everywhere Morg’ana turned, dragging at her feet- dragging her with them- them? Hundreds- thousands of snakes pulling and grabbing– at her arms, legs, at her hair, at her wings– dragging her with them. Pulling her apart at the seams, to unravel the very thought of her. She tried to grapple them, shove and claw them away- but they coiled tighter around her, snaking and winding tighter and tighter. Around her neck, choking the air from her lungs, over her mouth to drown out her screams. She clawed at the snakes on her face– pried her mouth free, clawed and bit until she drew blood. Hers, theirs- bitter like metal, pooling in her throat, choking her all the same.  She spat it out and it, too, disappeared into the darkness, consumed whole. She called out, but the words burned in her throat– scorching like a fire she’d never known, or felt. 

Mother–? 

“My songbird…” 

The voice sounded farther away– distant. Morg’ana was fixed– stuck– no matter how much she struggled, how many snakes she clawed away. They festered and hissed, sinking their fangs into whatever part of her wasn’t armored, trying to dig into her skin. All wriggling and intertwining into the next, so that it was indiscernible where one ended and the other began. Drowning out any sound she might’ve made into a chaos of noise, pulling her down into them. She caught a flicker of white among them– slithering against the grain and biting at the others. 

– other… – Mother! 

She shot her hand forward into the dark, trying to take hold of the white snake, reaching for something– anything– comfort in nothingness. Her hand met another, and suddenly she fell to her knees, the darkness rippling below her now, an unbothered, vast ocean of writhing, black snakes. The woman in front of her did not look like her mother– did not move, did not feel as she remembered. But there’d be no mistaking that voice in all the worlds, and deep inside, Morg’ana felt the grief of losing something that is found again. The woman’s hair was swelling about her head in tendrils like fire, a h’alo of wings obscuring her face from view. But with her touch and with her presence, she’d repelled the darkness here, and in their blinding bubble of light, it was warm. 

Morg’ana looked down to their hands and saw a little white cobra wrapped around them, looking at her curiously. It flicked its tongue at her, then slithered up the woman’s arm, settling on her shoulder. The woman kneeled in front of her and, cupping her cheek in her hand, caressed it gently. Emotion swelled in in Morg’ana’s chest– an ache of all things, past and present and future, that she’d never see again, of things that would soon be gone from memory as they’re wont to do with time. It brought tears to her eyes and she began to weep, silently, leaning into the touch. 

“My little songbird… You’ve carried the world on your shoulders since I’ve been gone. You’ve done so much, and look so tired… You deserve to rest.” There was a sadness in the voice, a sort of helplessness that weighed on her. “But… nobody is coming to save you, baby bird. Not this time. You need to wake up.” The woman bumped her forehead against Morg’ana’s, bringing her other hand up to cup her cheek, holding her face softly. Morg’ana felt herself enveloped in warmth, and saw the woman’s wings surround them, white as the sparks of a new day. Morg’ana opened her mouth but no words fell, only a desperate whine. 

“I know– you’ve fought for them long enough, died for them– you deserve to rest. I’m sorry, I’d always wanted to leave you more in this life than a sword and a world of troubles. But we’re bound, by duty and blood, tethered to this fate. I thought I could spare you, give you a normal life where you could be happy. But still you found the sword I tried to hide, wore your heart on your sleeve, and did what you could to save them. Became a hero and died their legend. But your sentence isn’t over yet.” 

Her voice echoed from every corner of the dream– from every speckle of light, from every writhing snake below. 

“You are a monster, heartless and cruel– a destroyer, an omen of death, on whose wings comes the end of all things. You are their hero, selfless and kind– protector, loved, a symbol of life, whose wings bring the promise of a new dawn. The thousands of lives you’ve taken, the thousands of lives you’ve saved; these are our curse– our gifts– to bear.” 

The woman began to pull away, slowly, leaving just her hand within Morg’ana’s. 

“You’re tired, I know. But you are also my child– relentless. A sword is a better comfort in your hands than another. Killing is easy, carrying is hard, though we carry it well.” 

But– Mother, no! 

I miss you– 

I’m tired, please, don’t go– 

I need you here still– 

She couldn’t get the thoughts out fast enough before she felt the snakes begin to wind around her leg again. The woman frowned without a mouth, joined her in crying without eyes. She pressed something into Morg’ana’s hand, her voice soft as she began to fade away to a fine golden dust. Her wings went first, the dust swirling around them in a dazzling whirlwind of gold and silver. 

“Come find me, little songbird. I will be waiting for you.” 

But, Mother– 

“ – come and find me–” 

– Mother! 

“ – the snake beckons and calls– “ 

The last of the dust trailed off into the darkness, swallowed whole. The snakes caught hold once more, plunging Morg’ana under, deep into the knot of their coils. The woman’s words echoed in her head, a haunting chant that grew more and more deafening with every passing moment. The hissing- the chanting- it all became unbearable and she covered her ears, screaming for them to stop. Something within her stirred, and for the first time in millennia, 

Her heart began to beat.

[cryptonature]

My anger is a biting ember in my fist.

Most of the places I could set it down will burn something to the ground,

so I keep holding it,

trying to find a hearth that needs kindled

to heat a home or a cooking pot

or do anything beyond recklessly burning the world to ash.

[societyfolklore]

Through the Cold  

Title: Through the Cold  (the electricity is out, let's keep each other warm) Pairing: Avenger Bucky Barnes x  Agent Female Reader

Summary:  After a mission gone awry, Bucky and Reader find shelter in a remote house on the outskirts of town. With the power out and temperatures dropping, they’ll have to find ways to stay warm.

Word Count:  2.7k

Warnings:  Warnings // Explicit Content //18+, Minors DNI, Fluff, Pet names, unprotected sex (Don’t!), Fingering. Not Beta read.

A/N: Another entry for @the-slumberparty December daze challenge) Day 13 (Yeah I don't know if I’m not really doing this right…) The wind howled outside, battering against the thin walls of the small house you and Bucky had taken refuge in. Snow piled high against the windows, casting the room in a muted, white glow. The mission hadn’t gone as planned, but you were both safe for now and luckily you’d found this house before the blizzard turned dangerous. You leaned against the window, rubbing your arms as you watched the storm rage outside. Your breath fogged the glass, and the chill in the air seeped through every crack and crevice of the old structure. Still it was better then being outside..

“It’s getting colder,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at Bucky. He was crouched by the fireplace, fiddling with a bundle of wood he’d found in the corner. His metal hand glinted in the dim light, steady and precise as he arranged the logs.

“I know,” he replied, his voice low and calm. “I’ll get this fire going in a minute.”

You turned back to the window, shivering as another gust of wind rattled the glass. Your coat and gear were soaked from the snow, and you hadn’t had a chance to dry off properly.

“We’ll be fine,” Bucky said from behind you, his tone firm but reassuring. “It’s just one night.”

“I know,” you murmured. “I just hate being stuck like this.”

The sound of a match striking drew your attention, and you turned to see a small flame catch on the kindling. The firelight danced across Bucky’s face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the intense focus in his blue eyes. He fed the fire carefully until it roared to life, filling the room with a faint warmth.

“There,” he said, standing up and brushing his hands off. “That should help.”

You stepped closer to the fire, holding your hands out toward the flames. “Thanks,” you said softly.

Bucky nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he turned to inspect the rest of the room. The house was small, just a kitchen, a living area, and a bedroom. It looked like no one had lived here in years, but it was clean and dry, which was more than you could ask for given the circumstances.

“There’s no power,” Bucky said after checking the light switches. “Figures.”

“Great,” you muttered. “So, no heat except for the fire, no lights, and no way to charge our comms.”

“We’ll manage,” he said, his voice steady. “We always do.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Over the years, you and Bucky had been through worse. Still, the cold was already biting at your fingers and toes, and the thought of spending the night in these conditions wasn’t exactly comforting.

After a while, the fire began to warm the room enough for you to take off your wet coat. You draped it over a chair near the hearth, hoping it would dry before morning. Bucky did the same, his leather jacket and combat vest joining the makeshift drying rack. He had the luxury of running warm from the serum, while you were just stuck with whatever your body could muster and you were scrunching fingers and toes trying to encourage blood flow.

“Here,” he said, tossing you a blanket he’d found in the bedroom. “It’s not much, but it’ll help.”

You wrapped the blanket around your shoulders, sighing in relief as the soft fabric trapped some of the heat from the fire. “Thanks.”

Bucky settled onto the floor near the hearth, leaning back against the couch that looked to decrepit to carry any weight and stretching out his legs. He looked tired, his shoulders slumped and his head tilted back slightly. The sight tugged at your heart—he always carried so much weight, and it wasn’t just the mission that had worn him down. The fatigue that infected his soul at times came through,

“You should rest,” you said, sitting down beside him.

“I’ll rest when you do,” he replied without looking at you.

“Bucky,” you said, your tone soft but insistent. “You’re not doing either of us any favours by running yourself into the ground. Get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

He finally turned to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours. “You’re freezing,” he said after a moment. “I can see it.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off. “Don’t argue with me, doll. Come here.”

Before you could respond, he reached out and tugged you closer, pulling you into his side. His metal arm wrapped around your shoulders, and the warmth of his body seeped through the blanket and into your skin. You tensed for a moment, caught off guard, but then you relaxed, leaning into him.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low and rumbling in your ear.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “Thanks.”

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the wind howling outside. Slowly, the tension in your body began to fade, replaced by a growing sense of comfort and safety.

“You know,” you said after a while, your voice quiet, “For someone who likes to come off as Mr grumpy pants, your being very sweet.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, his breath warm against your hair. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, smiling to yourself. “Underneath all the brooding and the grumpiness, your might actually be a softie Barnes...”

“Don’t let that get around,” he said, his tone light but with an edge of sincerity. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

You laughed softly, the sound filling the small space. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

For a moment, you thought you felt him press a soft kiss to the top of your head, but before you could be sure, he shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you.

“Get some rest,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “I’ll keep you warm. Can’t have you getting sick or dying of hypothermia on me. Might have to get used to a new partner.” “Oh no, new people, the horror.” You teased back settling against him and tried to get some rest, it was going to be a long trek out in the morning. As you drifted off to sleep, cocooned in his warmth, you were sure you felt his face burry into your hair near your neck, probably just trying to get warm himself as he held you tighter. Waking up you were shaking, the cold biting in hard at your bone, Bucky wasn’t there. “B-Bucky?” “Here Doll.” Sitting up you could see in the dim light him moving the old mattress from the bedroom into the living room to cover over the window that had broken as the blizzard outside had broken the window letting the fridged air fill the room. You pulled the blanket tightly around you as he pushed it up again the widow blocking out the wind, and disappeared again the sound of wood breaking before he came in carrying the remains of a bedframe and tossed it into the fire place stocking the flame while you shivered teeth chattering violently before he rejoined you on the floor pulling up against him into his lap “Fuck your freezing Doll.”

“y-y-yeah.”

Bucky pulled off his henley putting onto you for extra layers you head under his chin while he wrapped himself tightly around the fire returning heat to the room.

“I got you, alright, you’re alright.”  He ran firm hand up and down your back trying to get you warm, kissing the top of your head while your buried yourself into him your face pressed into his neck shaking. Staying like this wrapped up in him and the blanket eventually the warm and you warmed your face pressed into his neck, your body relaxing as the cold ebbed and you were now more aware of the situation. How close your mouth was to his neck, the fact he was shirtless, how hard you were breathing? “I- I think.. I’m Ok..”

You tried to move and Bucky seemingly reluctantly loosened his hold pulling away enough to look down at you while you stared up into his face, cheeks pink from the heat. “You feeling warm enough now Doll?” His voice sounded rough and thick with a feeling you didn’t want to name.

“y-yeah..” your reply coming back quiet

“Good.” His hand pushed hair back off your face, his thumb running over your bottom lip. “Had me worried there Princess..” he gaze looked down at your lips. “Sure your warm enough?”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Oh just, thinking…” Bucky breath brushed over your face. “Got to be sure.” Before you knew what was happening his lips pressed into yours, it was tender but needing as his hand went into your hair his metal warm wrapping tighter holding you to him. Your little moan coming back dying on his tongue as it slide into your mouth your body melting against his.   Bucky rolled you onto your back his body covering yours as his hand ran down your side and pulling off his henley from you and unzipping the front of your jumpsuit his hand sliding inside the fabric while his hips ground into the side of your hip. “Doll you have no idea how long I’ve thought about this.”   Bucky growled his mouth leaving yours to move down you neck while he pulled the suit down past your waist your hips rolling back into his. “Thought about this perfect little body of yours.” “Buck.” Your voice didn’t even sound like yours, as it got higher his hand pulling the suit down past your hips and down your thighs and off as he marked up your neck.

“You’re so perfect Doll” His hands were everywhere, your breasts, your thighs as he explored and kissed before his hand slide inside your underwear palming at your core drawing up a moan from you as your gripped his bicep, before his finger slide along wet folds. “Oh Princess, looks like I’m not the only one wanting this.” You could yeah the smug smile on his face as he pressed fingers into your clit making your whimper. “Bet I could have done this weeks ago and you’d of let me right?”

“Oh god Buck, yes.”

His fingers eased your entrance only for a moment.

“Deep breath.”  You didn’t even have a chance before he pushed two fingers into your wet heat making your arch and moan “Oh yeah, that’s it, do that for me again.” He drew his metal fingers back out and repeated the action going all the way to his knuckles. “Oh good girl. Such a good girl.” His mouth up against your ear as he nipped at your neck again your hips rocking to meet his fingers. “Oh fuck.. auh..” You felt your face body bend as he curled his fingers forward your body getting hotter as he built up more pace.

“That’s it pretty girl.” He made the world melt. “Going to make it all nice and wet and warm for me.” You arched and rocked for him as he worked your body in a way no one else had taken time too the wind howling outside mixing with the way the blood rushed in your ears.

“Wanna cum now Sweet Thing? “ He asked drawing out another whimper from you, as your got impossibly close your walls holding tightly to his fingers “Or hold it for me?”

“I- I.” You couldn’t think

“I think you should, think I deserve to hear you do I?” He picked up the pace his thumb pressing up into your clit as he worked your cunt the sounds wet desire coming from getting louder. “Come on Doll, wanna hear it, can feel you squeezing.”  His metal thumb moved in tighter circles and it was your undoing. Pleasure crashing into you as it all got to hard to hold. Calling out for him as your grabbed at his arms panting.

“ARGH!”  Your writhed on the floor bucking into his hand your walls held onto his fingers tightly before he let your body slump.

“Oh Doll, you are perfect.” He pulled his fingers from you licking off the coating you’d left on them before undoing his pants kneeling over your body watching you skin shine in the fires light as he got himself free of his denim leaning back over you. “So perfect, and all mine.” He almost sounded like an animal growling the words as he kissed backup your chest while you lay breathing hard before he lifted your leg up pressing your knee into your chest as he slid himself up along your wet slick moaning at the feel of you making your whimper again.

“Should of done this a looong time ago.” He bent forward captured your mouth in a kiss so hungry you swore he was trying to devour you. His time pushed forward and he sunk himself in half way the sensation. You felt slit open in the best way, walls forced to take him.

“mmmugh.” You noise was muffled by the kiss again as he rocked gently letting you adjust to the feeling before slowly feeding you the remaining inches of him until you felt his tip kiss up again your cervix as he went to his hilt a long moan coming from both of you.

“Bucky God.”

“Yeah, fuck you feel so good Doll better then I dreamed.” Your mind blanked, he dreamed of you? You didn’t have a chance to think to long on that before he moved and he had you soring. Long deep moves that let you know he was there, firm sure movement as he gave you all of him each time.  “So tight for me, Doll.” He made you whimper and moan each time, both of his hands touching with care despite the way his hips pressed up into you.  “It’s ok, I got you.” “Oh god nghm..” It was hard not to loose yourself in the sensation as he filled you over and over, walls pushing back against him each time, Bucky managing to find the angles that sent your reeling each time as your breathing got tighter he moved like a big cat above you all rippling muscle your leg up against his chest as your own hips thrusted back to meet his. “Oh yes Doll. Yeah, just like that, move like that for me.”

His head would go back groaning when you ground your hips into his thrusts. But you felt that familiar strong need building as the heat in your blood reached boiling point.

“Bu-Bucky, Bucky..” Your voice as tight needy and raw as your hand grabbed at his thigh.

“Yeah, fuck come for me Doll. Going to make you mine, let me watch you break.” His own voice straining as his thrust got harder and a little erratic, his own edge clearly close as he waited for you to fall, needing you to fall apart for him.

You looked up at him, eyes locked on his steely blue that looked almost feral in the fire light as he took you apart, before it all got to much at the waves of pleasure crash into you pulling you under as your back arched on the floor crying out as your nails dug into his thigh, He hammered into you harder, before crying out hot ropes coursing into you painting your insides before collapsing down over the top of you.

“Jesus Christ Doll.” He swore holding himself up over you so not to crush you, your walls still grabbing as he twitched and pulsed inside you. All you did was pant and whimper as you came down. Bucky placing a softer kiss on your forehead. “Still with me Sweet thing?”

“I, think so..” You panted out, Bucky laughing a little as he ran kissed you lightly still breathing hard himself and wrapped himself around you in the blanket.

“Definitely warm now..”  You joked slowly coming back down as he pulled out and got onto his back pulling out over onto him.

“Yeah, me too.”  

[tokkiwrites]

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔 | oldman!logan × f!reader

𝒯okkis holiday extravaganza. [results from this post]

tags ♰ smut, pwp, some fluff, established relationship, logan is in love, unspecified age gap, afab reader, unprotected p in v.

▪︎ you asked for sex by the fire with old man logan and i delivered !! It's pretty short and not my best piece, but i have been working on other requests as well, so this is my early holiday gift for you all ! not proofread, so if you see any mistakes, just close your eyes. okay ily!!!!

The wind carried the song of winter through the pines, its breath sharp and alive, threading between branches bowed low beneath the weight of snow. The world outside the cabin was a landscape muted to perfection, softened by frost and silence. Snowflakes brushed the glass panes like hesitant fingers, melting against the faint glow of firelight that escaped into the darkened woods.

Inside, Logan bent over the hearth, striking a match with ease. The sulfur flared briefly in the shadows before catching on the kindling. He coaxed the flame, his breath steady, the faint crackle of wood splitting in the heat breaking the stillness. Firelight gilded his features. weathered, rugged, but softened now by the quiet you two had.

As the flames grew, filling the room with flickering light and a spreading heat, Logan straightened, brushing ash from his hands. His gaze drifted toward the small signs of your presence scattered through the room: the scarf you had left draped over the armchair, its wool bright against the aged wood; your coat hanging next to his, the faintest imprint of your shape still lingering in its folds. By the sink, two mismatched mugs stood side by side, their rims chipped but perfect in their imperfection.

“Fire’s goin’, angelcakes,” he called, voice rough. “Should take the chill off soon enough.” In the kitchen, you paused, a knife poised over an orange. The blade caught the light as you sliced it into thin, translucent rounds, releasing a burst of citrus into the air. Cinnamon sticks and cloves bobbed lazily in the pot of wine warming on the stove, their aromas weaving a fragrant dance that curled into every corner of the cabin. You glanced toward the window, watching the snow swirl against the glass, your cheeks pink from the stove’s heat.

Logan’s boots creaked on the wooden floor, a familiar sound that drew your attention just as his arms encircled your waist. His embrace was warm and solid, the weight of his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he pulled you against him. His voice rumbled low, a gentle vibration you felt more than heard. “You keep makin’ the place feel like home, plumcheeks. I’m gonna start thinkin’ I don’t deserve it.” You smiled, tilting your head to brush against his. “Don’t be ridiculous, realx” you murmured, your tone teasing but firm. “You earned every bit of this. Plus, you did lot's todayㅡ the firewood, the shoveling, all of it. I saw that pile you chopped this morning. You could keep us warm till spring.”

He chuckled, the sound rich, unhurried. “All in a day’s work, darlin’." He nodded toward the stove, his beard grazing your neck as he spoke. “Smells like you poured your heart into it.”

“And what if I did?” you asked, turning just enough to meet his eyes. They were unguarded, their depths reflecting the firelight. “Then I’m the luckiest bastard alive,” he said simply, voice grounding the moment. Your laugh was soft, the kind that warmed him more than the fire ever could. “If that’s the case, old man, why don’t you prove it by pouring us some?”

He grunted in playful protest but didn’t let you go right away. Instead, he lingered, pressing a kiss to your temple before moving to fetch the mugs. He filled them with care, the red liquid steaming upward, before gesturing you toward the fireplace.

The two of you settled onto the thick rug in front of the fire, its padded surface a welcome cushion against the floor’s cold. Logan pulled you close, his arm draped around your shoulders as you tucked yourself into his side. The fire crackled softly, its light painting shifting patterns on the cabin walls, while outside, the snow continued its silent descent.

Logan stared into the flames for a long moment, his expression pensive. Then, his voice came, quieter now, almost as if he were speaking to the fire rather than you. “You know, I spent most of my life thinkin’ this kind of thing wasn’t for me. The quiet, i mean. Someone like you, who’d put up with a man like me. Figured I’d just keep on movin’, never settlin’...never havin’ this.” His hand found yours where it rested on his chest, his thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. “But here I am. And it don’t feel like somethin’ I earned. Feels like a damn miracle.” You tilted your head to look at him, your gaze soft as you searched his face. “You earned it, Logan,” you said, your voice steady. “You earned every piece of this. And if it’s a miracle, wellㅡ then I’m glad to share it with you.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite mask the emotion in his eyes. “I love you, plumcheeks,” he said, unshakable. “Don’t think I say it enough, but I do. With everything I got.” You leaned up, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your hand coming to rest against his cheek. “I know,” you whispered. “I love you. Always.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the crackling of the fire and the muffled whisper of snow against the window were the only things accompanying your ragged breathing. Logan tightened his hold on you, as if anchoring himself in the warmth of your presence. the world felt perfectly whole—fragile, fleeting, and utterly, beautifully yours. and you were beautiful, like this, right now. his.

without hesitating, Logan leans in, capturing your lips into a kiss. The kiss was slow, like he was savoring every second of it, every taste and feeling as if it might disappear the moment he let go. His hand cupped your cheek, rough and warm, grounding you even as the world seemed to tilt beneath you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the tiny space between you. He looked at you, and in the firelight, his eyes held a quiet kind of intensity, the kind that spoke louder than any words could.

“You have no idea what you do to me, baby" he murmured, voice low and husky, a hint of wonder slipping through his usual confidence. Your lips parted, but no words came. What could you possibly say to that? Instead, you reached up, brushing a strand of his hair back, your fingers lingering against his temple. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment. "Fuck me, Logan." you say before thinking too much. His breath hitched, just for a moment, before he let out a soft laugh that sounded almost disbelieving. “You’re not even going to make me work for it?”

“Maybe next time,” you teased, your fingers tracing a lazy path along his jaw. “Tonight, I just need you like this. right now." he laughs again. "whatever the princess wants..." Logan’s fingers trailed idly up and down your back, and you let your eyes drift shut, leaning closer into his touch. the smell of cinnamon clung to your hair.

He throws his lips at your neck, your soft whimpers filling the cabin. Logan wastes no time and pulls the blouse you were waiting over your head, the warmth of the fire kissing your exposed skin immediately. He was staring at you as if it was the first time he'd seen you like this. "My gorgeous girl..." With one hand he caresses the top of your head as his lips trail down to your collarbone. His other hand pulled down your pajama shorts along with your panties just enough so he could see your core. 

He could see it your eyes. You were impatient, the way you gasped at the smallest touch he lays upon your burning skin. Logan smiles down on you as he hurriedly discards the clothes he has on, and for a moment he stands like that. "Logan.." you whine, and he can only chuckle. "You're just so cute when you're desperate." he settles back down besides you, his strong arm wrapping aroun you, pulling you on top of his bare lap. You shudder once you feel his hardened shaft between your puffy lips, and you look up at him like a guilty kid that's made a mess. "Quit it." but you tilt your head. "What?"

"Quit starin' at me that way unless you want a baby in ya." that doesn't sound so bad though. You kiss him. Hungry. His calloused palms settle onto your hips and he groans when you start rolling, the friction making his swollen tip to drip more precum. "C'mon..." you plead. Was it the wine? The fire? Or was Logan utterly too perfect to ever let go? Maybe all three. "Up." he speaks softly, making you rise yourself a little, enough so he can grab his manhood and align it with your fluttering entrance.

Logan smiled as his cock was sliding into your pussy “big stretchㅡ look at you taking it,” he muttered, his right hand rubbing circles on your clit as he began to thrust. He stilled for a moment enjoying how perfect this moment was. Your chest heaving heavily as you peered at him with glazed eyes, the fire wrapped around you in a red and orange blanket. This was perfect. You were perfect.

He lets you adjust before rising his hips, making you bounce in response. he laughs somberly before plunging straight into you. your tongue luls out, tears on the brink of your eyes as you cand only squeal out pathetic moans and incoherent pleads. "shit.. squeezing me so good, baby."

and he goes at you, diving deeper and deeper with each hit of his hips, one palm holding your hip and one pressing down onto your tummy "like that?" you can't hear him, you barely make out his words; your eyes roll back and your spine stays arched as he plummets into your cunt. "I think yes." Logan snickers, feeling your walls squeeze around him as he takes one of your palms and places it right on top of your belly too. "feel." and, god, you feel. his cock reaches so far into you it bulges through your pelvis. you feel it and you're jelly all over again.

he takes both his palms and digs his nails into the plush of your hips, hit after hit sending you deeper into oblivionㅡ and you can only moan and cry as you feel your orgasm approaching. desperately, you clench around his cock. "wanna come, baby? tell me." he's stern and rough with his request. "y-yes, plea-se..." you don't know if you're crying because you feel too good or because of how desperately you need to come. your legs could barely hold you on top of him anymore, which didn't really matter since Logan fucked up into you just fine.

"come then, baby." you writhe as the knots in your core begin to untie, shaking on top of him. it hits you like a wave of warmth and frost all at once and it doesn't take long for him to reach his limit as well.

"need'a come, baby. where, tell me where baby?" You feel him so deep, you're drunk on him, vision blurry and mind fogged up, you can faintly feel the warmth of the fire behind you. you usually don't say this. "Inside, please.." You beg, and you don't wait more than two seconds for Logan to spill his warm seed into you. your knees finally give out, and you falter onto his chest. "Did so good, baby." he kisses the crown of your head, and you smile stupidly, rolling your hips against his. you weren't stopping until that fire gave out.

[novaursa]

Hi Nova!!

Could I have a Ned Stark x reader, either mature 16+ or (if you don’t mind) 18+ where the reader is Ned’s second wife after Catelyn and is young and pretty and sweet, and he just can’t stop thinking about how good she would look pregnant with his son? Breeding kink to the max, if it doesn’t bother you! Thank you! 🙇🙇 (if this kink isn’t smth you’re interested in/comfortable with, no worries at all, please delete!!)

Beneath the Wolf's Cloak

- Summary: A story where a wolf takes a she-bear for a wife.

- Pairing: mormont!reader/Eddard Stark

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: I hope you like it. 😉

The warmth of the fire did little to ease the strange chill that clung to you despite the thickness of your cloak. Great hearths burned at each end of the Great Hall of Winterfell, casting flickering orange light across the rough-hewn stone walls and high wooden beams above. Snow still dusted the floors near the entrance, melting into dampness beneath the boots of guests just arrived. Outside, cold had not yet sunk its claws fully into the North, but the winds were sharp, and the grey skies seemed to whisper of what was coming. Inside, however, all was wine and song and firelight. A feast of celebration. Your wedding night. Your name now bore the weight of his: Stark.

You sat at the high table beside Eddard Stark, your new lord and husband, surrounded by bannermen and lords of the North. There were toasts and laughter, the clatter of trenchers, and the occasional burst of music from the minstrels near the hearth. But your eyes kept drifting sideways to him—Ned—his profile cast in soft gold by the firelight, his expression as ever unreadable, thoughtful beneath the furrow of his brow and the shadow of his beard. Yet beneath that solemn mask was a warmth he tried, and failed, to suppress whenever he looked at you. You could feel the heat of his gaze before you met it, that quiet kindling that burned brighter each time your shoulders brushed or your fingers neared on the table. He had not spoken much, but neither had he looked away from you for long.

His voice came low beside your ear, rough with wine and desire yet laced with an almost boyish shyness. “You are cold,” he said, his hand gently brushing over yours, callused and warm. “Here, take my cloak.”

You blinked, startled at the intimacy of the gesture in front of so many, and shook your head with a soft smile. “No, my lord, I am warm enough.”

He leaned closer, his shoulder pressing against yours. “You mustn’t call me that tonight,” he murmured, voice just for you. “Not when I would rather hear my name on your lips.”

You turned your face slightly to his, cheeks flushed with more than the wine. “Ned,” you whispered, and he gave the smallest nod, as if the sound of it settled something within him.

Around you, the hall roared with life. Lyanna Mormont, your young cousin, raised her goblet high and shouted your name boldly, fierce and proud. “To my cousin, Lady Stark now, and twice the beauty of the Southron queens!”

The men laughed, many agreeing heartily. “The Lady Mormont may be small, but her tongue is sharp,” Benjen Stark quipped with a grin from further down the table.

“I should say the same of her sword,” you replied lightly, drawing more laughter. “But I thank you, Lyanna. I hope I can live up to the name I’ve taken.”

“You already have,” Ned said beside you, low but certain.

His hand found yours beneath the table, not clumsy, not bold, but firm in his touch. Protective. Possessive, perhaps. You could feel the thrum of something deeper in him, something that stirred not just at your beauty but at the idea of you belonging to him now. He drank you in, from the gentle curve of your throat to the slight shyness in your gaze. And when you turned to look at him again, your lashes catching the firelight, the flush in your cheeks from wine and warmth and perhaps the anticipation of the night to come—he saw it, clearly: you would be radiant, glowing with life, with his child growing within you.

Gods help him, the image rooted itself in his mind. You in this same chair, months from now, with a rounded belly beneath your silks, one hand resting there idly as you smiled at him with that same sweet gentleness. He would give you everything, if he could. He would fight a hundred wars to see that image come to life.

“I wonder,” he said softly, his fingers curling around yours beneath the table, “what color will the eyes of the babe be, if you were to carry my son.”

Your breath caught. You turned to look at him fully, your voice a hush, “Do you think of that already?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking of it,” he confessed. “From the moment I saw you walking down the hall to me this morning. I thought—the gods would be kind to give her a son, and kinder still to let me live to see him born.”

There was no jest in his tone. Just truth. Stark truth. And beneath it, a yearning that mirrored your own.

“I should like a daughter too,” you murmured, heart fluttering. “With your quiet eyes and my wild tongue. She would rule Bear Island with a smile and burn every ship that came too close.”

He chuckled, deep and soft. “Gods help me, I hope she does. But not tonight. Tonight, I want only you.”

The hall spun around you then—not with wine, but with want. The music swelled again, another toast was shouted, but all of it faded into a blur behind the heat in your cheeks and the weight of his hand still grasping yours beneath the table.

And when the bedding was called for and the men rose cheering, voices drunken and jests lewd, Ned stood slowly. He did not let them come to you. His hand stayed clasped in yours, and he looked down over the gathered men with a quiet steel in his voice.

“No one will touch her,” he said. “She is my bride. I will carry her to our bed myself.”

Silence settled over the table. Then, as if understanding something unspoken, they let him pass.

And he did just that. Lifted you into his arms with surprising ease, his breath warm against your neck as he whispered your name again. The Great Hall of Winterfell echoed with cheers and laughter behind you, but you heard none of it. Only the beat of his heart, steady and sure beneath your cheek, and the soft promise he made in your ear.

“Tonight, I will love you slowly. And before the year ends, we will speak of names for the child.”

The chamber was warm, lit by the soft flicker of dozens of candles and the roaring hearth at its heart. The fur rugs muffled the sound of your steps as he carried you across the threshold, cradled close to his chest like you weighed nothing at all. Outside the wind howled, Winterfell groaning against the rising frost, but inside the world was still and golden, wrapped in shadows and firelight. Ned said nothing as he set you down on the edge of the great bed, his hands lingering at your waist as he looked down at you. His gray eyes, so often solemn and heavy with duty, were softer now, tinged with something deeper—reverence, awe, and something that looked almost like longing etched with restraint.

You reached up slowly, letting your fingers brush the front of his doublet, feeling the slow thrum of his heartbeat underneath. “Will you undress me, husband?” you asked, your voice low, a hint of a teasing smile playing on your lips.

His mouth twitched, and he nodded, hands raising to the clasps of your gown with a careful grace that belied the need simmering under his skin. One by one, he unfastened them, his fingers rough and warm against the cool of your skin as the fabric loosened and slid away. He worked slowly, as if memorizing each detail—the slope of your shoulder, the softness of your belly, the faintest curve of your hips. When the gown pooled at your feet, you stood bare before him, lit only by candlelight, your breath soft and even, but your heart pounding like the drums that had played at your feast.

“You are… gods, you are beautiful,” he murmured, his voice caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief. His knuckles traced the line of your jaw, then down your throat. “If I were a younger man, I would fall to my knees.”

“You’re young enough to make me feel like I’m burning,” you whispered, stepping forward, placing his hand fully on your waist.

He kissed you then—slowly, deeply, the way a man kisses when he knows he has you, truly has you, and he means never to let go. His lips moved with aching tenderness, but his arms were firm, pulling you close, holding you tight. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his breath was warm across your lips. “I swear to you, little bear, I will love you as fiercely as any man who ever carried a sword. I will protect you. And if the gods are kind, I will see you swollen with my child, glowing, radiant, as you are now.”

You reached between you, working at the fastenings of his belt, the ties of his tunic, stripping him piece by piece as he had done for you. “You make promises easily tonight, Lord Stark,” you said, voice low and warm. “But you’ll find the women of Bear Island are not so easily tamed.”

His brow lifted slightly, the ghost of a grin returning. “I do not want to tame you.”

And it was true. You could see it in the way his eyes followed your hands, in the way he trembled slightly when you pushed his tunic off his shoulders and leaned in to kiss the hollow of his throat. You drew him down with you onto the bed, and he followed, bracing himself above you. His body was strong, broad-shouldered and scarred with battles long past, and yet he moved with the gentleness of a man who feared breaking something precious. He pressed kisses to your throat, your collarbone, the rise of your breasts, reverent and slow, as if each inch of you deserved worship.

When he sank into you at last, the world shifted. His breath caught against your skin, and you gasped softly, hands clutching at his shoulders. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you felt him shudder, felt the weight of everything he could not say in that moment. His pace was unhurried at first, deep and steady, as if he needed to feel every heartbeat, every breath between you.

“You feel like home,” he murmured, voice breaking with quiet intensity. “Like something I thought I’d never find again.”

You cupped his face, brushing his sweat-damp hair back from his brow. “Then let me give you more than a home,” you whispered. “Let me give you fire.”

You flipped him then, surprising him with your strength—Mormont strength, wild and unyielding. You straddled him, hair tumbling down over your shoulders, your palms firm against his chest. He stared up at you, eyes wide with something like reverence, something like surrender. You rolled your hips slowly, watching him unravel beneath you, the tension leaving his shoulders, his lips parting in a soft groan.

“You’re not the only one with vows to make, Stark,” you whispered, leaning close to him. “I will not be quiet, nor meek. I will fight beside you, bleed for you. I will bear your children, yes, but I will raise them to be wolves and bears, not caged birds.”

He reached up, cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as if you were something sacred. “Then let them be wild,” he breathed. “Let them be like you.”

You rode him harder now, your rhythm fierce and unrelenting, and he held onto your hips, grounding himself in the feel of your body, your skin, your voice moaning his name. You were fire, and he was snow, and yet in this bed you melted into something molten. He surged up to meet you, his hands trailing to your thighs, your waist, your spine—everywhere he could touch, he did, as though trying to brand you into memory.

“I love you,” he gasped against your shoulder as he reached his peak, his voice breaking entirely. “I love you, gods forgive me, I never thought I’d feel this again.”

You kissed him then, fiercely, your body trembling atop his as your own release crashed through you. And when you finally collapsed beside him, wrapped in furs and each other, your skin damp and hearts pounding in tandem, he held you as if the whole world could fall away and it would not matter. His hand drifted to your belly, bare and flat now, but he kissed it gently, the promise of tomorrow on his lips.

“Sleep, little bear,” he whispered. “And when you wake, you’ll still be mine. And I—gods help me—I’ll be yours.”

[jar0fhoney]

PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3 (NSFW) / PART 4 /

PART FIVE (NSFW) - PART 6 - PART 7 (NSFW) - PART 8 (NSFW)

Warning: Mentions of Pregnancy and virginity. piv.

You started Sunday the same way you always did. Wake up before dawn, start breakfast for you and Ma, stare out the window and think about the list of chores you could never keep up with.

“It’s a beautiful morning!” Your mother shuffled past your open door towards the kitchen, “Are you sure I can’t just handle all the work in the field today? Won’t you want to relax before your friend arrives?”

“Mother, please do not blow this out of proportion.” You scolded her light-heartedly, “I’m just going to do my work as usual, and when he stops by I’ll take a break-”

“My baby is getting courted by a big strong orc~” She sang out to you. You followed her to the kitchen. “How did you know he’s courting me?”

“So he is courting you.” She swayed back and forth in front of the hearth, throwing bits of kindling onto the fire.

“Well- I-”

“Y/n, don’t you remember. When I told you about the family that lived in the neighboring plot. The wife told me so much about how strange orc courting was, especially with her being human, and-”

“You didn’t tell me it was a half-orc family…” 

She turned to you with a devious smirk, “Wouldn’t you like to know about a half-orc family.” “MA!” You grabbed an apple from the table (a bright red one that matched the color of your face) and ran out the door. You weren’t really mad at her, but this entire situation was so out of your comfort zone. The only experience you ever really had with being pursued was desperately avoiding Milo for the past two years.

You glanced at the sundial in the garden. Three hours. You had three hours to try and get some work done in the field and shake off the nerves.

-

The tomatoes were a mess. No wonder, this was a corner of the field that had been sorely neglected this season. The sun was climbing higher, and the heat of its rays were beginning to lick the back of your neck. What time was it anyways?

“SO NICE TO MEET YOU- OH YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE!”

Your mothers voice was loud enough to carry all the way to your little corner in the tomato patch. You shot to your feet, craning your neck to see her enthusiastically fawning over a slightly nervous Khargaad. You could hear him nervously chuckling as the two exchanged words.

Well, might as well go save him. You looked down at your work clothes covered in grass stains and mud. Hair was sticking to the back of your sweaty neck. Gross. Probably didn’t smell pretty either.

Your mother caught you out of the corner of her eye and pointed excitedly, “THERE SHE IS!”

You cringed. Gods she was making all this fuss and you looked like you just crawled out of a ditch.

“Hello! I see you met Ma.” You were trying to casually wipe the mix of dirt and sweat from your face, wading over to them through the field. He felt his heart skip a bit when you got closer. You smelled so earthy. And the musk of your sweat was… it could drive him feral.

He started imagining all the ways he could steal you away and worship you. Fill you. Taste you.

“Um… Khargaad?”

He jolted out of his sinful haze, “I couldn’t show up empty handed.” He thrust a basket into your arms. It was laden with fancy imported fruits. “This- This is too much. This must have cost-”

“Hush now,” his voice was like warm honey, “I hunt big game, I can afford it.” He had a cocky little smirk on his face. You thanked him, motioning to follow you into the cottage.

He looked back at your mom one more time, “It was so nice to meet you, Ma’am.”

-

Your first lessons together went just as well as predicted. By the end he was properly frustrated, arms crossed and everything.

“The letters. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s all… mixed up.”

“Let’s just end it here for today.”

He was so cute like this. All flustered. 

He stood up from his seat, being careful to crouch as he easily exceeded the height of the ceiling. “Alrighty, let’s get to work.” He crossed the room in one long stride, pulling his shirt over his head. He looked strong, but not in the way statues are with their lean bodies and taught chiseled muscles. He looked like a man who ate well and worked hard. Your eyes wandered to the slight love handles that peaked over the waistband of his trousers. Gods you were no better than a man, thinking about how bad you wanted to feel him in your hands.

He glanced behind his shoulder, “Where first?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Khargaad.”

“Do you think I’m going to just leave with all this work to be done?”

-

He followed you like an excited puppy to the tomato patch you had been working on. You had tried to tell him that he didn’t need to waste the rest of his day helping with this. But he knew he didn’t need to. He wanted to. And who was going to stop him? Certainly not you.

He started on one end, and you the other, working slowly until you met in the middle. By the end, your hands were red and scratched up from pulling the thistle weeds. Of course, Kharghaad’s were so calloused that it was like he had a pair of gloves on. He gave a little gasp when he saw your sore fingers. “Why didn’t you say anything…” He scooped your small hands into his, as delicate as you would pick up a fresh baby bird.

Every time he touched you it was like this great release. Your mother, as loving as she was, never quite developed a touchy-feely nature. You were so used to it fleeting as soon as it was there. Quick handshakes, brushing against someone in the market. You craved physical touch.

So when Khargaad didn’t let go of your hands. When he held them so carefully and tenderly. So deliberately. You found yourself trying to memorize every little second of the moment.

“I’ll have to buy you gloves.” He muttered, picking out the little needles with surprising dexterity. He took his canteen and went to rinse off the skin. “I can wash my own hands, Khargaad.” You chuckled.

“But I want to,” He blurted out with immediate embarrassment, “Sorry, I guess you could say it’s an orc thing? It’s sorta like… we’re very communal. There’s no reason to do much of anything alone, if you think about it…” He sort of trailed off like he was getting ahead of himself. He paused.

“I hope I'm not smothering you. Maybe humans aren’t like that-” He went to let go of your hands, and a part of you cried out inside. You were tired of trying to play this stoic lone wolf character. It wasn’t who you were. It’s not who any of us are. We all need each other.

“Please, don’t stop…” You whispered to him, thrusting your hands back into his. You uttered the magic words. The words he had been waiting for. He pulled you into his chest. It didn’t matter how gross, hot, and sweaty the two of you were. Or that your mother was most definitely watching joyfully from the kitchen window. Nothing mattered. “Can we go somewhere?” His voice was muffled as he whispered into the top of your head. He was taking long deep sighs, taking in your scent.

“Please…” The need in your voice was palpable. He didn’t waste another moment, leading you to the forest behind your property. “Khargaad… the road is that way.” You motioned behind yourself. “I know a quicker way.” He glanced back at you with that sweet little smirk on his face.

Once past the treeline, the soft light of dusk struggled to breach the overhead foliage. You walked together for some time, before the sound of running water bubbled ahead. He had led you to a little clearing, where in the middle stood a circular style tent. A creek babbled away off to the side. The moon was full and provided plenty of light for you to take it all in. “Do you live here?” 

He nodded, looking down at you expectantly for approval. You grinned, “It’s lovely.”

He snaked a strong arm around your waste, pulling you in. His other hand cupped the back of your head, tilting your face up to his. For a moment he hovered over you, as if waiting for your permission. You reached up to cup his face, thumbing over one of the tusks jutting out of his mouth.

His lips met yours. It started slow, like sipping on a glass of fine wine. Then it was hungry. Like you had both been starved. You were getting drunk off of the needy little grunts he was making, pulling you in flush with his body. You could feel him through his trousers, and it startled you out of your stupor a bit. You hadn’t been with anyone before, and it was bound to happen sooner or later, but this was a bit more than you ever imagined.

It was almost like he sensed your tension, pulling away to look into your eyes, “Let’s get clean.” He had brought his thumb up to caress over your cheek, planting a small peck before jogging to his tent. Watching him disappear under the flap, your mind raced. What if you weren’t ready? What if he’s not patient?

He bounded out towards the stream, beckoning you over. He started to frown as you got closer, like he could smell the apprehension coming off of you, “Do you need to go slower? Do you want to go home? Nothing has to happen. Nothing at all. You are in charge.”

He started unlacing the ties of his trousers. You instinctually looked away, giving him privacy he clearly didn’t need. With the sound of water sloshing you looked back at him submerged up to his sternum. You approached the water’s edge, looking down into the little bubbles churning in the current. “Hey… what’s wrong?” He waded over to the edge, leaning onto the grassy bank. There wasn’t any aire of seduction in his voice, just one of genuine tenderness.

You sucked it up and opened your mouth, “I’ve never done this before…”

“With an orc?”

“No like… I’ve never done this before… ever.” You winced as the words came out. You were a grown adult, this conversation shouldn’t feel embarrassing. But it did nonetheless.

“And so you don’t want to do this?” He didn’t seem fazed at all by the information. “No!” You yelped out a little too enthusiastically, “No- I mean, yes. Yes I do want to. I want you.”

You started to pull at the ties of your shirt, face so flushed it was probably glowing red. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You ripped the shirt off your head like pulling off a bandaid, exposing your chest to the warm summer air. You went to fiddle with the strings of your work pants. He still didn’t look away, and you didn’t ask him to.

And there you were, clothed only in moonlight. Khargaad thought, maybe the moon had come out just for you tonight, to see your beauty for itself.

You stepped down into the water. “Are you sure you’re human? Not a beautiful fairy playing tricks on me?” Khargaad was completely entranced by you, eyes roaming over the curve of your shoulders to the curves of your breasts.

You felt some of the tension ease, snorting at him “I don’t think a fairy would smell this bad.” He gasped a bit as if he had just remembered, grabbing a bar of soap he had retrieved from the tent. “May I?” He asked, lathering up the bar in his hands.

You nodded, letting him wade closer to you. You felt the palms of his massive hands begin to work themselves into your hair, massaging his fingers into your scalp. “Oh-” You exclaimed a rather embarrassing moan, but it felt so good. He finished and went to clean his own hair. “Hey, it’s my turn now!” You scolded him. He was more than happy to let you clean him. As he said previously, it’s a part of orc culture to do things with other people. That includes bathing.

And oh how he loved to see you doing orc things. Like wearing that yellow dress dyed with orc spices, and making those pickled eggs for him. It made him think about how great it would be to bring you home with him, to meet all of his family. For you to find a place in his tribe. He missed home a lot, and now you were a part of that picture. You finished running your fingers through the curls of his clean hair.

He heard the sloshing of water, turning around to see you drying yourself off. He joined you. You cast a quick glimpse below his waist, blushing furiously at his partially hard cock.

You walked together to the flap of the tent. The inside surprised you. It was so… cozy. “Ah-” He had leaned down to nuzzle into your neck, you loved the feeling of his tusks against your skin. He pulled you to what could best be described as a nest. A nest of pillows and blankets. He very carefully leaned you onto your back, “Is this okay?”

You giggled at him, “Yes Khargaad. I will tell you if I need to stop, okay?”

“Promise?” He leaned back on his knees, his olive green skin looking lovely in the warm glow of the lantern lighting the tent. His member was on full display, completely unashamed. The way it twitched in anticipation made your stomach flutter. “Yes.”

He lied down next to you, peppering little kisses in the crook of your neck. His hands began to roam your body, starting with your shoulders and slowly moving down to your tits. His calloused palm grazed over the sensitive peaks, causing you to let out a breathy sigh. He took your left breast into his hand, thumbing over your hardened nipple. He palmed your chest for a few moments more, like he was savoring each and every new part of you he explored. You felt his cock hard against your leg. You shifted your thigh, giving him just the lightest sensation of friction. The groan he mumbled into your skin made you feel hot between your legs. You clenched your thighs together, trying to get some relief.

His hand traveled down to your stomach, caressing the curves and grabbing a soft handful of skin. “Good…” He whispered. You shivered as his hand glided over your hips, so close to your entrance. He reached for the inside of your thigh, pulling it over into his cock. He let out another breathy sigh that left you completely slick with desire. His hand hovered over the mess of hair covering your mound. You opened your legs, giving him permission.

He started by slowly palming you, just beginning to give you the attention your pussy was desperate for. You felt a finger slip past your folds, getting drenched in the slickness. Khargaad shifted you up a bit so he could have better access to your chest. He dipped down, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucked playfully. “Oh f-fuck-” You were stuttering at the pleasure of it all. He grinned into your chest, “Keep making those noises sweetheart.” The pet name made your heart flutter.

He kept gently probing a finger up and down your slit, until he dipped one down just at the beginning of your entrance. His fingers were bigger than your own, but this wasn't so much of a stretch. He slowly sheathed the finger in you, “Tight.” He grunted. He made a come hither motion into that sensitive spot of your inner walls. You yelped out a completely sinful moan as he prodded you a few more times. His finger exited your hole, pulling the wetness of your cunt onto your swollen and sensitive clit.

“Khargaad-” Your hips bucked up into him as he swirled long languid circles around that little bundle of nerves. He pulled off, and sat back on his knees, “Can I taste you?”

It was the way he asked more than anything. Like he was close to begging for it. You nodded, spreading your legs for him. He settled down in front of you, using both of his thumbs to spread your lips apart. You felt the tip of his fat tongue probe your needy pussy. He reached up to play with your nipples, while he moved up to your throbbing clit. He started with light kitten-licks, making you whine and buck up into his mouth. That wonderful tongue of his made swirls and then quick flickering motions over the sensitive spot. At this point you were almost completely lost in pleasure, and reached down to thread your fingers through his soft brown curls. 

You were already sensitive when he started, so you were very close to finishing. You actually yelled when he inserted a finger into you. Prodding that sensitive spot while attacking your sensitive clit; it was making the most obscene wet noises. “Close.” That was all you could manage as he devoured you. There it was, feeling crushed over you like a ton of bricks. You coated this hand, legs spasming. He dipped down to lap up the remnants of your release. Your taste, your smell, the feeling of his hair clenched in your fist. He was addicted.

He leaned back, taking in his work. You had a hand on your forehead and a hand on your chest, calming down from what you just experienced. You glanced down at him, both hands on his thighs. His cock was completely erect, tip glistening with pre-cum. It was so heavy it bowed down under its own weight. “Y/n…” He was trying to figure out what to say next. His cock needed to be buried in your pretty little cunt. He needed to bottom out into you. He wanted to hear the sound of his heavy balls slapping against your skin with every thrust. But he couldn’t say that, though. He didn’t want to push you if you weren’t ready.

So when you propped yourself up on your elbows, legs spread for him, he almost felt like crying. His human mate was so strong. So ready for him.

He crawled over you, pinning your legs over his shoulders. He took the base of his cock into his fist, guiding it slowly over your folds. You were so warm for him. He pushed his pulsating tip past your lips, wincing from the sensitivity. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, but you were completely entranced watching his cock slide into you. His tip found your hole, sliding in but not going any further. He was absolutely strangeling the pillow he was resting his hand on, trying to maintain control. Khargaad was watching you, every little subtle expression. He kept sinking himself into you, stopping when you made the first wince of pain. He was big, and you were so tight. 

“Y/n?” You looked up at him through those pretty lashes. He nearly lost it all right there, just from the eye-contact. You got off of your elbows, leaning down completely. You gave a little nod, still making direct eye contact. Slowly and gently, he worked his way in until his hips were flush with yours. He leaned back, still buried in you, letting you adjust to the stretch.

He wouldn’t last long at all, seeing you like this. Your little face with knotted brows, arms thrown overhead. Khargaad brought his hand to your stomach, rubbing little circles into the soft skin with his thumb. You were perfect. Perfect to take his seed. Perfect for growing a little half-orc.

He wouldn’t yet, of course. Not until you were ready. For you, he would wait as long as needed. But his strange orc hormones and instincts craved it beyond explanation.

He began rocking out and back into you, keeping a slow languid pace. You reached out for him, and in an instant his head was nuzzled in your neck again. His pace started to ramp up a bit, earning little mewls from your lips. Oh he definitely wouldn't last much longer. “W-where…” His breath hitched in your ear. “Huh?” You were too flustered to try to understand what he was asking.

“Going to-” He was hissing and groaning, barely able to work out a sentence, “On your body- ah- or o-on the bed?” His motions were getting jerky. “Fuck- sorry- oh fuck.”

He pulled out just barely in time to empty himself onto your stomach. He fucked his rough fist through the climax, sighing at the sight of his seed coating your tummy. It felt a lot warmer than you expected, and much more… volume. He finally let go of his cock, reaching for a linen cloth and dunking it in a bowl of water he had set nearby. “I made a mess…”

He sounded so guilty, and you giggled at him teasingly. One of his hands cupped your face, while the other softly wiped the length of your cunt, messy from your own slickness. He wiped the cum that was coated across your stomach, being careful not to spill any on the bed.

“You did so good.” He started cooing sweet nothings to you while running his thumbs across your cheekbone, “Wore me out…” He chuckled, throwing the rag across the room. He yawned and stretched his arms above him.

“Do you want me to go home now?” You were all too familiar with the stories women told about men finishing and ordering them to leave. You didn’t quite have the confidence yet, to advocate for yourself. To tell him you wanted to spend the night wrapped up in his arms.

For Khargaad, this question felt like an arrow to the heart. Had he not done enough? To make it clear how badly he needed you with him? He laid down next to you, pulling you close, “I would kill the person who would try to take you from me right now.”

Here is Part 5 for you lovelies <3 <3 <3 btw Khargaad is living in a yurt, that's what I was trying to describe lol.

I attached a playlist I put together. These are the songs I've been listening to while writing this, if anyone wants to hear the vibes :3

Tagged List <3

@reads-stuff-quietly @loo-looland @sluttygirl123 @beaniebaneenie @blushycadaver @sunndust @whyiamadegenerate @the-attic-of-porcelain @freakyotaku059-blog @youknowits-derea @thoughts-of-bear-undercovers @allthecraftandthings @gruffle1 @kennedyabraxas123 @queenies1x1 @jellyslimesofficial @jasminedragoon @rangoismyname @the-queen-of-sorrows @the-dumber-scaramouche @heddaloddafun @swimmingrascalbatdragon @hellodollstuff @wingedghostpepper @pistachioinfernal @honeybaegle @sammehshark @dij-ology @forgemotherkestrel @wafflefries786

[eratosmusings]

Loyalty (II)

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!reader

summary: your husband returns to consummate your marriage

warnings: adults only, all characters over 18, smut, oral (fem receiving), piv, arranged marriage, manipulation, abortion allusion (moon tea), lot of religious references

word count: 2.4k

previous chapter / dividers

Daemon takes more than an hour to return. Handmaids came in his absence. They take the pins from your hair, bring fresh water and fragranced soap for a quick wash before leaving you in a single shift made of silk. You pace the stone floor as it grows cold from the dying fire. Why has he not returned?

The fire dims and dims until it is no more than a low red glow in the hearth. The silk is frigid against your skin. It chafes against your breasts in a way that has you squirming. Your husband finally returns. It appears he too has bathed and changed. Gone is his embroidered jacket and red sleeves, replaced with a simple white shirt and a simple robe hanging off his shoulders. His hair is damp and a floral scent wafts from him as he approaches.

“I’d thought you’d be in bed,” he says. 

You attempt a smile, though you fear it appears more as a grimace. Guilt weighs too heavy on the corners of your lips. The wait was intolerable but as is knowing how imminent the act is. Knowing what you must do on the morrow. “Is that where you wish me to be, my prince?”

He frowns. “I had only meant I’d thought you’d be asleep.” His eyes dart over you, only to return to and linger where the peaks of your breasts stab into the shift. "Is that all they gave you to wear, jaesa?" He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “You must be freezing.” He pulls the robe from his shoulders and comes to drape it over your own. 

More kindness that you do not deserve. You bow your head. “Thank you, my prince.”

He tisks and turns his attention to the dying fire. “Such formality.” He lowers and begins to arrange new logs over the embers. “We are married now, you must call me something more fitting. Daemon would do well.” He takes a piece of kindling and allows it to catch fire before placing it on top. “Or dear husband, perhaps.” He looks back at you. “Valzȳrys if you’d like to truly capture my heart.”

“Valzȳrys?” It slips out before the rest of his words register as you meet his lilac gaze.

“Wonderful pronunciation,” he murmurs approvingly, standing. “It means husband in Valyrian.” The fire spreads, growing brighter and casting him in its warm glow. It strikes you, rather harshly, that Daemon Targaryen is unparalleled in his beauty. You've always thought him handsome, but in the light of a blaze he is breathtaking.

“I shall try to remember,” you say through the lump in your throat. If you can never allow him children, at least you will give him the allusion of a good, dutiful wife.

His head cocks appraisingly to the side. “Come.” Your feet obey. The warmth of the fire joins the heat beginning to prickle across your skin. His gaze is searching as you come to stand in front of him and you can’t tear your eyes away. “Why wait for me to return?”

Your brows furrow at the question. It’s answer so obvious. “We have yet to consummate our marriage.”

“I did not consummate my last.” His hand comes to toy with the collar of the robe. “I refused the bedding ceremony this evening.” There’s humor in his tone. “Perhaps I did not intend to bed you at all.”

You try to match his easy banter, though there's a tremor in your voice. "Perhaps the sun will rise in the west and set in the east."

He laughs and the sound sends a flutter through your chest. What a beautiful sound. "Do you think I as wanton as a whore?”

"No!" Your hands reach for him, taking hold of his arm. It is solid in your grasp.  "I am sorry, my prince, I did not intend offense."

He laughs again, eyes crinkling. "I merely jest. Your only offense is your continued use of ‘my prince.’”

"Valzȳrys," you offer with relief, letting go of his arm, “I shall do better.”

“My sweet wife,” his other hand comes to hold your face as the first continues to fidget with the robe, “so eager to please.”

Your lips part, but the words die as his fingers follow down the edge of the robe and brush the raised peak of your breast. The sensation, torturous and intoxicating, has you gasping. He takes the distraction as invitation and captures your mouth in a harsh, bruising kiss. Your fingers curl against the cloth of his shirt. Neither to push him away nor pull him closer, but to find a tether in the unfamiliar depths his touch has plunged you into.

He pulls back slowly. Lips plush, pupils blown wide. Hands cupping your breast, thumbs stroking the peaks. Overwhelming, sinful need steals your thoughts. Your eyes squeeze shut. You can't breathe. Your entire focus is on remaining standing. 

"Tell me, jaesa, have you ever touched yourself here before?"

Speech is too difficult. Your head shakes.

"Have you ever dreamt of it?"

Another shake. You had not known it could be used for pleasure. Air greets your lung like a knife when one of his touches disappears.

"How about here?" A hand dips under the hem of your shift, skims along your thighs.

You shake again.

His nose edges along your jaw. "Here? His fingers glide along the apex.

You jolt. No. Never. The words don't make it past your lips. They're trapped somewhere in the shock, the pleasure.

"No?" He speaks for you, his voice low, laced in fond mockery. "What a pure, untouched thing you are, jaesa." His mouth meets yours again. This time his kiss is slower. A whimper leaves you, unbidden, when his tongue sweeps against your bottom lip. His touch continues to move along your most intimate of places. It’s intoxicating.

He draws back, forehead pressing against yours. His breathing is heavy, matching yours. “Now I wish for you to be on the bed.” 

The air feels like ice as he steps away, leaving you bereft of his warmth. You turn, seeking the bed, and stumble forward. Your toe catches on the edge of a table. The pain is sharp and you nearly drop to the floor.

Daemon's arms wrap around you. "Careful."

His touch is maddening. "Yes, valzȳrys."

There's a sound that seems to stick in his throat. Your feet are no longer on the ground. "The bed, jaesa." A surprised giggle leaves as you fall back on the bed. It's plush, more so than your own. And warm. Daemon climbs over you, bracing his weight on his forearms. The firelight casts his features in a soft glow, giving the illusion of gentleness.

He presses his lips against yours, hungry. Your hands cling to his arms. A small moan vibrates from him. There's a firmness pressing into the apex of your thighs. The pressure is nearly as wonderful as his fingers had been. You arch towards him. He presses back.

Then he's gone. Your mouth falls open in protest, a small sound escaping. Daemon sits on the edge of the bed. He’s smug as he tugs off the simple shirt. He stands and drops his trousers, revealing more of his toned physique. Your cheeks burn. His member, juts up proudly. You swallow and avert your gaze. Surely, that cannot fit inside of you.

"Does my cock offend you?"

"No," you say quickly. "It is," your mouth sticks like you'd eaten too much honeyed bread, "large."

He laughs boisterously. "You will find, sweet wife, that it is a gift." He kneels back on the bed, his hands grasping at the hem of your shift. Your eyes snap up. His dance with mischief. "May I remove this?"

Your throat is dry. You nod. The fabric lifts. Your limbs move as they're told. You help him rid you of the silk. The air is cold.

"Beautiful."

Your body trembles under his gaze.

"Lie back."

Your body obeys. His hands slide down your thighs, pushing them apart. Then he is between your legs, kissing his way up your inner thigh. Your mind reels. No one had told you this part. When his mouth finally meets the place his fingers had toyed with earlier, you wonder how anyone could not enjoy this.

A gasp fills the air. Your hands fly to his head, tangling in his hair. Divinity lies between his teeth.

"I have decided," he whispers against your flesh, “that your taste is far better than any berry’s.”

Your hips roll of their own accord. He groans, his grip tightening on your thighs. Then he is back to licking. Your eyes screw shut and your hands grip tighter. There’s a pressure building. The tightness nearly unbearable.

"Valzȳrys," the plea is breathless. You don’t know what you’re asking for, but he must. 

He hums and the vibrations have you bucking. His mouth continues its silent prayers. Your eyes beg to close, but the glow of his lilac gaze refuses such a sin. He watches, equally as enraptured, as he pushes you higher and higher. Ecstasy. You cannot breathe, cannot move. His name, his title, every version of him, is on your tongue, begging. The pressure cracks your walls until they crumble and it is blasphemy that leaves your lips. A moment passes with the wave that follows and then another, your body trembling. The pleasure is slow to subside. His tongue has eased, but continues with languid strokes. Warmth tingles across all of you. His eyes have not given you leave.

Slowly his mouth leaves your sex. A whine leaves you at the loss. "Are you well, sweet wife?" His mouth glistens and the bed shifts as he crawls over you.

"Mhmm," you reply, letting your hands fall from his hair. More than well.

His lips curve, pleased, as they meet yours. They taste nothing near as sweet as a berry. Something presses against you. His member—his cock as he called it. His lips travel down your neck. "Are you ready?"

This is where the pain shall be. Perhaps so terrible it makes all you've done forgettable. There's no other reason you can think of that women would hate it after the pleasure you'd just received. But it is duty. At least, you must keep the appearance of it. You take a deep breath and nod. "Yes, Valzȳrys."

He presses forward and the stretch is uncomfortable. He pushes and a burn begins that makes you squirm. There's a pause."Forgive me," he breathes then his mouth returns to yours. A sharp, awful pain tears through you as his hips slam forward. Your vision blurs with the sting of tears. Your nails dig into his arms.

"The worst is over," he promises

You nod at his falsehood, still unable to see, and attempt to slow your breathing. It is for naught as the pain continues with the movement of his hips. The gods punishment for your sins, even the ones you've yet to truly commit. He whispers something that could be an apology and kisses the tears from your cheeks. You do not say anything. To suffer this for him is your duty.

"Breathe, jaesa. Just breathe."

You force yourself to match his rhythm. Breathing deep, his steady strokes begin to dull the ache. The tenseness in your muscles begin to release. There is some pleasure hidden beneath the discomfort.

"That's it," he encourages, his hand snaking between you.

You cry out as he circles his fingers sending a new wave of ecstasy through you. It spreads like Wildfire. You don't understand. It's supposed to be awful. How can it feel so wonderful?

"I am not a man of patience," he lets his forehead rest against yours, "but these sounds were worth the wait."

"Valzȳrys," your eyes shut and the pleasure builds. It drowns out any lingering discomfort. Only cries of prayers and profanities filling the room as his movements grow more erratic.

His breath stutters. It sounds as if he curses in Valyrian, though you cannot be sure. Then he stops, retreats, and leaves you painfully empty. Something warm and heavy falls across your stomach in thick strings. Your eyes open to his. Breathing ragged. Hair damp with sweat. He presses a kiss against your temple. "I shall bring the basin."

Your brow furrows. "Are we done?" Your body still tingles, tense again. Anticipation rather than pain.

His eyes crinkle but he says nothing, climbing from the bed. Your eyes stay glued to him. It's an enticing view. He returns to the bed with the basin in hand and sits beside where you lay. You know that the seed should sit for a while before it's cleaned away to ensure it takes. That's what the Septa had said. You do not repeat it to Daemon.

The rag is cold and your gasp at the contact leaves your husband issuing a humored apology. He wipes between your legs first, tinging the rag red, before cleaning the seed from your stomach in short, slow swipes. When satisfied, he sets the bowl on the floor and lays beside you. You wonder how you'll be able to sleep when your body still pulses with desire.

"Straddle my face."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Straddle my face," he repeats, "as if you were mounting a horse."

You think you understand the intention, but it seems unnecessarily dangerous. Could he not simply lie between your legs again? "But I will hurt you." Or suffocate him

"You will not."

He helps guide your leg across him, settling your knees on either side of his head. "Lower yourself, do not deny me your taste," he commands. His hands grip your thighs and you obey. He groans. The sound is muffled and then his mouth is back on your sex.

It is different. Not better, not worse, but different. Your body sings and hands fist in his hair. Your husband's tongue is skilled. A blessing instead of the curse you'd been told. For he has you quaking in only a few flicks. Pleasure courses through you like lightning. Yes, his years in pleasure houses were as divinely ordained as your years kneeling in the Sept. Your chest heaves as he coaxes out a final shudder.

When you can breathe again, he grins at you from between your thighs. The image deserves its own depiction in stained glass. "Now, I believe we are done."

any commentary & reblogs are appreciated! 🌺

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[azurityarts]

Hero & Partner Week (@heropartnerweek) - Day 2: Human AU | Crossover | Evolution

Kindling the Hearth

My Rescue Team team choices may be a lil weird, but I love how both have regional evolution forms, and both are part Ghost-Type! They're not really that spooky; it's just the lighting!

[alovelyfrenchworld]

Your Neighborly Orc Part 2

The journey home was short and once there, you settled in quickly. As a heavy snow storm began, you lit a small fire in the hearth. There was no way you'd be able to journey out again, so you figured you'd make the best of what you had.

Your cat curled up on the wuant rug by the fire as you seated yourself in the armchair just beside. Armed with a wool blanket and a book on medicinal herbs gave you the chance to get comfy quickly. Even during your free time and isolation from primary civilzation meant that you'd want to amke yourself useful for fun. Maybe you could concoct a new tea for immunity. Sufficiency was key.

*********

A few days passa and as expected, your kindling was running low.

You prepared yourself and left home for the woods again when you were met with a surprise.

The orc frm the other day was across the river, this time paired with a bow. Hunting, presumably. You went on with your task, bundling and lifting your stack of logs when a patch of ice hidden by powdery nsnow caused you to slip. Landing in the freezing water, your logs falling with you - now soaked and useless.

"Damn it!" You cursed, feeling that your hard work was wasted. Before you could make an attempt to stand, large hands enveloped you and lifted you out of the water and set you down on the bank.

"What the f-," you sputtered.

"Are you alright?" the orc asked, concern in his eyes.

Frustrated with yourself, you reply, "Physically. But now I have to start over."

The temperature of the great outdoors suddenly began to affect you. You shivered, understanding the precarity of your condition in this sort of weather.

"You're in no shape to be doing anything. You need to get out of these clothes before you freeze to death." He pointed to the collar of your collar, careful not to actually touch you.

Feeling exposed, you smacked his hand away and raised your arm to your chest.

"Do not worry," he chuckled hoarsely, almost out of nervousness, "I am not here to violate you. I only mean to comment on your well-being."

His kindness was shocking, but not totally unwelcomed.

Before you could properly reply, you were lifted bridal style.

"Whoa, whoa! This is unnecessary and preposterous!" You flail in his arms, making his grip strengthen to keep you safely in place.

"Humans," he scoffed, "too prideful."

Embarassed by your outburst, your face fell isntantly.

"Now," he said less gruffly, "where to?"

Realizing that a stranger wanted to know where you lived was frightening, but you were already in a vulberable position. Either way, you were compromised.

You gave him diretion to your little cottage, getting to know each other along the way, even exchanging names. He revealed his name to be Gûruk, and that he lived in a nearby orc settlement across the river. He told you hwo the settlement was at the edge of the territory, which explained why you'd sen him of late.

As he approached your door, he set you down on the stoop, and backed away.

"You need to be more careful, Y/N." He was right, but you would never tell him that.

"I will try," you grinned, "thank you, Gûruk."

He nodded in acknowledgement, looking around your homestead. He said nothing as he turned to walk away.

You questioned if this exit was typical of orcs or if you had made him uncomfortable.

You hoped you'd cross paths again so you could thank him properly without him feeling the need to leave.

Hopefully soon, Gûruk.

Tags:

@yourlittlehoe

@lem-hhn

[daughter-of-inklings]

My newest DnD character has taken over, and since my DM is only egging the idea of a book based on her on (I think he secretly hates me for asking weird questions), I've decided that the opening of it is going to be a parallel to my main protagonist's own book. The two are connected in ways they'll have to understand in-campaign, but the lines go as follows:

The world did not end in a bang or a whisper. But rather one scream at a time. One scream, two, ten, thirty, a hundred- a thousand. A cacophony of them, clawing over each other to be heard- to be in control. So loud it strained her head, a million voices inside craving and carving and fighting to let themselves out. All of them, every single voice, rang out with a different form of violence; tempting, alluring, justified. They screamed, louder and louder, until something in her… snapped. A piece of her that would never- could never- be found or replaced or regrown, broken and swallowed by the tides of chaos and violence thrashing in her head. Her ears rung and she couldn’t remember breathing- had she? Could she? It was hot, the air burning her lungs with every forced gulp of breath. The voices promised power- vengeance. Promised to make the aching in her mind- her heart and her soul- stop. To make everything stop. If only she’d take their hand.

The world did not end in a bang or go in a whisper. Rather one scream at a time. Two. Ten. Thirty— hundreds, thousands. A great choir of them, clawing over each other to be heard— to reach her first. So loud it strained her head, more than the sounds of battle clashing around her. A million voices, outside- inside, craving and cracking and fighting over the sparks of metals and spells. All of them ringing out with a different form of violence: justice, vengeance, anger- wrath — death— They screamed, louder and closer, until something in her… caved. Gave up. A piece of her that would never- could never- leave this field of bodies, replaced or regrown, broken and swallowed by the blood seeping into the ground beneath her. Her ears rung and she couldn’t remember breathing— was she? Could she? It was hot- scorching, the air burning in her lungs with every stolen, shallow breath.  The voices grew closer, nearly on top of her. Too late. Yet miles away, somewhere else— beyond her. She drew her wings around herself, marring them in blood and dirt; she’d done her job, it was time to rest. To the end, she’d done what she was raised to— keep the others safe. Given the knights- her friends- the distraction to retreat, to go home to their wives and to warn the king. Had taken out the worst of them with her, lying dead, too, and faceless a few ways away. Kept her wife and child away from the horrors of war— sad, yes, but alive. She closed her eyes. A good death— a knight’s death. 

Two very similar situations, but two vastly different responses.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Cabin

pairing: no apocalypse joel miller x f! reader

The snowstorm had rolled in faster than anyone anticipated, turning the picturesque forested mountains into a swirling white abyss. You had barely made it to the cabin, the wind howling as you trudged up the porch steps with your bags of groceries and overnight bag. The sight of the cozy wooden structure had brought a sigh of relief until you opened the door.

Standing in the middle of the living room, setting down a duffle bag with a deep frown on his face, was a man. Broad-shouldered, bearded, and exuding an air of irritation that you could practically feel across the room.

“Uh, who the hell are you?” you demanded, tightening your grip on the grocery bag.

The man turned, his dark eyes narrowing as he gave you a once over. “I should be askin’ you the same thing.”

“I’m the one who booked this cabin for the weekend,” you shot back.

“Funny,” he drawled, crossing his arms. “So did I.”

You blinked, then pulled out your phone. “Well, let me check my—”

“Don’t bother,” he interrupted, holding up his own phone. “Already talked to the rental company. They double-booked it.”

“Of course, they did,” you muttered, dropping your bag onto the nearest surface. “Just my luck.”

“Looks like mine too,” he said gruffly, his tone clipped. “But I’m not drivin’ back in this blizzard, so I’m stayin’.”

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. “And what makes you think I’m not staying?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt and turned away, muttering something under his breath about stubborn women.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” you shot back, your sass fully engaged.

“Nothing,” he said over his shoulder, his voice tinged with exasperation.

Thus began the longest, most tension-filled evening of your life. The snowstorm grew worse, and the cabin creaked under the weight of the wind and snow. You unpacked your groceries while Joel..yes, he finally introduced himself, though begrudgingly made a half-hearted attempt at starting a fire in the stone hearth.

“You know, if you hold the kindling like this..” you began, stepping closer.

“I’ve started more fires than you’ve had bad ideas,” Joel interrupted, his voice low and gravelly.

“Oh, really? Is that why it keeps going out?” you quipped, smirking as he shot you a glare.

Eventually, the fire roared to life, casting a warm glow throughout the cabin. Despite your constant bickering, you managed to tolerate each other enough to share the space.

But the tension only escalated when it came time to decide sleeping arrangements.

“Well, there’s only one bed, and I don’t intend to share,” Joel said, leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom.

“Perfect,” you shot back, grabbing a blanket and pillow. “The couch looks way more comfortable anyway. It suits your personality: rigid and unpleasant.”

Joel rolled his eyes but didn’t respond, disappearing into the bedroom with an irritated huff.

Later that evening, with the fire crackling and the storm still raging, you found yourself curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with a glass of wine in hand. The bottle now empty sat on the floor beside you, and you were deeply engrossed in the book you’d brought. Your pajama set, soft and matching, added to your cozy ambiance.

You didn’t notice Joel until you heard the faint creak of the bedroom door.

When you looked up, he was standing there, barefoot, wearing flannel pajama pants and a plain gray t-shirt. His hair was slightly mussed, and his expression was a mix of curiosity and exasperation.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Joel froze, his gaze flickering to the empty wine bottle, then back to you. “Did you drink that whole thing yourself?”

“Maybe,” you said coyly, turning a page in your book. “What’s it to you, Mr. Pajama Pants?”

He huffed a laugh, though it sounded more amused than annoyed. “Just didn’t peg you for someone who’d survive a blizzard drunk on the couch.”

“Well, I didn’t peg you for someone who strutted around like you own the place,” you retorted, though the corners of your mouth lifted into a smirk.

He ignored that, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than necessary. “What are you reading?”

“A book,” you replied with exaggerated sweetness.

“No kidding,” he shot back, stepping closer to the kitchen and pulling open the fridge. He grabbed a beer, popped the cap off, and leaned against the counter, watching you.

“You always this annoying, or is it just for me?” you asked, closing your book and meeting his gaze.

“Only when someone drinks all the wine and hogs the fire,” he replied, his lips twitching into a faint smile.

The bickering continued, each remark laced with more teasing than venom. The longer the conversation went on, the more the edges of Joel’s broody demeanor softened, and the more your sass turned playful.

By the time midnight rolled around, the cabin felt warmer not just from the fire but from the unspoken connection building between you. Joel eventually sat in the armchair across from you, his beer in hand, his gaze steady and contemplative.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter than before.

“Is that a compliment?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Maybe,” he admitted, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles.

You held his gaze, the playful tension between you shifting into something heavier, warmer. The storm outside continued to rage, but inside the cabin, the walls seemed to close in, drawing you and Joel into an unspoken understanding.

Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the way Joel’s eyes softened as he looked at you, but you felt your defenses drop. The sass gave way to something more genuine, and for the first time, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable it was electric.

The snowstorm howled outside, but inside the cabin, the tension had melted into something far more comfortable. After finishing his beer, Joel leaned back in his chair and glanced at you. “So, what do you do? When you’re not gettin’ stuck in snowstorms and drinkin’ whole bottles of wine, I mean.”

You smirked, twirling the stem of your wine glass. “I’m a florist. I run my own business back home.”

Joel’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “A florist, huh? Got your own shop?”

“Yep,” you said proudly. “It’s small, but I love it. I started it a few years ago, mostly for weddings and events, but now I have regulars who come in just because. Flowers make people happy, you know?”

Joel nodded, his lips quirking in approval. “Sounds nice. Not many people get to do somethin’ they love.”

“And you?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Construction,” he said simply, taking a sip of water now that his beer was empty. “I own a company. Started small, just me and a buddy, but we’ve grown over the years. Build houses, remodels, that kinda thing.”

You blinked in surprise. “Wait, you own your own company? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you teased, grinning. “I just thought you’d be the grumpy contractor yelling at people to measure twice and cut once.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, I do that too.”

Something clicked in your brain, and you leaned forward. “Wait, where’s your business?”

“Round Rock,” Joel said casually.

“Are you serious?” you exclaimed. “I’m in Round Rock too! How have we never crossed paths?”

Joel shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Guess we’ve been runnin’ in different circles. Until now.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “The irony of getting stuck in a cabin with someone from my own town during a blizzard. What are the odds?”

Joel leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Pretty slim, I’d say.”

You reached for the bag you’d brought and pulled out another bottle of wine, holding it up with a triumphant grin. “Want some?”

Joel’s lips twitched into a half-smile as he stood and retrieved a glass from the kitchen. “Sure, why not?”

You poured him a generous amount, then refilled your own glass. As you settled back into the couch, Joel sat down in the armchair across from you, holding the glass like he was savoring the moment.

“So,” you said, swirling your wine, “what’s your favorite movie?”

Joel snorted. “That’s a tough question.”

“Come on,” you pressed, leaning forward. “You’ve got to have one.”

“No Country for Old Men,” he admitted after a moment.

You groaned dramatically. “Really? That’s so… bleak.”

“And what’s your favorite?” he shot back.

“Pride and Prejudice,” you said without hesitation.

Joel gave you a look. “Which one?”

“2005. Obviously,” you said, rolling your eyes.

He shook his head, clearly unimpressed. “Figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Just seems a little… fluffy for someone with as much sass as you’ve got,” Joel teased, his tone light but laced with humor.

“Oh, and No Country for Old Men isn’t a little too broody for someone who secretly enjoys hot cocoa by the fire?”

Joel’s laugh was low and genuine, and it warmed the space between you. “Touché.”

After a while, the two of you agreed to find a movie to watch, though the process was anything but smooth.

“You can’t seriously think Die Hard is a Christmas movie,” you argued, standing in the kitchen as Joel rummaged through the cabinets for popcorn.

“It is a Christmas movie,” he insisted, pulling out a bag of kernels and tossing it onto the counter.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, hopping up onto the counter and crossing your legs.

Joel smirked, shaking his head as he opened the microwave and placed the bag inside. “You’re just mad ‘cause I’m right.”

“You’re not right,” you said, your voice dripping with mock indignation.

Joel leaned against the counter opposite you, crossing his arms as the microwave hummed. His gaze lingered on you, taking in the way you gestured animatedly as you continued your tirade about movie genres.

“You always this passionate about bein’ wrong?” he asked, his tone teasing.

You stuck your tongue out at him, and Joel chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You paused, your witty retort dying on your tongue at the softness in his voice. For a moment, the air between you shifted, the crackling tension returning but with a different edge.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

Joel shrugged, his eyes meeting yours. “Just… I can’t figure you out. One minute you’re drivin’ me crazy, and the next…”

“The next?” you prompted, your heart skipping a beat.

He held your gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest of smiles. “The next, I don’t mind bein’ stuck in this cabin with you.”

You swallowed hard, the warmth of his words spreading through you like the fire in the hearth.

The microwave beeped, breaking the moment. Joel turned, pulling out the bag of popcorn and tossing it onto the counter. “Guess we’ll have to agree to disagree about Die Hard,” he said, his tone lighter now.

You smiled, hopping down from the counter. “Fine. But only because I’m in a generous mood.”

Joel chuckled as he followed you back into the living room, the popcorn in hand. And as the snowstorm continued to rage outside, you couldn’t help but feel like the storm between you and Joel had finally found its calm.

When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer. “Guess it’s not so bad, being stuck here with you.”

Joel chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “I was thinkin’ the same thing.”

And for the first time that night, the storm didn’t feel so daunting.

[kkanabel]

apricity ❃ oneshot

fire spirit!bakugou katsuki x archaeologist!afab!reader / siberian au lmao

words: ~6.6k

directory/m.list

T/W: nsfw, minors dni, yucky at the very end, fingering, porn with plot, overstimulation, size difference, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, alcohol use (not during the yucky but waay before the yucky), bakugou being bakugou, not beta read

Frost clung to the window panes of your cabin as you pulled on the last of your layers—a thick, fur-lined coat with a hood drawn tight around your face and a scarf was wrapped around your nose and mouth. The mornings here were unforgiving, the bite of the wind sharp as knives as soon as you stepped outside. You grabbed the ax by the door, its handle starting to grow familiar in your gloved hands, and pushed the door open into the early morning light. A heavy breath left your mouth in a plume of white as you approached the woodpile, ready to chop enough firewood to keep your small cabin warm for the day.

Frost bites at your cheeks as you swing your ax down on a thick block of firewood as the crisp snap echoed in the cold air. Each heavy breath from you escapes in a foggy plume in the biting winds of Yakutia. The village sits nestled in a wide, snow-covered expanse, tucked into the curve of towering mountains, the sky above streaked in pale blue and white. It’s early morning, but the cold is already unforgiving, gnawing at your layers of fur and wool, testing the warmth of your windproof, insulated pants. 

A brief break in the wind brings a fleeting warmth from the sunlight— the sun’s faint brush over the top half of your face offering relief in the middle of a frozen landscape. You close your eyes for just a moment, savoring it, before returning to your task. The sound of the ax cutting into the wood mixes with the rustle of pine trees in the distance, their branches weighed down by heavy snow.

You swung the ax, splitting a log in two. The dry wood splintered easily, and the sound echoed in the quiet wilderness. The only other noise came from the wind as it howled through the trees, carrying with it the promise of an even colder day. The cold worked its way into your bones despite your many layers. You stayed in cold places before, but the tundra was different. It was a place where even warmth felt fleeting, only offered by a fire or the thick fur you wrapped yourself in.

Satisfied with the pile of wood you’d gathered, you stacked it by the cabin door before retreating inside, the warmth of the hearth greeting you. The fire crackled steadily, casting a golden glow against the dim interior. The gas stove hissed as you lit it, filling the kettle with water for tea. Your stomach growls, reminding you that breakfast is long overdue. 

The crackle of kindling and the warm orange glow spread throughout the small wooden cabin, where you've been staying during your research.

After tossing a few more logs into the fire, you set about making breakfast. It came together simply—creamy and warm fish broth, pancakes, and smoked fish—a meal that filled the small space with a comforting scent. The small palm-sized pancakes were crisp on the edges, their golden brown surface sizzling in the pan. You smile to yourself, remembering a tradition you picked up from other villages. 

As you finish cooking, you toss a pancake into the fire as an offering to whatever spirit might be watching over you. You heard it was a custom in your research. The villagers here don’t seem to do it, but it never hurts to be polite to the unknown.

By the time breakfast was finished, you had your notes spread out across the small wooden table, pencil scratching against the rough paper as you wrote. The village had called on your expertise after reports of strange events: food disappearing from homes, unexplained housefires, and villagers speaking in hushed tones about a spirit causing trouble.

You were already puzzled as to why the villagers would have called on an archaeologist and not an investigator. Your research into the village’s history has led you to strange old scrolls and whispers of a forgotten spirit, but the more time you spend here, the more you realize the villagers are reluctant to speak. The flickering firelight dances along the edge of your notes as you sip on a steaming cup of tea, savoring the warmth that spreads through your chest. 

Ghosts and spirits don’t exist, you reminded yourself. Still, there was something to be said about folklore. It was tied deeply to history, and that was your true interest—the stories behind the stories.

The villagers were tight-lipped, though— your inquiries had been met with vague answers and nervous glances. Today, you planned to spend more time in the village center, talking to whoever would listen. The old man who ran the inn had mentioned something about ancient scrolls kept by a family who had been in the village for generations. Perhaps you could find more information there.

Later, you head out to meet the villagers. Bundling up again, you stepped outside into the snow. The cold was immediate, but you pushed through it, your breath forming thick clouds in front of you as you made your way toward the heart of the village. 

Houses stood small and stoic against the barren landscape, with thick snow blanketing their roofs. Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys, the scent of burning wood hanging in the air. Snow crunches beneath your boots as you walk through the narrow, icy paths, nodding to the occasional passerby. The wind is sharp today, tugging at your fur-lined hood. 

You hunch your shoulders against the cold as you make your way to the center of the village, where a small crowd has gathered. The scent of charred wood hit you before you saw the blackened remains of the structure, now little more than rubble. Your heart skipped. Another fire? The villagers spoke in low murmurs, and as you drew closer, you overheard snippets of conversation about the thief who lived there—a man who had stolen from his neighbors. 

You frowned, remembering a neighbor of yours had told you to stay away from the man who was known to frequent bars and have sticky fingers. The same man used to live in this home that was no more than a pile of charcoal.

You’ve heard the rumors about the “spirit”—they say it punishes those who harm the village, but you’re not convinced. Fires like these happen in dry regions all the time, and it’s not uncommon for Yakutia, even in winter. You jot down a few notes, watching the fire consume the house, the warmth a stark contrast to the frigid air biting at your skin.

Was it possible the spirit the villagers whispered about had been punishing him? Or was it just an unfortunate accident, a result of negligence and the harsh conditions?

You shook your head, noting down the details. The more you learned, the stranger the situation became. It was only when you returned to your cabin that evening, exhausted from talking to the hesitant villagers, that you realized just how strange things had become.

Later that day, you return to your cabin, taking in the familiar creaks of the wooden floor under your boots and the soft flicker of your gas lamp lighting the room. The air inside is only a little warmer than the biting cold outside, but the crackling of the fire in the stove offers some comfort.

You sit at your table, flipping through pages of your notebook. The pencil scratches lightly against the paper as you record observations, every sound amplified in the quiet room. The rhythmic back-and-forth fills the space, a welcome lull amid the chaos of your investigation.

A knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts.

Standing in the doorway is one of the villagers—a man about your age, wrapped in thick furs with snow dusting his shoulders. You’d visited his family home a little while ago to ask about the happenings around the village, but their answers remained vague as all the others.

He’s cradling something in his hands. His breath fogs in the cold air as he shifts his weight, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of curiosity and something warmer. “I found these,” he says, extending his hands toward you. “Thought you might want to take a look.”

In his arms are ancient stone blocks, their surfaces engraved with symbols, faint but intricate. Your eyes widen at the sight. These carvings look similar to what you’ve seen before but older, almost primitive in comparison to the more refined relics you'd encountered earlier.

“Where did you find these?” you ask, stepping closer.

“In my house,” he replies, shrugging as if it’s no big deal. “They were buried under some old planks. Figured they were important.”

You offer him a grateful smile. “Thank you. These could be a huge help.”

He smiles back, a little too long. “I hope so. It’s, uh, the least I could do. The villagers… we don’t really know what’s going on with all this, but I figured you’d be the one to figure it out.”

As a thank-you, you hand him a small bag of food—some dried meats and bread you had stored away. His face lights up, and he nods gratefully before leaving you alone again to examine the stone blocks.

The sun sets quickly in the tundra, and soon, the only light in your cabin comes from the gas lamps and the fire’s low embers. You’re absorbed in studying the runes when a familiar knock sounds at the door again. When you open it, the man stands there once more, his eyes glinting in the soft lamplight. You let him in, not wanting him to stay in the cold for too long.

“I wanted to tell you more,” he says, a little breathless from the cold or perhaps something else. He shifts on his feet, seemingly nervous. “There are stories—whispers, really. The villagers don’t talk about it much, but some say there was once a spirit who protected us. He might’ve even been part of our village, long ago.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t anyone mention that?”

“They’re ashamed, I think,” he replies, his voice low. “It’s been forgotten over time. No one’s sure what happened, but... there are theories that we abandoned him, and he’s been angry ever since. That’s why the strange things have been happening.”

You nod, processing the information. It feels like a piece of a much larger puzzle, but there’s still so much missing.

As he talks, you notice the way he looks at you—his eyes linger a little too long, his words carrying a soft edge of admiration. He’s clearly interested, but you decide to brush it off for now. You smile politely, pretending not to notice the way his gaze follows you as you walk back to your table. You’ll be leaving the village as soon as you finish the case, so you didn’t want to lead him on.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “This is really helpful. I’ll look into it.”

The man nods, his shoulders slumping slightly as though he expected more. “Of course,” he says, his voice quieter now. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”

As he leaves, the door shuts with a soft click, and you turn back to the runes, your thoughts swimming with new possibilities. If what he said was true, there’s more to this mystery than the villagers are willing to admit. And now, it seems like the forgotten spirit might hold the key to it all.

A couple days later, as you ice fish by the frozen river, you set your net and lean back, watching the starting to sun dip on the horizon. The quiet stretches around you, broken only by the occasional crack of ice shifting in the distance. You peer down at your catch, noting the modest haul in your net. Then you blink—there, next to your net, are two large whitefish lying in the snow, far too large to have escaped without you noticing.

Confused, you glance around. No one is near. The fish are pristine, untouched by the ice or snow, as if they had been placed there deliberately. You shake your head, chalking it up to luck. Maybe they jumped out when you weren’t paying attention? The reflection in the water catches your eye, and for a fleeting moment, you see the sharp jawline of a handsome man’s face turned towards you as if he were ice fishing with you. You blink again, startled, and the image is gone when a fish swims by and ripples the water—just your own face reflected in the water.

You shake your head. It’s nothing. Maybe I’ve just been single for too long… 

You thought about contacting that man from the other day for just a moment. 

Later that night, after cleaning the fish and preparing a simple dinner of stroganina—raw, thin slices of frozen whitefish—you sit by the fire, letting the warmth soothe your tired muscles. The fish melts on your tongue, rich and buttery, as you sip water to wash it down. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. You chalked it up to exhaustion. After all, nothing had happened that you couldn’t explain away with logic and reason. You even joked to yourself as you drank water, “If only I had some vodka to go with this.”

You took another sip, and suddenly the liquid burned down your throat.

You froze.

This time, there was no logical explanation. You looked down at the cup in your hands, heart pounding in your chest. How had the water changed? You hadn’t touched anything else, but the unmistakable burn of alcohol lingered.

Startled, you stare down at your cup, heart pounding. This—this can’t be explained away. Your mind entertained the thought of a Siberian Jesus Christ. 

The fire crackled behind you, its warmth now somehow menacing. The quiet of the tundra felt heavier, the weight of the mystery pressing down on your chest. This place, this village—it wasn’t just the cold that seeped into your bones. There was something else here. Something old. Something powerful.

The next morning, footsteps in the snow led you away from the village, out into the wilderness. 

The morning air was crisp, each breath leaving a wisp of white in the early sunlight. You bundled yourself tightly against the cold, pulling your fur-lined hood closer around your face. As you stepped outside, you noticed something strange—footprints, fresh in the untouched snow, leading away from your cabin. They hadn’t been there the night before, and curiosity tugged at you.

You followed them, your boots crunching softly against the snow. The air was still, save for the occasional rustling of distant trees swaying under the weight of frost. The path led deeper into the woods, the towering trees gradually closing in around you, until the footprints stopped at the mouth of a small, hidden cave.

The entrance was barely visible, half-buried in snow, but something about it drew you in. You knelt down, brushing the snow from the edges, revealing intricate stone blocks covered in carvings similar to the ones the village boy had brought you. Painted masks, adorned with swirling patterns of reds and whites, lined the inner walls, and Yakutian knives were arranged in ceremonial positions.

The air inside the cave was still, almost too still. You fumbled for your matchsticks, striking one and holding it up to cast a soft glow around you. The light flickered over the stone walls, revealing carvings of fire and snow—an odd combination, yet it made sense somehow, here in this frozen land. It felt like a shrine, a forgotten place of worship, long abandoned.

In the corner of your eye, you noticed a small stone just outside the cave. It was partially dusted in snow, but the engravings on it were clear. You leaned down, brushing it off with your gloved hand.

The instant your fingers touched the stone, a deep, gravelly voice echoed from behind you. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You squealed, whipping around, only to find no one there. Your heart hammered in your chest, and you stumbled backward, falling straight into the snow. There were no footprints, no sign of anyone else. Just the eerie silence of the winter woods.

The spirit’s presence began to grow after you got home. Not just in the subtle warmth of the room or the way the hearth crackled to life at your arrival, but in the unmistakable feeling that he was always near. The warmth you once chalked up to the peculiarities of the stove now seemed deliberate, purposeful. The fire would roar to life just as your fingers began to freeze from the cold, as if it were watching, anticipating your needs.

It was no longer a question of if the spirit was real, but how deeply it was intertwined with the world around you. Every time you struck a match or lit a lantern, the flames danced longer than they should, their movements almost playful, as though teasing you. You tried to brush it off as wind or the natural flicker of fire, but something about the way the flames moved—how they seemed to respond to your presence—was undeniable.

It was trying to communicate.

It started with the crackling of the fire. At first, it was faint, like a low murmur beneath the sound of the wood burning. You would sit in front of the hearth after a long day of research, the warmth enveloping you, the sound becoming a constant companion. There were times you swore you heard words in the fire’s crackle, an indistinct whisper. "It’s just the wind," you told yourself. "Just the wood popping." But the more time passed, the clearer it became. The crackling wasn’t random—it carried meaning.

Then, one evening as you sat alone in the cabin after tossing a pancake into the fire, a cold gust of wind howling outside, you finally heard it: “You’re back.”

The voice was faint, almost lost in the sound of the firewood splitting, but it was there—low, gravelly, and unmistakable. You froze, heart pounding, eyes wide in surprise as you stared at the flames. For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it. But the voice came again, just as you leaned closer. “You’re not afraid.”

You weren’t sure how to respond. Your throat felt tight, your hands clammy despite the warmth. You tried to rationalize it—maybe you were exhausted, hallucinating from the cold. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t your imagination. Slowly, carefully, you muttered, “Am I... supposed to be afraid?”

The flames flickered in response, and you could swear you heard a huff, like a quiet laugh. Then the voice returned, clearer this time. “You’re stubborn.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, a mix of amusement and confusion swirling inside you. “If you’re a spirit,” you said softly, “then show me a sign. Let me know I’m not losing my mind.”

There was a pause, and for a moment you thought maybe the voice wouldn’t return. But then, the fire roared, flaring up for just a second, casting the entire cabin in a brilliant light. The heat was so intense that you instinctively stepped back, heart hammering in your chest.

So it was real.

The days after that were filled with small, subtle gestures. The fire seemed to burn longer without the need for more wood. When you struggled to chop firewood or gather supplies, you would return to your cabin to find fresh logs stacked neatly by the door or a basket of fish left outside. You didn’t question it anymore, though each act left you both grateful and uneasy. Eventually, he told you his name— Bakugou Katsuki.

"Thank you," you whispered to the fire one evening, unsure if Bakugou could hear you but needing to acknowledge the help he had provided.

The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and you could almost sense his presence, as though he were sitting just beyond the hearth, watching over you.

It wasn’t just the warmth he brought. It was the feeling of protection, a sense that he was always there, keeping the biting cold at bay. The wind howled outside, but inside, the fire crackled with a steady, comforting heat, as though Bakugou himself were standing guard over your cabin.

As the connection between you and Bakugou deepened, so did the manifestations of his presence. There were times when you could feel warmth pass by you in the room, like an invisible hand brushing against your skin. And then, there were the footprints. In the mornings, you would find faint impressions in the snow outside your door—footprints too large to be your own, too distinct to be explained by passing animals. They led away from the cabin, disappearing into the woods where the trees whispered in the wind.

One night, after a long day of gathering research and barely avoiding frostbite, you collapsed onto the bed, too tired to even remove your boots. You stared into the hearth, watching the flames sway and shift. As you drifted off, you swore you saw something in the fire—a figure, tall and broad-shouldered, standing amidst the flames.

"Bakugou," you whispered, sleep pulling you under. The fire flared again, and in the brief moment before darkness claimed you, you felt the warmth of his presence like a blanket around your body, lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

With each passing day, Bakugou’s presence grew stronger. There were moments when you caught glimpses of him in reflections—on the frozen surface of a nearby pond or in the gleam of a window. He would appear for just a moment, the outline of a figure, the flicker of a flame in his eyes, and then he’d be gone, as though the world itself was trying to remember him.

"Why were you forgotten?" you asked the fire one evening, your voice barely a whisper. There was no immediate answer, but the flames shifted, as though Bakugou were trying to find the words.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," came the gravelly voice at last, softer than before. "I was supposed to protect this village. But something... something changed."

You waited, hoping for more, but the fire quieted, the conversation left unfinished. You knew he was withholding something, something important, but he wasn’t ready to reveal it just yet.

As the winter deepened, so did your connection. The emotional tension between you and Bakugou simmered just beneath the surface. He was no longer just a spirit haunting your cabin—he was a presence, a force that kept you safe, a companion in the long, cold nights. And as his voice grew more familiar, so did your thoughts about him. You started to look forward to the conversations by the hearth, the way the flames would flicker in response to your words, how his presence made the cabin feel less lonely, less cold.

But with that warmth came an ache, a yearning that neither of you dared to speak of yet. You wondered how far this connection could go, how real Bakugou could become.

One thing was certain: you were no longer alone in the tundra. And Bakugou, once forgotten, was starting to be remembered—by you.

The air was sharp and cold as you made your way back to the shrine, a small group of villagers following behind you. In your hands, you held an offering—a bundle of dried herbs, fish, and pancakes, all delicately wrapped in cloth. The villagers murmured amongst themselves, nervous but willing. They, too, had grown weary of the strange occurrences and were ready to do whatever was necessary to end them.

The old man leading the group had spoken of the fire spirit with reverence, explaining that the villagers once honored Bakugou with offerings to ensure their prosperity. Over time, however, the traditions had been forgotten, and with it, so had Bakugou’s power. Now, you were determined to set things right.

The path through the woods felt familiar. You’d followed it before, and yet today, it carried a different weight. You could feel him, his presence in the air, watching you from the shadows of the trees. It was as if the entire forest was holding its breath.

When you arrived at the shrine—a cave hidden deep within the woods—the villagers began to build a bonfire at its entrance. They stacked wood and kindling, and soon, flames licked the sky, casting the ancient stone carvings in a warm, flickering light. The shrine walls, covered in depictions of fire and snow, seemed to glow under the fire's embrace.

You approached the altar, laying the offerings down gently. The villagers bowed their heads, murmuring prayers to the forgotten spirit, asking for forgiveness. As you knelt beside the offerings, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder, feeling an intense heat—not from the bonfire, but from somewhere deeper within the cave.

For a moment, the flames crackled louder, and the ground beneath you seemed to hum with energy. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything went quiet. The strange occurrences in the village—the fires, the whispers in the wind, the unsettling feeling of being watched—ceased. You could feel it, a weight lifting off the air. The offering had been accepted.

The villagers left soon after, grateful for your leadership and certain that Bakugou’s anger had been soothed. But you lingered, something pulling you back toward the cave.

Once the others were out of sight, you found yourself drawn deeper into the shrine. The carvings on the walls seemed even more intricate in the dim light, and you ran your fingers over the smooth stone, marveling at the ancient craftsmanship. Your thoughts wandered to him, to Bakugou. Was he truly satisfied with the offerings? Would you ever see him again?

A soft crackling sound broke the silence. You froze, every hair on your body standing on end. Slowly, you turned around, your breath catching in your throat.

There he stood.

Bakugou, no longer a fleeting presence or a whisper in the flames, but solid and real, towering over you. He was just as you’d imagined—no, more. His bare chest, muscled and powerful, was only partially covered by a thick fur that draped over one shoulder. His skin seemed to shimmer with warmth, his eyes blazing red like embers. He exuded strength, yet his gaze—intense and unwavering—held something deeper. Hunger.

"You came back," his voice rumbled, low and gravelly, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your mouth went dry. "I… I wanted to make sure the offering was enough."

He didn’t answer immediately, his fiery gaze trailing over you, making your skin tingle under the intensity of his stare. Then, with one swift movement, he closed the distance between you, pinning you gently against the cool stone of the cave wall. The heat of his body was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the cold of the cave, and you felt your pulse race.

"You shouldn’t be here alone," Bakugou growled, his breath hot against your skin.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words were lost as his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding. His kiss was consuming, like the fire he embodied—wild, uncontrollable, and impossible to resist. You melted against him, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingers.

His body pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer. The world outside the cave disappeared—there was only Bakugou, his touch, his heat, and the insistent press of his lips against yours. You gasped as his hand moved up your back, sending sparks of electricity through your body.

The intensity of the kiss left you breathless, and when he finally pulled away, just enough to let you catch your breath, his lips brushed against your ear. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper.

You barely had time to respond before the world shifted. One moment, you were in the cave, pressed against the stone; the next, you were back in your cabin, the familiar warmth of the hearth surrounding you. But Bakugou was still there, standing tall before you, his hands still on your body, his lips only inches from yours.

Your eyes widened in shock. “How…?”

He smirked, his eyes gleaming. “Fire is everywhere,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “And where there’s fire, I can be.”

Before you could fully comprehend what he’d just said, his lips were on yours again, softer this time but no less urgent. He kissed you like a man who had waited centuries for this moment, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made your knees weak.

The fire in the hearth flared behind you, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow as Bakugou’s body pressed against yours, his heat making your skin burn with desire. Every touch, every kiss felt like it was stoking the flames inside you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting more.

You moaned softly against his lips, your hands tangling in his hair as the intensity between you grew, the connection undeniable. He growled in response, deepening the kiss, his grip tightening as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Whatever boundaries had existed between the mortal world and the spirit realm no longer mattered. In that moment, there was only you and Bakugou—fire and flesh, spirit and soul, bound together in a heat that refused to be extinguished.

Without a word, he approached you, his movements as fluid as molten lava. He bent down and claimed your lips, You gasped at the contact, your body responding with a fiery need that matched his own. 

He quickly peeled off your many layers of clothes. His hands found their way under your pants, taking them off as his touch burned your skin and he spread your legs. The world outside the cabin faded away, leaving only the two of you and the dance of shadows on the walls.

Bakugou knelt before you, his intense crimson eyes never leaving yours as he parted your folds with his fingers. You shrunk under his close gaze as he took the sight of you in. “So perfect,” he groaned, grabbing at your soft thighs with two large hands and spreading you out for him.

 The first lick of his tongue sent you spiraling, the sensation intense on your clit. You moaned, your hands grabbing at his blonde spikes, your body arching towards the heat of his mouth. He took his time, tasting you, savoring you, driving you closer and closer to the edge of release.

But just as you felt yourself about to fall over the edge, you pushed him back, the need to explore his body consuming you. 

You pushed him onto the ground, pulling down at his pants. “It’s my turn,” you proclaimed. 

He looked up at you, a question in his eyes, but you didn't waver. You dropped to your knees pulling down his pants and gasping when his hard shaft bounced out of the fabric. It was the size of your face, and its girth was something else. 

He noticed your awe at him, and his ego was inflated even more than it already is. “Like what you see?”

You roll your eyes, taking his thick length in your hand and bringing it to your lips before giving the tip a peck. He groaned, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cabin. Your hand grasped at his strong thighs. Teasing him, you spent time kissing all over his outer and inner thighs before moving to his shaft. 

You took your time, exploring every inch of him with your mouth, worshipping him as he deserved. You licked him up and down his hot length, watching as his eyes screwed together in pleasure before you took his whole length into your mouth— up and down his length in a bobbing motion.

His hands tangled in your hair, guiding you, urging you faster as he grew harder. The heat of his body was intoxicating, his scent a heady mix of sweet smoke and masculinity that made your head spin.

The fire in the hearth of the cabin roared to life, casting shadows across the room as you brought him closer and closer to the edge. His groans filled your ears, the only sound in the quiet night, until he could take no more. With a final, desperate thrust, he emptied himself into your mouth, the heat of his cum like liquid fire. 

Bakugou chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours as he lifted you to your feet. He picked you up with ease, carrying you to the soft fur that lay before the fireplace. Gently, he laid you down, your skin feeling like it was on fire from the heat of his touch.

"Your body," he murmured, tracing the curves of your hips with his thumb, "it's a masterpiece.” He leaned down, capturing a nipple with his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. You arched your back, gasping as the heat from his breath melded with the warmth from the fire, making it feel like you were melting from the inside out.

"Bakugou," you moaned, his name a prayer on your lips as he moved to your other breast, giving it the same loving attention. His hands roamed over your stomach, his fingers finding their way between your legs again. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Katsuki,” he corrected, as he began to fuck you with them, slow and deep, watching as your eyes fluttered closed and your mouth fell open in ecstasy.

As he worked his fingers into you, a low hum escaped him. “So damn tight,” watching as your face wrinkled up in pleasure. 

"Look at me," he growled, his voice a demand that you couldn't refuse. You met his gaze, the intensity of his stare making your heart race even faster. His thumb brushed against your clit as his lips pulled themselves into a grin as he sent a shockwave through your body. "I want to see you come apart for me."

As soon as he said these words, his fingers curled directly into your sweet spot. Your vision went white with pleasure. In the background, his grin only became more animalistic as he leaned down to catch a nipple into his mouth. His fingers worked you to the edge, driving you crazy.

The orgasm crashed over you like a massive wave, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. Your thighs were wet and sticky with your own release.

He watched you, his own arousal evident in the way he held himself, his eyes never leaving yours. "That was just the beginning," he promised, his voice a rumble that sent another shiver down your spine.

He watched you— all spread out and pretty for him on the fur, watching the warm light of the fire bounce off your delectable skin as you tried to catch your breath and your legs shook. He couldn’t help but mark you up all over as he sent you over the edge once more with his lips and fingers this time. A light chuckle left him as you cried out his name and writhed underneath him— overstimulation already starting to take over.

Your breathless voice called out to him in the small space of the cabin. “Katsuki,” you beckoned, “please… I need it.” You knew that he kept going at this rate, you’d go insane.

“You sure, princess? You think you can take it now?” His head kept burying itself between your legs, kitten licking at your clit before sucking at it and thrusting his fingers in and out of you. “You’re still not loose enough,” he says as he curls his fingers up again, releasing a squeal from you. 

You just kept cumming— each time you came, your walls only got more and more sensitive, pulling you to orgasm again.

Bakugou watched in sadistic joy every time your walls tightened further around his fingers. He came back up to you to catch your moaning lips into a kiss before trailing down and leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses all over your neck and chest. When he started playing with your clit again, you came again, tears welling up in your eyes from sheer pleasure. 

Your mind couldn’t fathom anything but Bakugou. Your mouth cried out broken strings of his name until he finally withdrew his fingers from your core, licking them up lasciviously. He lined himself up with you, tapping his tip against your puffy clit, making you jolt. Your entrance was still convulsing from your long string of climaxes as he finally pushed himself against it, groaning when he felt himself slip past the ring of muscle. 

He took in a sharp breath of air. “Could you quit clenching?” His head rolled back in pleasure, not even fully inside of you yet. “I’m already,” he pushes himself in further, “strugglin’ as it is…”

He was so thick. It filled you up, making you cum when he was only buried into your walls up until the tip and then some. “I’m sorry,” you managed to whine out, breathless, “I can’t help it!”

With these words, he froze and stared at you climaxing before pushing the rest of himself in, causing you to scream. He gave you a moment to relax with his entire shaft inside of you. You felt so full— he stretched you out so good. “So noisy,” he smirked, only spurring your voice to get louder with each thrust.

He started to pick up a steady pace, pistoning in and out of you. Each thrust made you shudder—his length stretched you out perfectly and hit you in all of the right places. Your hands gripped at the fur beneath you for any sort of purchase. He wiped one of your tears away, burying his head into the crook of your neck and groaning with each thrust. 

You believed that spirits didn’t exist, but here you were, getting dicked down by one. And you were sure as hell enjoying it.

As he pounded away at you, your eyes rolled back into your head, your moans turning into cries. He was so rough, so primal in his movements, it was like he was trying to claim you. And with every thrust, it felt like he was getting closer to doing so. 

He kissed down your neck, nipping at the soft skin with his teeth. His hands roamed over your body, gripping your hips tightly as he thrusted in deeper and harder. The noises of your pussy squelching in the cabin were obscene, but they only served to spur Bakugou on.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured against your skin.

His thrusts were getting faster and more erratic, so you knew he was close. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on, needing him to fill you up with his heat. And then, with one final, powerful thrust, he did. You felt the warmth of his cum fill you up, spilling into your womb like molten lava.

He collapsed onto you, panting heavily. His weight was a comforting presence as he remained inside of you, his cock still pulsing with every beat of his heart. You could feel his warmth seep into your very core, leaving you feeling complete in a way you never had before.

As the moments passed, he slowly pulled out of you, his cum dripping out and down your thighs. You watched as he looked down, his eyes widening in awe at the sight. He leaned down to kiss you, his hand cupping your cheek. “You’re mine now,” he whispered.

a/n: we're back!

lol not beta read again please let me know if you see any typos or anything that's just like. wrong/inconsistent

my taglist is open! lmk if you wanna be tagged in future bakugou fics or j all my fics in general

thank you for reading & stay hydrated, y'all <3

directory/m.list

[definegodliness]

Quite simply

For a second, there, The sunlight pierced the mist and clouds In gentlest caress For the world — almost timid — And all the dew, and lingering Drops of rain, or condensation, That for so long had remained hidden, Started shimmering.

My smile, and winter, Quite simply beautiful, for that second, there, That turned to a minute, Or moment Of timelessness.

The serenity left me breathless As escapist luminescent magic Lifted The curse Of defeatism.

I remembered. I reminisced you, and what you meant to me, With a smile, quite beautiful. The fairylike world had returned, And, somewhere, behind my sternum, Where a piece of you Has her ever-home, A hearth was kindled. So, my wooden heart Started to glow.

--- 27-12-2024, M.A. Tempels ©

[vee-vee-writes]

Escalating Tensions (Thorin x poly!reader x Thranduil)

This is part two to Reigniting Old Feuds. I will be writing a part three. Request by @satans-bitch

Clasping the hot porcelain cup between their hands, Y/N stared blankly into the crackling fire of the hearth. The room flickered as flames licked up logs and turned the kindling too ash. The fighting and jealousy of their two lovers had run Y/N ragged and in a bid to escape it they had returned to the peace of their modest home in Dale. As the moon shone through the window the cozy home felt lonely. Yet Y/N would rather face the bitter sting of loneliness than continue to suffer through the raging rivalry between Thorin and Thranduil. The young human began to reflect upon the beginning of their relationship.

Harsh banging upon the door startled Y/N awake. Realising they had cried themself to sleep at their desk after having envoys deliver each king their answer the young advisor gently rubbed their eyes. Gritty sleep fell from as Y/N cringed at their swollen feel. Rising and straightening themselves out Y/N took in a deep breath before heading to answer the door. Y/N had a decent idea of who it might be visiting so early in the morning. Upon answering the door Y/N had little chance to step back before two figures were barging their way into the small home, arguing the entire time.

Thranduil and Thorin stood before Y/N each looking as though they’d had little sleep the night before. “You’re serious about what you sent then? That you won’t choose between the two of us” Thorin broached carefully. Having little energy left Y/N simply nodded. Thorin pursed his lips together tightly as his brows furrowed. “What if you didn’t have to choose between us?” Thranduil reasoned. Y/N straightened up surprised by the implication of Thranduil’s words. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting” Y/N squeaked searching both kings faces trying to gauge their feelings.

“We spoke about it before we came. While neither of us is particularly keen on the thought of sharing, we also don’t want to lose you” Thorin confirmed. “Can you promise that you will not be jealous of one another? That we can set boundaries to stop any resentment or jealousy building?” Y/N questioned cautiously. It was fine to suggest a polyamorous relationship, but Y/N knew that with two rivals as volatile as these two it was likely to devolve into jealousy, bitterness, and anger. A war would not benefit any kingdom, least of all Dale who’d be stuck in the middle of it.

Both monarchs nodded in confirmation. “Our proposal is simple; you would send a month at a time in each of our kingdoms. During that time, the other partner is welcome to write to you, send gifts, and, if agreed upon by the receiving monarch, may even come to visit from time to time. You’d be free to come and go as you please of course and if you wish to return to Dale at any point we can have that arranged too” Thranduil reasoned. “That seems reasonable” Y/N admitted as they mulled over the proposition. “We’ve agreed that even if tension was to arise between the two of us” Thorin gestured to Thranduil “neither kingdom would suffer for it. Trade and allyship is to the benefit of both of our people if Sauron is to return.” Bowing their head a large smile broke out on Y/N’s face, “then I accept this deal.”

A small smile had made its way to Y/N’s lip as they reminisced upon the beginning of the relationship. It had been a surprise that the two had even settled on such an agreement but not unwelcome by any means. If anything, it had seemed an omen of good things to come. Things had been great between the three of them, at least for several months before the jealousy had set in and two rivals had fallen back into old habits.

After having spent a month in Erebor with Thorin, Y/N had made the journey by armed escort to the Woodland Realm. Thranduil had been delighted to see his beloved, sweeping Y/N into his arms as soon as the guards had left his sight. Nuzzling his nose into Y/N’s neck he’d suddenly paused, a sudden stiffness to his embrace. Surprised Y/N pulled back slightly trying to figure out what was going on. Thranduil’s hand shot up to clasp the newly beaded braid woven into their hair. His grip was gentle enough as to not hurt them but firm as he inspected the bead. Tight jawed Thranduil had said nothing else about it before dropping his hand and pulling Y/N along to their shared chambers.

The Elven King did not need to say anything, his thoughts were clear. Thranduil was bothered by the braid and courting bead that Thorin had gifted Y/N. The dwarven lover had meticulously woven strand upon strand together as an open declaration of his love to any who came across Y/N. Outside of the overwhelming sense of love and pride such an action had imbued them with, Y/N had thought little upon what Thranduil would think about such a gesture. Now it seemed that perhaps that oversight was a mistake, that envy would once again rear its ugly head.

Y/N kicked themself for not putting a stop to it then. In truth they hoped that it would resolve itself, it certainly seemed like it had when the rest of the visit went on uneventful. They should have known it was the calm before the storm.

The night before Y/N was set to return to Erebor Thranduil had presented Y/N with a breath-taking gift. Reasoning that if Thorin was allowed to permanently mark Y/N as his that Thranduil should have the same right he had presented them with a delicate bead imbued with the White Gems of Lasgalen. So, Y/N found themself with a braid and courting bead from both king’s woven into each side of their hair.

Y/N only hoped that the act wouldn’t upset Thorin, especially considering the significance of courting beads and hair braiding in dwarven culture. Their prayers went unanswered.

Approaching the towering stone gates of Erebor Y/N wrung their hands nervously. Thorin awaited them with at the gates with a glowing grin. His excitement was short lived. Once his eyes had spotted the elven braid his brow had furrowed, and mood darkened. Greeting Y/N cordially as not to give away his upset to anyone watching their greeting. After sweeping Y/N away to settle into their quarters in the royal wing he’d kissed Y/N fiercely before storming out. “I have a letter to write to that elven bastard” Thorin had boomed as he stalked towards his study.

Things had only soured from there with countless other tense meetings and angry words shared. That was why Y/N found themself back in Dale, an attempt to escape the escalating hostilities and regroup. It was obvious that if they did not intervene now that the two would continue to annoy Y/N with their childish bickering. A game plan was needed, and Y/N knew the exact man to help come up with it.

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[manypathsoneforest]

Prayer to Hestia Gracious Hestia, gentle-hearted one, soul of the home, I call to you. In times of old, dear goddess, all first offerings were yours, so great was your might, so great your import, so great the need for your blessing. Noble daughter of Kronos and broad-bosomed Rhea, honored sister of thundering Zeus, eternal maid who sits at the center, all honor I offer you. I thank you for the solid walls I dwell within, I thank you for the warm and welcoming hearth, I thank you for the bread I break with friends and kin. Hestia, constant tender of Olympos’ bright flame, friend of those who keep and kindle their own hearthfire, I thank you for making my home a sanctuary of comfort and peace, of security and strength.