#QUIET DOWN BEAST MY WIFE IS TALKING

[rorydrawsandwrites]

Maggie gave me a Roomer on him and I finally met Johnny on my first day tee hee

Also he doesn't even swear (that doesn't count). What a good Christian boy

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 6) part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

-

And they say if it sways, you have to cut it off at the root.

You repeat that to yourself when you catch the way you glance out the kitchen window again, surreptitiously watching John. It’s hard to pull your eyes away. He walks over to the well to fetch water for you to do the dishes, the chore you’d elected to take when he offered you the choice between that and feeding the horses. It’s a fair compromise since you balk at the thought of getting anywhere near either of those beasts. 

Watching him bend over the well to lower the bucket down, his muscled shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and suspenders drawing tight against his back, makes you bite your lip. Then scowl. Then pull the curtain shut to block out the view.

You have to cut any gentleness off at the root. 

When he comes back, you step to the side without a word to let him pour the water into the wash basin, hot water from the teakettle and lye soap making the water already in the pan sudsy. In a sense, it’s not any different from anything you’ve done back home; the same two pans for washing and scalding, the same cake of soap, and the same dish towel to dry the dishes off at the end. The only difference is the man that pours the cool water into the basin to make it more comfortable for your hands. 

“I’ll be out back,” he tells you, before grabbing you around the waist and pulling you in close to press a close-mouthed kiss to the side of your head. You only scrunch your nose a little. “When you’re done, come get me. Got business in town.”

“Why do you need me to come with you?” you ask, lips cresting into a pout without a thought. You’d never considered yourself a bellyacher, but it’s almost second nature around John. “I can…I can stay and clean the house.”

“You saying I keep a messy home?” John asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You look pointedly down at the dirt he tracked into the kitchen after fetching the bucket of water from the well. “It could do with a spit shine.” 

That gets a laugh out of him, a bellow from deep in his belly. It shakes you to your bones. 

“Darling, I’ll be honest with you,” he says, turning you to face him before folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t trust you not to bolt like a runaway horse, and you’ll only wind up putting yourself in danger if you try to make a run for it out here.”

That expression makes your stomach twist. “Good to know you think of your wife as some scared filly.” 

“You talk a whole lot for a woman who’s been over my knee. Do we need to repeat that?”

When his tone goes stern, you lose the wedging piece of candor keeping you upright. Eyes widen and then narrow. He’s been patient despite your loose tongue, but when that patience slips, you can see the steel underneath his gentle exterior. It’s the true root of him. 

You clam up under his stare, sullen and begrudging. Smooth your dress down to have something to do with your hands. You’ve forgotten your place again. Side-stepped it out of intimacy or misplaced trust or naivety or forgetting, again, for the umpteenth time, that the world is not a place for women that open their mouths. So you keep it shut, trap every festering word behind your teeth. 

He must not like something he sees painted on your face because his brows draw closer together, frustration brewing anew in his eyes. The longer you stay quiet, the more irritated he grows, his nostrils flaring wide. 

“See that you come get me as soon as everything’s squared away in here,” John bites out, pointing a single, blunt finger at you. “Else I’ll come get you myself.”

And we wouldn’t want that, you think, surly. You hope it swims across your eyes. Blooms on your face. Perhaps it does. 

The lines around his mouth and eyes grow more defined when he smiles. His whole mustache moves with his smile, every part of his face expressing his satisfaction. It’s beyond infuriating. He taps you on the nose with his knuckle before leaving out the backdoor, not sparing you a backward glance. You nearly shake with indignation. 

It’s hard not to watch him out in the paddock while drying the dishes though, not with him set against the gilded sun. You inch the curtain slightly open, just enough of a gap to peer through. The Stetson shadows his face when he tilts his head up towards the sky, the hard edge of his jaw the only thing that meets your gaze. It’s not the first time you’ve seen a man out in the fields or pastures, but most of those have been at a distance, removed. Glimpsed briefly through the window while your train barreled on past acres of farmland. 

John cycles through the morning tasks of guiding the horses into the paddock by a lead fixed to their halter, replenishing the food trough, and fetching more water from the well to fill the water trough. His horses are striking in the sheer size of them; muscled shoulders and legs, and well-padded flanks. Most of the horses you’ve seen out west haven’t seemed nearly as well-fed, many whittled down to rib and hip bone. 

It says something about him, but you’re not ready to confront exactly what. You turn your attention back to the dishes, scrubbing the last of the dried butter and eggs at the bottom of the pan. It takes a little extra grit, but cleaning is a familiar chore—it’s one you’ve done all your life, what got you into this mess in the first place. 

You don’t like what you find when you finally venture out of the house to track him down. 

“I’m not getting on that thing.” 

You put your veritable foot down with that, arms straight and stiff by your sides, more out of worry than annoyance. You do also give a little stomp for good measure, but you’ll chalk that up to reflexes should John inquire. 

He doesn’t. Just stares down at you with unimpressed green eyes that haunt your days and nights now. Tells you without telling you that you’ll get on that horse, willing or not. 

It’s not for a lack of beauty that you can’t quite shake the nervousness they elicit in you. Buttercup, the one that John saddled up and now waits patiently to be mounted, keeps her head low as if sensing your disquiet, curiosity glimmering in her coal black eyes. Not even the animal curiosity of is this a friend or foe, but the curiosity that comes with pure trust, almost intelligible that way. 

John runs his hand down her smooth, buttery flank. “Did you enjoy yesterday’s walk?”

“I didn’t hate it.” Truth be told, you’d hardly been of a mind to notice it at all. Though your legs still ache from the walk back to John’s house, the walk itself had not seemed especially grueling in the moment. The mind can put aside quite a bit when it has something else to focus on. 

“Well, I’m not too keen to repeat it.” He leaves it at that, tightening a strap on Buttercup’s saddle in such a purposeful way that your shoulders tense. 

“I could meet you there,” you say, a touch desperately. Your stomach turns when you think about hoisting yourself up onto Buttercup’s saddle. It doesn’t seem possible. It’s not something you’ve ever done or ever considered doing. You remember horror stories of stableboys back home trampled under their hooves and stomped to death, kicks so powerful that they could break a fully grown man’s ribs or cave in his face. 

“My wife isn’t gonna wander into town by her lonesome like some vagrant,” John says disdainfully, almost scoffing. Insulted by the whole idea. “And you’re sure as hell not staying here alone, darlin’.”

“Well, figure something else out because I am not getting up on that thin—” You cut off on a yelp when he circles around you and abruptly lifts you up. Your head rushes at the sudden motion, legs flailing beneath you. 

“Quit squirmin’ like a damn barn cat. Little hellion,” John grits out, guiding your heel into the stirrup. “C’mon, you’re just side saddling, so you only need your butt on the saddle.” When he sets you down lightly onto the saddle, you stop wiggling around, acutely aware of the thousand pound horse beneath you. “There we go—that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” 

“I hate this,” you hiss, fingers clamped tight over the pommel. 

“Aw, darlin’, don’t go insulting Buttercup like that,” John chuckles, replacing your foot in the stirrup with his own.

You sit there stiff as a board, perched precariously on the saddle as he hoists himself up behind you. His sheer proximity doesn’t register right away. You’re too concerned with the moving beast under you, its ribs expanding and contracting with each breath. Unlike you, John is more than comfortable sitting astride the horse, not a smidgeon of tension in his body. You suck in a horrified breath when you feel him readjust himself before settling down more comfortably. 

He reaches around you to grab the reins, a sharp whistle signaling the horse to take her first stride forward, looping around the side of the house. Even the slow trot threatens to buck you off at first. You lurch forward with each step, certain that you’ll slip right off the saddle and onto the dusty ground below until John loops an arm around your waist and pulls you to his chest.

You grow stiffer in his arms somehow. Despite sleeping in the same bed the night before and sharing far too many kisses for your comfort or virtue, being pressed up tight against a man never gets easier. Perhaps if you’d been married for longer than a single day you’d be more at ease with the notion, but as of yet, it comes as a shock to the senses every time. 

You carefully avoid the thought that other married women wouldn’t be still in possession of their maidenhead so many hours after their wedding night. That’s none of your business.

The two of you navigate into town at a slow canter, allowing you to gradually acclimatize to the gait of a horse. Part of you remembers riding horses when you were younger, but that was a lifetime ago, long enough to shake the memory from your muscles. These days, you can barely remember the hands holding you steady, the ones that would’ve lifted you up onto the horse and helped you back down. Those people are faceless in your memories. 

John stays silent at your back, only tightening his hand around your hip when you slip the slightest bit when Buttercup picks up the pace, heading towards the familiar sight of the sheriff’s office. It draws a quick squawk out of you, neatly masked by a fake cough. His chuckle at that rumbles through you, clearly not buying it. Another lesson in humiliation. 

You manage not to flail as much when he gets off the horse and helps you down, even though you’re still not used to being manhandled so, particularly not in front of the townsfolk milling about and glancing over with undisguised interest. 

“Are you working today?” you ask, curiosity getting the better of you while John ties Buttercup’s lead to the post outside the sheriff’s office. 

“Don’t exactly get many days off when you’re the only sheriff in the county,” John replies. “We’ve got a few deputies in every town, and a couple here, but it ain’t an easy gig.”

“How many deputies have you got here?” 

“Just the three. Simon, John, and Kyle. You met Simon the other day.” 

His name draws up the faint memory of the masked deputy from your wedding ceremony. “I remember,” you say flatly. There’s no lost love between you and anyone involved with that sham of a wedding. 

“Don’t hold that against him,” John smiles. “He’s a good ole boy. Can’t fault a man for following the boss’ orders.”

Watch me. You glance away lest he see that thought etched across your face. 

The town is bustling with activity this late in the morning. Steps and floorboards creak under the weight of boots coming and going. A man going by in a horse-and-buggy whistles sharply when he cracks the reins, his horse puffing out a low, frustrated grunt. 

Men hustle past you decked out in leather chaps and waistcoats, spats covering the half-boots of those not decked out in tall, spurred cowboy boots. There are far less women scampering about town than men, particularly not so close to the sheriff’s office, but you keep finding your eyes drawn to them. 

John grips you under the arm and swiftly pulls you back when you narrowly sidestep a mound of horse droppings left uncovered in the middle of the road. The smell only hits you a second later. 

“Well, that’s lovely,” you remark, deadpanned, putting your foot down deliberately a good distance away. 

“Wouldn’t need to complain about it if you just watched your step.”

“You know, this really would’ve been a nice day to just stay home,” you mutter, chastised enough not to say something sharp in return. 

While the smell makes your nose wrinkle, you have to admit that the air here is far less pungent than back home. In general, this bucolic town is far more pleasant in certain respects than the city you’d left behind in a haste. 

“Where do you want me to wait for you?” you ask, turning to face him now at the front steps of the sheriff’s office.

He frowns. “Wait for me?”

“While you work, I mean. Surely you don’t mean for me to sit inside all day twiddling my thumbs while you work.”

His mustache twitches with a smile. “Thought I’d show you around first—get you acquainted with the locals.”

The idea of mingling with the townsfolk doesn’t appeal to you, but you also can’t think of a good enough reason to refuse. Especially with the curious glances already being sent your way. You duck your head to stare down at your boots when you spot a group of other women clustered together and whispering to each other, their eyes trained on you. Somehow you’ve gone from being furniture in a room to being a source of local gossip, and it’s almost hard to believe that you miss being ignored. 

When you look back up at John, you find him still staring down at you, waiting patiently. Up close, the sunlight almost turns patches of his beard gold; he has a smattering of moles across his face, not the blush of freckles but rather a few dark spots by his nose. Aside from the tuft of hair under his bottom lip, his chin is mostly bare, and when he smiles, his whole face moves with it. You have to blink to snap yourself out of it. 

Your upper lip curls involuntarily when you say, “So you want to help me make friends?” 

“Well, seeing as I know most of ‘em, figured I’d be a help.”

“The job’s really not all that busy then, huh?” You really wish you could learn to shut your mouth, since it keeps getting you in trouble, but the barbs roll off your tongue so naturally. Luckily, it seems to amuse him now more than it did early this morning. 

“Guess life isn’t as exciting ‘round here as it is back in the city, but it has its days,” John chuckles. “Now come on; I’ll give you the tour.”

For some reason, you hadn’t pictured the town being quite so big, but during your walk, you realize you’ve vastly underestimated the true size of it. Though not anywhere near as ostentatious as the cities back east, the sheer breadth of it eclipses anything from back home. It’s spread out on an incomparable scale, the mountains in the background stretching out along the horizon like the skeletal remains of a giant long since dead and decayed.  

It’s not the ramshackle town you envisioned when you stepped off the train the other day, despite the wooden facades and their brightly painted signs. You almost wish you had more time just to admire the craftsmanship, but John leads you from store to store like he’s on a mission.

He seems most interested in towing you around like some prized mare, all trussed up and clean from your bath the night before. You meet so many people that their names and faces all begin to blur together. The worst offense of all is that it makes you lean on John for support, looking up at him again and again for reassurance whenever you can’t answer a question or your answer triggers a moment of awkward silence. 

Those moments come aplenty too. The few people nosey enough to ask you about your life back in the city find themselves on the butt end of a cheerfully delivered lie from John. It unnerves you at first, seeing how comfortable he is with lying. He doesn’t even hesitate for a second when recounting your previous life as a schoolteacher in Connecticut prior to your engagement.

Perhaps it’s not a lie though. You don’t know the extent to which he and his original betrothed corresponded. Certainly not enough for him to suspect you of not being her, but maybe she’d spun him that story. Or maybe it had been the truth. All this time you’d thought that John had been swindled by some con artist using desperate men to fund her lifestyle, but maybe somewhere between here and Connecticut, there’s an unmarked grave with the corpse of the woman that John had intended to marry. 

That makes you feel guilty somehow, like you’ve taken something not meant for you. Even if you hadn’t wanted it—in fact, been forced into taking it. 

You swallow that thought when John leads you into the general store. Your eyes bug at the sight of a blonde haired woman in khaki cloth knickerbockers stocking the shelves, who turns at the sound of the door creaking open, the sharp look on her face melting away at the sight of John.

The warmth in her face infuriates you more than it should. You have no right to feel this way—or, some right, but you resent the fact that you do as well. 

“Hi John,” she greets. Her voice is deeper than you anticipated, springtime crisp like a babbling brook. 

“Laswell,” John greets, scooping his arm around your side until he can palm the side of your hip, dragging you in close. You stumble into him, catching yourself with a hand on his chest. Your neck and face go hot when Laswell’s eyes turn on you, curiosity glinting in them. 

“Your lady finally showed up then,” she surmises. “I’ll be honest, I was starting to think you made her up. Told the boys to think about forcing you into an early retirement.”

John huffs at that. His fingers tighten at your waist when Laswell says your lady, as if the words alone make it fact. Speak it into being. The metal burns against your ring finger. In a sense, it is fact, despite the subterfuge. You wonder if it would hold up in court, but out here, it’s real enough. 

“Well, she’s very real, as you can tell.” He gives you a little shake with the hand on your waist. “Say hi, darlin’.”

If looks could kill, yours would be pit-viper venom. You’d leave behind a festering puncture mark and a body in the throes of envenomation. “Excuse me?”

Your attitude might come at a cost this time because he looks unamused at your back talk in front of an audience. “Darlin’.” It’s said like a warning. 

You bite your tongue instead of lashing out. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Kate Laswell; I own this little shop,” she says, introducing herself and stepping forward to hold out her hand. You have to step forward to take it, pulling you out of John’s arms. It feels familiar being on your own, certainly more natural than being constantly at John’s side the way you have for almost two days now. It’s also a bit cold after having John’s warmth at your back or side at all times. 

There’s a moment when you realize that Kate is the first person you’ve had to introduce yourself to, John having introduced you to everyone else you’d come across. It hovers on the tip of your tongue when you realize that you could just say your real name, and you find yourself torn between setting it free and the odd fear of John’s reaction. 

You chicken out at the last second, giving Kate the same name as the one John introduced you by to everyone else in town. 

“He might growl like a bear, but you’ll get used to that,” she says, winking.

You frown. Awfully familiar talk for someone who isn’t his wife. Why should she know that? 

You make yourself push that thought away, reminding yourself again that it doesn’t matter. It’s none of your concern. 

“He’s been a gentleman,” you croak instead, smile so thin that it might as well be a grimace. 

A shout from the bar across the street startles you, drawing your attention away from the conversation. John stills too. A series of raised voices puts him on alert, and then someone inside the bar must fire a gun because the violent crack of one makes you scream, the noise pulled involuntarily from your chest. 

“Stay here,” John growls, his pistol already drawn. He’s out the door before you can respond, darting across the street towards the bar and shouldering the door open so hard that it rattles in its frame. You watch everything happen through the window of the general store with your heart in your throat. 

“Good Lord,” you whisper, hand over your mouth. Kate stands beside you in a similar manner, her eyebrows pinched in concern. 

The thought doesn’t even occur to you that now would be the perfect time to make a break for it, with John busy across the street. Your feet are rooted in place; you doubt you’d be able to take so much as a single step towards the door. 

There’s precious little that you can see through the grit-lined bar windows, not as dusty and dirty as they are, but you can hear the commotion from inside. Raised voices and the sound of breaking glass. It makes you flinch, heart galloping at an even faster pace. Like harness horses on the Freehold Raceway. It’s not long before you see a large, masked man hightailing it down the road towards the bar, dust clouding around his boots with each heavy step. 

You recognize him almost instantly as the man from your wedding, the one that signed your marriage license. John’s man—Simon. He nearly takes the bar door off its hinges when he throws it open, barely in there a second before he and John come out each with a man in hand, both already handcuffed and looking roughed up They drag them stumbling down the dirt road towards the sheriff’s office, Simon half-dragging another man whose white button-down is slowly saturating with red blood oozing out of a gunshot wound in his belly.

“Shouldn’t they call a doctor for that man?” you ask Kate in a frantic voice, whipping around to face her. 

She nods. “They probably will once they’ve got the four of them locked up. Doctor probably heard that anyway—he’ll be on his way, I bet.”

“On his way already?”

“There’s only one doctor around here. And not much else sounds like a gunshot.”

“Does that happen a lot around here?” You don’t know why the thought makes you nervous, but there’s a cramp in your belly and a sweat building up on the back of your neck and your hands itch to grab something. When you swallow, it almost doesn’t go down. 

“It’s not uncommon. I reckon it’s not something you’re used to?”

You purse your lips. “I’ve seen a dead body before.” You don’t know why that comes out so defensively, like a slight that’s been levied against you. There’s no easy way to dispel the myth in everyone’s mind that you come from a life of comfort and ease, with delicate hands fit for delicate work. You curl your hands into fists at the thought, conscious of the old scars and calluses built up over years of scrubbing and cleaning. If she were to look down, she wouldn’t see the well-kept hands of a lady. 

When Kate quirks an eyebrow, you realize that your response had nothing to do with her question. “Well, look at you.”

When John and Simon disappear into the jailhouse, the door swinging shut behind them, you sway on your feet for a second, feeling oddly unbalanced. Something about the sight of the man’s blood leaves you feeling woozy, taking the chair that Kate offers you when she sees the way you rock back on your heels. 

“Let me get you something to drink,” Kate offers, brows now furrowed sympathetically at the pathetic sight you must be. “I’m sure you got a little fright thinking of your husband facing down a man with a gun, but I’m afraid that comes with marrying a sheriff. There’s danger everywhere, you know.”

What you don’t say is that your lightheadedness came not just from the sight of the man with the blood leaking from a wound in his stomach, but the grim look on your husband’s face as he carted away the man responsible, eyes hard as steel. No sympathy for the man in his hands. Only another criminal to be tossed away in a jail cell. The punishment for making another man bleed.

Your hands shake in your lap, but you don’t say that. Instead, you smile weakly and take the glass of water from her hands when she comes back from filling it at the sink. “You’re right. Just a little fright.”

[thedarkestrivernymph]

heyyyyy love ur writing, what if yan clan leader wants a baby?

Soft Yandere! Clan Leader x Wife! Reader

warnings: talks of pregnancy, skinship, lots of kisses, very soft

note: this might be just too cheesy ngl..

"Love" his breath tickles you awake in your drowsy state—like a feather brushing up and down the shell of your ear.

"My love" he repeats once more, this time gathering you up in his arms to turn you over, pressing your back into the soft tangled mess of sheets.

"Mhm?" you finally muse, cracking open one of your eyes, weary as a newborn, with exhaustion deep in your bones from another day of having to deal with the clan.

There in the dim light of your shared room, stares down a god at his goddess; with reverence bordering on worship, with longing and gratitude. So he bows his head, slow and languid and presses shy kisses up and down the line of your jugular.

"I wish—" he starts between his doting and holding back the greedy beast inside of him, stopping himself from moving lower. "No—I—" again, he cuts himself off and at the repetition, your hands find his nape, scratching and pressing.

"Husband, what is it? You seem, rather, worried." you mutter between soft hums of satisfaction when he nimbles on a particular tender spot of your skin.

When he still can't untangle his tongue from your throat to speak, you twirl a strand of his around your index, squinting as the moon's silver sudden entrance. "You worry me too." Now you're frowning, and your gut clenches as he still stays quiet. "Husband—"

"I want someone like you." he confesses.

Immediately your brows shoot up.

"Someone like me?" you look at him puzzled and it's there that he sighs and climbs down. Wordlessly with a certain look in his eyes that you swear you haven't seen before. He moves lower and even lower, until his cheek finally finds the spot it was looking for; your belly.

"You. My love. A mini you." and it's there that your cheeks heat up and a grin so nasty you didn't know he had the muscles to pull off, spreads across his lips.

He presses his mouth to your belly button, uncaring that the fabric between you creates a barrier, for it would not be there for long.

"So you wish for one too?" still, he has to confirm with you—because if he didn't, if he just carelessly assumed your consent then he would be no better than all the other runts in this world. And he would rather carve out his own eyes than harm you.

Still heated, with thighs subtly shifting closer to each other, you tilt your head away, heart heavy that—this wouldn't just be duty.

That he had waited for so long and that he still just didn't take like a brute—like his elders nagged him to do, but that he wanted your thoughts on it. That he considered your feelings, placed worth on you, in a world where so little was in your power. To let you choose and let you live.

The moon embraced you both again and so in the comfort of all—in the serenity that you were free, even if it was just within your golden cage, you answer with your fingers entangled in his tresses.

And as you confirm or perhaps not you watch his face morph into tender admiration. Nonetheless of the answer — you are his and he is yours.

For all eternity.

[love-lilacs]

this version of you | frank langdon x reader

Frank hasn’t let go of your hand, but his eyes flicker between them and the sidewalk in front of you, uncertainty threading through them. You feel the pulse of it—the space between what has always been  “friends” and the new possibility of something more.

His thumb brushes the back of your hand, just once, but it’s enough to send a shiver up your spine. You try to ignore it, but the tension is too much to ignore now. It’s there in the way his glance flits to you.

warnings: angst angst and more angst. i finished the pitt and this is what came of it. frank and his wife are divorced and have been separated for some time. drinking. feewings.

word count: 3.0k

Day shift was finally ending.

“You alright?” you ask Frank, nudging his shoulder with your own. Truthfully, you wouldn’t be able to move him if you tried. You’re not dainty by any means—four years of Emergency Nursing have ensured that you can hold your own—but Frank is his own beast. He’s sturdy; you know he likes to lift and run at least three times a week, working off adrenaline from long stints in the emergency room.

He shrugs, pulling his old crimson Harvard hoodie over his head. “Oh, yeah, stellar. My ex-wife has my son, and after a stressful shift of saving lives, I get to go home to an empty apartment.” His tone is dry, sarcastic, and beneath it all, you know something inside him is bitterly hurt by the turn his life has taken.

You close your locker—albeit a bit more loudly than probably necessary. “Come on. Me, Mel, Santos, and Robby are going to grab drinks. Your attendance is mandatory.”

He glances sideways at you, shouldering his backpack. “Mandatory, huh? Sounds like I don’t have a choice.”

“You don’t.” You smirk, mirroring his action and slinging your own bag over your shoulder. “You’re broodier than normal, and Robby said if you get any grumpier, he’s going to send you to gastro for an ulcer check.”

“I’m not brooding.” He scoffs. You don’t answer, only peering at him out of the corner of your eyes, a smirk tugging at the side of your lips. 

The two of you exit into the fluorescent-lit hallway and towards the cool night air. Behind and around  you, the E.R. hums, a never-ending blur of motion and crisis. Just another Thursday. 

“You know,” You say carefully. “you don’t have to pretend like everything is fine all the time.”  

Frank stays quiet for a beat, gaze fixed ahead. “I deal with it. That’s enough.”

That silences you. You’ve seen the storm that brews at Frank’s edges. That passion and drive within him. The storm brewing beneath the surface is relentless and all-consuming. It’s what makes him an excellent doctor. It’s what made you soft for him all those years ago, when you had gotten your first job out of college and he started his residency. You both were young, and those late nights and long hours built a bond between you. But Frank had Abby, so you shoved your heart’s desires down to your core, settling for an easy friendship instead.

Frank stops in front of the exit doors, pulling it open for you. “Let’s go. I’ll even buy your first round.”

The grin that splits your face is easy, unforced. “Now you’re talking.”

As you step into the dark Pittsburgh night, cool air greets your skin, a springtime promise of green and flowers coming soon.

The bar is one of those low-lit neighborhood places— wood-paneled walls, baseball and Stanley Cup Playoffs playing on the T.V., the smell of overly sweet liquor and smoke clinging to the air so tightly you’re sure no air freshener could possibly rid the scent. The crew has claimed their regular sticky booth in the corner: Santos is already halfway through a beer, Mel’s nursing something bright pink and looking around as though she’s late for something, and Robby’s telling a story that involves far too many hand gestures.

You slide into the booth across from them. The day’s stress lifting off of your shoulders as you settle next to your friends. Mel immediately brightens. “Long time no see!” 

“We see way too much of each other for people that don’t live together.” You tease, settling down. Abbott grumbles something incoherent from Robby’s side. 

“And you love us anyways.” Whittaker smiles; the boldest he’ll get. 

Frank sits unceremoniously next to you, placing your usual bottle of Angry Orchard Cider in front of you. 

“Hey, he lives!” Santos snarks, a Cheshire Cat smile splitting her face. “Didn’t think Langdon ever left the hospital unless he was dragged out.”

Frank lifts his bottle in a mock toast, “Guess I make exceptions.”

Mel eyes him, skeptical. “You good?”

Frank shrugs, takes a sip. “Define good.”

The table quiets for just a moment, just long enough for the silence to get a little heavy—before Robby jumps in. 

“Alright, enough feelings. Did I tell you about the guy who came in and tried to convince us that he “fell” on his Batman figurine?”

Laughter bubbles up around the table, the prior conversation slipping away and into the din of the bustling bar. Even Frank manages a smile as you tilt your head ever so slightly so that your cheek brushes his shoulder. When he looks down, he can see the way your lips pucker at the bottle opening and your eyelashes flutter contentedly. Something warm and fluttery settles in his core. Something he hasn’t felt before. 

—

“You don’t have to be ‘on’ with us, you know,” you say quietly.

You and Frank have drifted away from the others. The buzz of background chatter fills the space, but neither of you have been talking for a while. He nurses his third beer, watching the bartender cut limes with surgical precision. The two of you have the sides of your legs pressed together despite the large amount of space the bartop offers. Frank is unbelievably warm and you can smell the last bits of cologne and laundry detergent that cling to him.

He doesn’t look at you. “Saying it out loud won’t change anything.”

You lean against the bar, facing him. “No, but maybe it stops it from eating you alive.”

Frank scoffs. “I’m still standing, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” you say. “But for how long?”

That lands. He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the glass in his hand like it might solve something.

Then, finally: “You’re not wrong. But I don’t know what to do with ‘right’ anymore.”

It’s the most you’ve gotten from him in weeks. Perhaps stupidly, you push it. “It’s not a crime to feel things.”

"Yeah, well... feelings don’t really fix much, do they?"

Frank glances at you briefly, then looks back down at his drink, voice growing lower. 

"But I guess everyone has their moments."

Frank shifts, elbows resting on the counter, his gaze flicking to the door, then the window. Outside, it’s started to rain, tapping lightly on the glass, like the world itself is breathing. You find comfort in it as the bar behind the two of you begins to empty. Mel wraps you in a hug, Santos squeezing your arm, and Robby wishing you and Frank a good night as they brave the rain. 

You don’t want to break the moment, but you can’t help it. "You ever think you could just—stop?" you ask, the question hanging there between you both.

Frank doesn’t answer right away, his thumb running absentmindedly along the lip of his bottle. His jaw tightens for a moment, like he’s weighing the words, but when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, almost hesitant.

"Sometimes," he says, his eyes not quite meeting yours. "But I don’t know what to do if I did. I don’t know how to breathe without it all."

His words feel raw, more honest than he’s been in a long time. The air between you thickens, and it’s hard to ignore the way his shoulders seem to slump just slightly, like he's giving you a glimpse of the side of him that’s usually hidden.

You lean in a little closer, your voice low, careful. "You don’t have to be that person. The one who keeps everything running."

Frank finally looks up at you, his gaze intense—searching, maybe—like he’s seeing you for the first time. His blue eyes soften for just a second before the walls harden back into place.

"You think I have a choice?" he asks, voice a little rougher now. “It’s what I’ve always been and I just- I don’t have that anymore.” 

You hesitate, feeling the weight of the question in the pit of your stomach. You want to reach out, to close the distance between you both, but the moment feels fragile. It’s too soon. This version of Frank isn’t yours. Instead, you settle for a quiet, honest answer.

"I think you do," you say softly, eyes holding his. "But it’s okay if you don’t want to. Not yet."

Frank’s breath catches, and for a long moment, the two of you are locked in that quiet space, neither of you speaking, but both of you feeling everything in the silence. It’s as if everything that’s unsaid is hanging between you, suddenly too real to ignore, too important to push aside.

Finally, Frank shifts, a chair behind him scraping softly against the floor as he leans in slightly—closer than he’s ever been, closer than you expected. His eyes flick to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. Your lips part, breath catching. 

"You’re something else," he mutters, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It's the first real smile you’ve seen tonight, and it hits you like lightning, hot, white energy reaching down to your toes

Your heart skips a beat. You want to say something—anything—to keep this moment from slipping away, but the words catch in your throat. Instead, you simply let the quiet between you deepen. 

Too soon, he pulls away, leaving you a flushed mess in front of him. “Let me walk you home.”  

You nod, finishing off the last of your drink as if it could possibly make your forget exactly what just transpired between the two of you.

And then, without thinking, you reach out, just a little, your hand brushing against his. It’s a small gesture, but the contact feels electric. He doesn’t pull away, and when you look up, his eyes have softened again, something unspoken passing between you.

His voice drops lower. "Don’t do that. You know what happens when you do."

You can feel the tension, the unacknowledged weight of what’s been building up between you both for so long. But tonight, the words are no longer necessary. Instead, it’s in the way your fingers linger on his, the way his breath seems to hitch just slightly when he looks at you again—closer, too close to be just casual.

For a moment, the world outside doesn’t matter. Not the patients, not the work, not the endless chaos. Just the feeling of being here—together, in this quiet space you’ve created, where everything else can wait. 

Frank squeezes your hand once. “Ready to go?” It’s not a question. He knows you are. But he still checks, ensuring you know exactly what he’s going to do next.

The air between you both feels thicker now on the walk, charged with something unspoken. Frank hasn’t let go of your hand, but his eyes flicker between them and the sidewalk in front of you, a nervous uncertainty threading through them. You feel the pulse of it—the space between what has always been  “friends” and the new possibility of something more.

His thumb brushes the back of your hand, just once, but it’s enough to send a shiver up your spine. You try to ignore it, but the tension is too much to ignore now. It’s there in the way his glance flits to you. You stop in front of your apartment building, facing each other. 

The rain has slowed now, small drops that hit your clothes, but not enough to leave a wet mark. They dry before the next one hits. 

Frank’s voice comes out quietly, hoarse, like he’s fighting something, pushing it down. "You don’t know what you’re doing to me, do you?"

You swallow hard, the words getting stuck in your throat. But you don’t pull away. Instead, you press your fingers against his, just enough to show you’re still here. “Maybe I do.”

His gaze sharpens, like a challenge in his eyes. His fingers twitch against yours, but he holds back, still caught somewhere between wanting to pull you closer and keeping his distance. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, the space between you so close you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin.

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you lean just a fraction closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. Your heart beats a little faster now, conflict pulsing in your core. Years of yearning finally culminating in this moment. It’s all been a dull drone, a bruise that only hurts when you press at the right angle. 

You shift on your feet, your face so close to his now that you can count the tiny flecks of gold in his stormy eyes. The quiet between you is heavy, pulsing with every breath. Your fingers move, brushing against his again, and this time, there’s nothing tentative about it. He raises his other hand, brushing his fingers over your cheek bone with a butterfly touch. 

It’s a fairytale moment. Years of wanting him, loving him, for all he’s truly been. Not the charade he puts on for everyone, not the excruciating effort he felt he always to put in for Abby just so she might feel even a fraction of love for him. It’s every damn daydream you’ve had finally coming true. It’s real, it’s warm, and as his lips finally finally brush against yours- 

It’s not right.

Because this version of Frank doesn’t belong to you. This version of Frank is aching and lonely, looking for whatever comfort anyone can provide him. You can’t be the one to warm his bed tonight, hoping he’ll be there when you wake up. You don’t think your heart could take it if he wasn’t. 

Despite every alight nerve in your body begging you to stay, your eyes flutter open.

You pull away, just a fraction, just enough to break the spell. Frank blinks like he’s waking up from something he didn’t mean to fall into. His hand is still on your cheek. Yours is still wrapped around his.

“I can’t.” You breathe, heart shattering as the words leave your lips. “This version of you doesn’t belong to me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Frank doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. “What the hell does that mean?”

You step back, forcing space. The air feels colder immediately, no longer comforting. “It means this—whatever this is—you’re not here because you want me. You’re here because you’re tired. Because you’re lonely. Because you’re drowning and I just happen to be here.”

He flinches. The words sting, even if he knows they’re true.

“That’s not what this is,” he says firmly, but it’s too defensive, the same tone he uses when advocating for a stubborn patient. 

You meet his eyes. “Isn’t it?” You ask weakly.

Frank takes a breath like he’s about to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead, he just scrubs a hand down his face, tense and restless. “So what, you want me to pretend I don’t feel better when I’m around you? That I can’t finally fucking breathe when I’m around you, even just sitting there, not talking?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you reply, tears welling in your eyes. “I know you’re carrying a lot. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. But you can’t dump it all at my feet and then kiss me like it doesn’t mean something, like it’s just another release valve.”

Frank steps forward. Just one step. Close again. His eyes are dark, unreadable. “And if it does mean something?”

Your breath catches. “Then maybe figure out what that something is before you ask me to jump with you. I can’t do it. I’ve- I’ve wanted you for too long.”

The silence between you stretches, taut and heavy. Neither of you blink. Neither of you breathe. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face, like he's afraid it’ll disappear if he turns away too fast or says something too quickly.

“I didn’t plan this,” he mutters. “You know that, right?” He says it like a vow, and you know, you just know, that it’s true. 

“I know,” you say. “But that doesn’t make it fair.”

He looks down, thumb absently rubbing at a scar near his knuckle. You’ve seen him do it in the E.R. when things get tense. You’ve never told him you noticed. You’re not sure he could handle being seen like that right now.

“You think I’m using you.”

You hesitate, a lump rising in your throat.  “I think you’re using this—the quiet, the closeness, the way it feels easier when you’re with me. And maybe that’s not the same as using me, but it’s just not something I can do.”

Frank nods once. Slow. Measured. And then he lets out a laugh, low and bitter. “You’re probably smarter than me.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No,” he says, stepping back this time. “But it explains why you’re the one walking away.”

“I’m not walking away.” You snap, clenching your fists. 

“Aren’t you? When was the last time you took a risk? You’re so scared to get hurt that you won’t do anything that could possibly lead to something you want.” He says it factually, sharply. You’ve hurt him, you know that, and he’s reaching for whatever he can to make you feel how he does. 

You blink, stunned by his words. In all your time together, he’s never said anything so cruel to you. 

“Whatever.” His eyes are still locked on yours. His shoulders are still hunched. “I wanted you. As you were then, as you are now.”

You almost stop him. You almost say something—anything—to soften it. But you don’t. Because this needs to hurt, or it won’t mean anything later.

He turns toward the street, pausing under the glow of the flickering streetlamp. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward like they’ve finally caved.

Something breaks inside you, realizing he truly is leaving. “Frank-”

“I’ll see you around,” he calls without turning.

And then he’s gone.

You don’t go inside right away. You stand frozen on the stoop, feeling the place where his hand had just been, the warmth fading from your skin as the tears finally fall.

[erwinsvow]

Okay okay it doesn’t make sense within the context of the show but shhhh

Arranged marriage with pope.

Please hear me out. He’s so awkward and off putting and you’re so nice and innocent. Everyone is scared for you because well… look at him. But pope is just so obsessed with you. Staring at you 24/7. He touches you because he can. I imagine him trying so hard to delicately brush hair out of your face to be romantic but he just kinda ends up looking like the terminator

you have truly appealed to my ancestral roots. how did you know arranged marriage is my favorite thing in the world. there is really no canon context in the show where this makes sense but youre right, we are rolling with it because that is what i am here for. it'd have to be some sort of business transaction/deal with some other family... definitely some family that does not care about you and very old schooly decides to trade you away in order to get the codys to do jobs maybe... or a really big job where they can't have anyone snitching on them so the traditional way to go about it is to tie the deal with marriage.. idk. unnecessary context! the real answer here is just as you said—hulking, lumbering season four jacked andrew. there's no real 'wedding' which he doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. it has to be him because duh he's the oldest. they probably try to get j to do it after a brief moment of thinking maybe it's not the best idea to give pope a wife but i think i could imagine j spinning it around and convincing the others it would be the best for andrew because it'd be stable and whatnot. i think andrew assumes you'd be some bad-tempered spoiled child of criminals like his own family. gets very uneasy at first seeing how quiet you are and how you can't meet his eyes and just little things that tell him you were not what he was picturing at all. maybe you made dessert for everyone and help clean the table after eating and while everyone's talking you just go start washing dishes to escape the conversation. and he'd already be in there cleaning so maybe you both realize you were very mistaken about the other. i like that a lot! i loooove arranged marriage aus gaaah. the niceness and innocence only grows. maybe you two get to see each other a few times before going to town hall to sign papers—you wear a white skirt with a pretty top but he was really itching to see you in a white dress. it's okay though, once you two are married he envisions a future where he can get you whatever you want in the security of your home with him. everyone's cracking jokes about you and him but he has a new mission in life now, which is protecting his wife. i imagine he takes it very very seriously. i can imagine reader being very very nervous and not sure what andrew's personality is really like because she hasn't heard the best things. mean taunts about how her new husband is a beast and she'll be lucky to stay in one piece. i mean you have to consider his reputation to outsiders too. he's just a big softie inside though once he trusts her and i think he innately does since they're bonded together now.

fondness has to grow and fear has to leave before anything happens. you unlearn flinching when you turn around to find him waiting for you already, realize how much he cares about you when he comes home with something you had mentioned in passing yesterday. and since there's a new small home for you both, he tells you to decorate it how you'd like and helps you with house hold things like putting up curtains and moving furniture to lay down a rug. just very cutesy domestic life. i think it would soften you both up a lot. and also i think he wouldn't sleep with you right away, even if you were open to it. he sees it as something more special than that since you two are married. in fact i imagine a month in, after lingering touches and lots of staring (all the time, when he's supposed to be laying out the rug he stops since he got to where you're standing and gets distracted by your legs and your hand hovering and especially distracted when he sees the wedding band on your ring finger. in the store when you're holding up two options asking him to pick his favorite, doesn't answer just keeps staring. when you're washing dishes and ask him to bring you his coffee cup and he just stares realizing this is how domestic bliss feels) anyways after a month of that and andrew trying to be a cutesy husband but it's more of an endearing sort of awkward (let's be real, would this not work on you?? it would on me) i think you'd be begging for it (you've been begging for it since the first week when you saw how big his arms get when he's lifting something for you and how veiny they are at night when you fall asleep next to each other) and only then would he complete his duties as a husband. alternatively, the entire house is so cute and set up now and it just feels like a home and you two have a routine and you feel like a real husband and wife and now with everything in place he finally feels ready to give you a baby because isn't that the point of marriage after all <3

[sachiko6243]

Make me your wife

Summary: Y/N and her sister got attacked by giant spiders. Luckily Thranduil and his men were near enough to come to their rescue. What Y/N didnt think would ever happen, would be the elven king falling for her sassy and sarcastic character...

Word count: 6606

Warnings: spider attack in the beginning, sass, smut in the end, Minors DNI, this contains adult content!

This was written on request for: @mitsurisu I hope you like it. Sorry for the long wait, but I had much to do at my work. 😅

I was riding through the forest of the Woodland realm with my sister Leonor. We had set of from Rivendell on the request of Legolas. We had met him after he had helped the dwarves to take back their mountain. He was a very nice fellow, flirtatious and easy going, to the point where my sister had poked me and made fun of me for maybe pursuing him as a potential partner. She had been married to her husband for the last 300 years and was still utterly convinced that I would be happy in a marriage as well.

Nothing I said was driving her from that path and I had given up convincing her otherwise, deciding that letting her talk and ignore it would be the best option. She was once again on a rampage on married life, while I rode besides her, letting my thoughts and gaze wander. A crack deeper in the woods made me listen up. I knew that in those woods there were living many giant spiders, so I silenced my sister. She wasn’t a fighter like I was and if we were in trouble I needed her to listen to me.

“Shut it, Leonor. I think I heard something!” I whispered, but she waved it off. “Oh, come on Y/N. You always see and hear danger everywhere.”

“Its my job. I am a soldier after all. Be quiet, there are many spiders in these woods. I need to figure out if we are in danger.” I growled, my hands already gripping my two swords.

“Relax. There is nothing out there. You know how thoroughly Legolas and the guards clear those woods. He has told us on many occasions.” She sighed, not taking the threat seriously.

Another crack made me draw my swords, telling my horse to speed up. Leonor was quick to follow me and we were now thundering through the forest. I really hoped that it was just the forest doing foresty things and not some giant spiders, but my hope was being denied.

With a loud thud, a dark green giant spider dropped right in front of us. Leonor was just quick enough to steer her horse around it, while I was cut of by the spiders body. My horse shrieked, nearly throwing me off, but I was just able to keep me on its back. “RUN!” I yelled at my sister, making myself ready to face the big monster.

“Y/N!” She screamed, drawing the attention of the beast to her. It got up high enough for me to ride under his stomach, grabbing the reigns of my sisters horse who seemed frozen in place.

Dragging her behind me, I rushed my horse through the woods, hoping that we would be faster than that spider. Leonor took a while to come out of her frozen state, but when she was able to steer her horse again, I gave her back the reigns, now drawing my bow, turning around on my horse to shoot at the giant spider. But it didn’t seem like my arrows really seemed to bother the creature that was chasing us. And to my dismay, I hear the clicking sounds of several more coming through the woods.

They started to catch up to us, our horses slowly but surely loosing speed. And then it happened. We got circled by two smaller spiders dropping in front of us. Our horses freaked again, this time throwing us off their backs and making a run, only to be killed by spiders stomping onto them. Immediately they started to drag them away, probably into their net. I reached for another arrow, realizing, that I had shot every single one of them, without taking down one single spider.

“Fuck.” I let out, throwing my bow to the ground and dragging my swords.

“What do you mean fuck?” Leonor asked and I just gritted out: “Fuck as in we are fucked. I am out of arrows.”

“You shot all of them?” She asked and I wanted to smack her: “No, I threw them away. Of course I did!”

“No need to be so snappy.” She lashed back and I just looked at her with a deadly glare. “Oh yes, we are just about to die and I should play happy fun time with you? Forgive me for feeling a little stressed.”

“Its not my fault, that it happened.” Leonore seemed hurt and I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “I never said it was. I am sorry for snapping at you. Its just… Ah forget it. Try to stay close to me, without getting in my way. If we are getting separated, I cant protect you and if you are in my way, I will probably hurt you. Just…” I tried to make it understandable for her. “…think of it as a dance.”

“A dance?” She asked and I could hear she was raising her brows. “Why would I think of this as a dance?” Shrugging my shoulders I swung my sword at the first spider stepping close: “I don’t know. You are the minstrel of us. I was just trying to make it logical for you.”

I didn’t hear what she answered, because my sword collided with the heavy foot of a spider, drawing an ugly screeching sound from it, as I cut through the hard material. Letting my second sword swing higher, I managed to stab it into the thicker part of the leg. Ripping out my first sword, I swung my body around and through the air, landing on top of the spider. I forced both my swords into its head, managing to down it. Jumping off, I faced the next one, but my fight seemed to have no end, as I saw that the ranks were quickly closed again.

A horn being blown and horses thundering through the woods made me catch a new wave of hope and I started to fight back harder, always making sure to cover my sister from any attacks. I heard yelling and arrows whirring through the air and I realized, that the spiders slowly but surely were thinned out. Facing another one, I was just quick enough to jump aside, as it launched for me. Rolling around, I found myself underneath its big body. Not hesitating a second, I stabbed my blades into its stomach drawing it along, as I ran to get out of there.

A mixture of spider blood, gushy intestines and a sort of dark slime covered me, as I stumbled out beneath the tumbling and falling creature. Catching my breath, I stood there for several seconds, trying to regain some strength and to get rid of the slippery mixture that covered me. When I was able to look back up, the rest of the spiders had either been slain or forced away, leaving us and the elves that came to our rescue behind. “Y/N! Leonor!” I heard Legolas yell, turning to look at him.

A sarcastic smile on my lips, I greeted him: “You seem to lack in your mission to clear the woods, my prince.” He gritted his teeth, hugging Leonor, but refraining to do the same to me: “You are as friendly as always, Y/N.” I shrugged, shoving my swords back into their sheaths. “What can I say. I was raised to be a sunshine.” But when I saw his father approaching us, I stopped talking, bowing to greet the king. “My king. I apologize for causing trouble in your lands.”

“No need to apologize. You were right. It seems as if my son isn’t particularly thorough with his task. I am the one in need to apologize as this has clearly endangered you and your…”

“Sister, my king.” I helped him out, still looking down on the ground.

“…your sister. Am I correct with the assumption you came to visit my kingdom?” He asked.

“Yes, my king. We came to visit your son, prince Legolas. He has invited us.” I answered stiffly, looking at Legolas for help. The blond elf just smiled at me and I dared to look at his father the first time. And what I saw knocked the breath out of my lungs. He was gorgeous to say the least.

Tall, strong, handsome. The similarities to Legolas unmistakable. And his blue eyes. Staring at me as if he was reading directly into my soul. I was totally caught of guard by his appearance, not realizing he was talking to me again: “I am sorry. What did you say, my king?” I barely remembered to address him by his title, but he didn’t seem to mind. Smiling at me, he repeated his words: “I was welcoming you to my kingdom. As it seems, something must have caught your attention, my Lady.”

“Y/N. Just Y/N, my king. I am no lady. Just a common soldier of Rivendell.” I corrected him, trying my best to hide my breathless voice. Thranduil looked behind me, the smile on his lips widening. “A very good one, as it seems. You took out two spiders on your own.”

“And I shot all my arrows without them having any effect.” I reduced his praise, not feeling comfortable with the king saying such high words about me. He clicked his tongue. “Ah, arrows barely have any effect on the spiders. Their shells are far to thick for them to penetrate deep enough.”

“I didn’t know, my king. The next time I will come prepared.” I said, bowing deeply again.

“The next time?” He asked with a smirk to his lips and I furrowed my brows: “Yes? Did I do something wrong, my king? If I have insulted you in any form, I apologize.” But Thranduil just grinned at me with a knowing look on his lips, before he turned around: “The next time you visit us, let me know beforehand, so that I can ensure your save journey. A lady like you must not face such beasts under my watch.”

“I can fend for myself!” I yelled after him, this time leaving out his title, as his assumption angered me. He looked over his shoulder, taking in my angry form for a moment, before he answered: “I know. But I would feel better if you were protected by my guards.” Then he turned around, looking at a light brown haired man: “Feren, ensure that Leonor and Lady Y/N have a horse to ride on and have a bath prepared for them.” The man bowed his head slightly. “Yes, my Lord.”

***

And that’s how I had met Thranduil. That was nearly 100 years ago. 87 to be exact. He had started to court me soon after that incident, sending letter over letter to Rivendell, to the point where even Lord Elrond heard of what was happening. In the beginning I didn’t think much of it, reading his letters as nothing more as friendly correspondence. Until one day he literally showed up in Rivendell, demanding to speak with Lord Elrond himself.

Later on, I was told, that Thranduil had demanded to know if I was forced to work too much, since I didn’t answer every single one of his letters. From then on, our letters turned into a frequent thing, until one day I asked Lord Rivendell to free me from my duties and to allow me to live in Mirkwood. Lord Elrond let me go with a warm and knowing smile, something I didn’t exactly know how to read back then.

But soon, Thranduil and my friendship turned into him making advances until I finally gave in to courting him. Thranduil had pulled every string he had, to get me to fall for him. He made sure that I was taken care off, that I had everything I ever wished for to the point where I literally had to fight him on lessening his extensive gifts, but there was nothing I could do to talk sense into that man.

And now here I was, sitting at the big banquet next to him. We had gotten married. Well technically we weren’t truly married yet, since for elves the marriage was only completed when the marriage was conceived. And to be honest, I couldn’t wait much longer. My friends and family had come to Mirkwood and wished me the very best. Even Lord Elrond had managed to fit in time to spare my marriage a visit, congratulating me.

I looked at my now husband, only to find him staring at me already. “You are so beautiful, my little starlight.” He whispered, reaching his hand for mine. I squeezed his hand, leaning in to his shoulder. “How long do we have to keep up this thing, until we can retreat?” I asked, the alcohol in my blood probably pushing me to speak this openly. Thranduil chuckled at my words: “So desperate already?” I smacked him on the chest. “Don’t tell me you aren’t.”

“At least I don’t show it so openly.” He teased me, kissing my hand softly. “Dance with me, meleth.”

Letting him pull me to my feet, he guided us to the dancefloor, pulling me close to his body and I could feel that he was longing for me the same way I did for him. His head sank down to my level as he whispered: “This one last dance should appease our guests. I think they already know what is about to happen, but it is much easier to vanish between dancing couples than from the high table.” I smirked at his words, leaning my head onto his chest. “Is that so, my king?”  I felt him shrug: “At least I suspect it would make things easier for Feren. He always seems to be so stressed.”

“That’s because you stress him, herven.” I answered and the way he stiffened at me calling him husband for the first time, made me smile. “Herven.” He repeated. “Say it again. It sounds so beautiful from your lips.”

“What? Herven?” I asked, putting a soft moan to my words. Thranduils breathing became rigid, as he clearly had trouble keeping the rhythm of the dance. He took a deep breath, before he simply ended the dance pulling me through the other couples. “You know what? Fuck it. I am done waiting.” Once we were far enough away from the others to hear or see us, he threw me over his shoulder, causing me to shriek out loud. “Thranduil!”

“Oh yes. That’s even better.” He grinned, carrying me through the halls and back to his chambers. “I am going to make sure that the only things that are leaving your mouth will be my name, my title and those sweet little moans or yours.”

***

Thranduil stopped in front of his door, looking at me with what I believed to be fear in his eyes. “Are you ready?” He asked me and I nodded: “Yes.” Taking his hand, I followed him inside. As soon as the door fell shut behind us, he pressed me against a wall, a sly smirk on his lips. “You have no idea, how much I waited to do this.” I didn’t react to his tease, just pulling him in by his collar, desperate to kiss him. His hands wandered to my waist, gripping the fabric of my dress.

I held onto him, still letting his hands wander over my body. “Are you sure, you want to do this?” He asked, his breath fanning down my neck, before he bit down on my sweet spot. Moaning at the sensation that rushed through my body, I tried my best to keep the conversation going: “Yes, I am. I haven’t been so sure about anything in my life, ever.”

“Good. Because I doubt, I would be able to endure the wait any longer.” His husked voice sent shivers down my spine and I had to hold on to his shoulders, to not faint. “You know what this perfume does to me, darling? The whole evening, I could not focus on anything else than you sweet smell. Do you even know, how hard I was all evening?” He picked me up, pressing me against the wall, looking at me with an angry hunger in his eyes. “I should not be commanded by a woman like that, especially not one that does it so easily like you do. It is endangering my reputation.”

“I think your reputation as the King is hardly attacked with you desiring your wife.” Trying my best to fight back against his administrations, I rolled back my head when his free hand opened the lacing of my dress, desperate to feel more of him. “What reputation, darling? Go on. Make your point.”

“The… fuck…” I cursed, earning a chuckle: “That’s very unladylike, darling. I should knock that word out of your brain.”

“You wouldn’t dare to do that. You love my dirty mouth.” I sassed back. He hummed at my words, just holding me tight to his body. “I do. And I want to make sure you are taken care off.” His words made me open my eyes again, leaning back to look at him.

He let me down slowly, still trying to hide his face from me, but I held his head, looking at him, when he let go of me: “No, please tell me. What are you afraid of?” I asked, stepping closer to him, but he just dodged backwards. Tilting my head, I followed him into the living area, effectively backing him into the sofa. When he sat down on it, I straddled his lap. “Are you afraid to be close to me?”

“No…” He breathed heavily. “Yes… I don’t know. I… I want to be close to you, but I don’t want you to feel forced. You know how it is… Wifely duties and all and I don’t want to pressure you into anything, but at the same time I want to feel you, hold you, smell you, taste you. Everything. I am in no place to expect anything from you, so I refrain from giving in to those thoughts too much, because I don’t want to make it too obvious to you, that my needs are currently overruling my consciousness. And now that I am close and… and alone with you, I realize that its much harder than I have thought it would be... I want this to be special to you. I want to be the loving husband you deserve, to let you know that you are my most priced treasure… That I would do anything for you.”

I just looked at him: “Are you… are you rambling? The elven king and man of precise language is rambling and stuttering?”

“Yes.” Was all he said. “And you currently sitting on my lap, dressed like that, doesn’t help my case either.”

“What's stopping you?” Letting my voice drop lower, I leaned forward, rolling my hips shamelessly over his lap. He groaned out, gripping my tighter. “Y/N… You don’t have to do this. I can live with it, if you aren’t ready.”

“Do I look forced, meleth?” I whispered close to his ear, nibbling on it. “Show me what it feels like. Please, meleth. Touch me. Please… be my husband.”

Thranduil let his head fall back, his eyes were closed, as he was definitely on his last straw of mindfulness. “How much do I need to push you, until you give in?” I giggled at his neck, making my way up to his chin and then hovering over his lips. “Would it help, if I lose my wedding dress?”

“You sound like a prostitute…” He gritted out and I just grinned wider. “And? Is it working?”

“Yes. And I don’t know if I like that thought.”

“Which thought? Me as a prostitute, or that I am succeeding to win you over that easily?” I kept on teasing him. Leaning back, I opened up the strings of my dress, pulling it over my head.

He balled his fists at my waist, his eyes forcefully trained on my face. “Both. But I would never let you become a prostitute.”

“Scared to share me?” Still keeping up my teasing way, I just sat on top of him, waiting for him to react. “No.” He gritted out.

“What's it then? Afraid another man might do me better?” Wetting my fingers with my tongue, I let them slide between my legs, stabilizing myself with my free hand on his knee. And when my fingers found my clit, I hummed in pleasure, still watching his face intently. Not reacting to my administrations, he spoke in a very forced tone: “You are my wife. There is no other man. Ever.”

“Hmmm. I like that, meleth.” I sighed, feeling how I grew wetter, so I dipped one finger inside my core, only to then put it to my mouth to lick it clean. “I like it, when you get possessive and confrontive towards other men. The difference of how you treat them and how you treat me, makes me feel special.”

“Does it now?” He sassed and I sighed internally. I finally had him broken out of his restrictive shell. I had my husband back: “Always has.”

“You really want to do this?” He inquired further and I nodded. “Yes. Please. I think I am ready.” Taking one last breath, he gripped my thighs. “Hold on.” Without giving me much time to react, he got up, walking towards the bedroom. “If you want me to do this, I am going to do this properly.”

“I know. Everything else wouldn’t be like you.” I grinned, hiding my face in his neck. He sat me down slowly on the edge of the bed. Then he stepped back, taking off his clothes one piece after the other: “If you are already naked, I shall be too. I don’t want to make you feel insecure.” His words made me blush and I stuttered out a quiet “Thank you.”  

Thranduil came back to me sinking further to his knees. When he was eyelevel with my stomach, he softly kissed it, then down my thigh until he reached my knee. “Lean back and relax.” His voice was rough, his warm breath sending goosebumps over my inner thigh.

“I want to watch you. I need to see you.” I whispered, stroking through his hair. His jaw clenched at my words, but he didn’t say anything, taking my hand and pressing a kiss to it. “If you wish so.” His fingers ghosted over my skin, leaving trails of goosebumps behind. “I will take my time today. I want to take care of you as good as I can.” He whispered roughly, kissing the insides of my thighs up to my core. I was too mesmerized with his softness, his blue eyes burning with love and passion, that I was incapable of answering him.

Then I felt his first finger touch my core and I stiffened up, digging my nails in his shoulders. He immediately stopped, looking up at me, waiting for me to relax. We stared into each others eyes, Thranduil kissing and nibbling on my thighs. “You are safe, meleth. Relax. There is nothing you have to fear.” Taking a deep breath, I focused on his eyes, relaxing as much as I could. And when he felt me giving up my barrier, he kept on pushing his finger inside of me. “See? You are doing great.”

I closed my eyes, the faint sound of his name on my lips and I could feel the familiar feeling starting to grow between my legs. Carefully he added another finger, scissoring them apart, creating a steady rhythm. “Let go, love. You are doing so good. Taking my fingers so well.” He praised me, his voice low and soft like silk. I could feel my blood rush to my face, painting it a light pink shade, my heartbeat thrumming in my ears, that I nearly missed his sweet little murmurs. His mouth wandered all over my thighs, my stomach, and hip bones, until he hovered over my core. “May I?”

“Yes…” I breathed out, moaning, when I felt his lips kiss my sensitive spot. Instinctively I spread my legs further, letting myself fall back onto the bed, one hand still clasping his free arm. “Thranduil…” I moaned, unable to focus on anything else than the man between my legs, lulled in by his sweet touches and soft little praises. “Please don’t stop.” I cried out, not really caring, that it was still the early evening, our windows hanging open, still a hurried humming coming from the big ball room.

“Never.” Was all he answered, slowly finger fucking me. It was ridiculous, how fast he was able to find the sweet spot deep inside of me. I heaved myself onto my elbows, wanting to see him, rather than just feeling him. And the expression that he had on his faze was breathtaking. Full of confidence and arrogance, a slight smirk forming on his lips, when he realized I was watching him again. “You taste so fucking good.” He groaned, raising his head to properly look at me. The shamelessness of him made me gasp out in embarrassment. His face was covered in my slick, eyes wild and hungry.

His gaze flickered between soft love and hungry possession as he was clearly fighting his urges to claim me. And I was absolutely turned on by it.

Thranduils smile grew wicked, when he saw how much I was affected by him. Wiping my slick of his chin, he licked his fingers clean, making a show out of it, simultaneously not stopping his fingers working my core. “You like that do you?” I wasn’t able to answer, just staring him in the eyes. “Answer me, my love, or I will stop.” He teased, some of his usual possessive self breaking through.

“Yes.” I pressed out, his name quickly following, when he curled his fingers perfectly against my sweet spot. Dipping down again, his fingers and tongue kept pushing me further down the road of my orgasm. The knot in my lower stomach starting to grow tighter, my legs wrapping around his shoulders, to keep him in place. I could feel my walls starting to flutter around his digits, another sign that I was close. The strength left my upper body and I fell back onto the bed, pulling his free arm close to my chest, nails digging into his skin. My eyes rolled back into my head as his name rang through the room, when my orgasm suddenly washed over me.

I felt him carefully pull out his fingers, his hands gently covering my cunt, as I just dwelled in the feeling. Tears started to form in my eyes and I tugged on his arm. “Meleth…” I mewled, desperate to feel him. He reacted instantly, getting up from his position climbing onto the bed and pulling me higher into the pillows. I turned around, crawling to the headboard falling to my stomach. “Feel you!” I pressed out, hugging a pillow tight to my chest.

Seconds later, I could feel his warm body hovering over me. I reached out for his hand that was holding his weight, clamping my fingers around his wrists. Sinking down on his elbows, he pressed me down, taking my hands in his bigger ones. The new intimate position making me feel hot and safe at the same time. His strong chest forced me down, chest hair tickling on my back, his thighs caging me in, as he buried me underneath him. “Thranduil…” I whimpered desperately, bucking my ass against his crotch.

He growled into my ear, his lips smothering me roughly, leaving a trail of wet kisses behind. “Please… I need you… Meleth…” I tried again, pressing up against his body, only to be met with him pressing me down further. “By Valar, please… I cant bare it anymore…” Begging for more, I cried out for him the tension in my body so high, that I was sure I would snap any moment.

His hands were roaming over my body, when he suddenly grabbed my arm, twisting me around. I shrieked and he instantly pulled back, skidding back to the edge of the bed, hands raised. “I am sorry, darling. I let myself go. Forgive me.”

“Its alright, Meleth. I trust you. I just didn’t expect this.” I smiled at him, reaching out for him. “Come back. Please.”

“What if I hurt you?” He stayed at the end of the bed.

“You wont hurt me.”

“You don’t know that!” He nearly yelled; the stress clear in his eyes. I gulped hard, seeing him irritated like that send a shiver down my spine. Taking a deep breath, I forced the unwanted thoughts out of my head.

“I know that you would never willingly do something that would harm me in any way. And that is all you can do. I trust you with all my life and I want this, meleth. I need this. Please. What can I do to make you believe me? To help you to trust yourself with me?”

“Promise to tell me, when its too much, or when I hurt you.” He rasped, slowly coming back to me, leaning his face into my hand.

“I promise.”

“Thank you.” He whispered, kissing my palm, before he sat back on his ankles, opening his breeches and I couldn’t help but stare at him.

His cock sprung free, hard, and tinted in a light pink shade, a drop of precum already crowning on his tip. “Fuck yes…” I breathed, staring at his manhood, not realizing, that he moved again, ridding himself from his breeches, crawling towards me again. He forced me to lay back down on my back and I just wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him flush against my core. That caused him to grind his hips against mine, eliciting a soft moan from my lips. I just clung to his body, squirming against his touch. “So needy.” He mused, kissing his way down to my breasts, taking one nipple between his lips.

Him sucking so delicately on my nipple, let me jolt in pleasure. I could feel his hard cock pressing against my thigh, twitching in anticipation. Supporting all his weight on one hand, he looked at me one last time, waiting for me to give him my consent. Nodding I bit my lip, bracing myself for what was about to come. He guided his hard member into me, very carefully easing his way in. I was still incredible wet from my previous orgasm, but I wasn’t prepared to take him, my body tensing up at the intrusion, making him stop mid movement. “Are you alright, darling? We don’t have to…” But I shook my head. “Go on. I want this.” 

Once he bottomed out, he stayed sheathed like that, distracting any thought I had with kissing me, until my head spun. It didn’t take long for me to grow accustomed to him, my hips starting to roll against him. I held onto his shoulders, looking him deep into the eyes. “I love you.” Thranduil nearly crumbled at my words, closing his eyes and groaning lowly. “Fuck me… That’s the hottest ‘I love you’, you have ever said.” Giggling I blushed. “I doubt that.”

“Not that it isn’t incredible to hear you say it in any other situation, but this… this just hits different. You trusting me like this... This memory will forever be my heaven.”

“You old romantic.” I groaned, but my smile betrayed me, him bending down for a kiss. “Always for you.”

Slowly he started to move, setting a slow and steady pace, fully set on pleasuring me as much and long as he could. My walls started to accommodate him more, relaxing around him. I hummed at the sweet feeling that started to spread through my body, my head sinking deeper into the pillows. “Yes…” I sighed, closing my eyes, just holding onto his upper arms.

“I love you, darling. Just relax and enjoy.” His words were water on a hot stone, instantly fogging up my mind, a light veil covering us.

He bent down to my neck, kissing it, nibbling onto my shoulder and a short worry of being marked up by him shot through me, but when he managed to hit my sweet spot, that worry got kicked out of my mind again. “Thranduil!” I yelped, digging my nails into his arms even more. “Do it again.” He growled against my skin, his teeth nipping on the sweet spot right under my ear. “Let me hear how much this pleasures you.” I complied to his demand, babbling before I even managed to filter anything that left my mouth: “Please… Give me more… I need more. Make me your wife, please… This feels so good. You feel so good. Claim me, please… meleth.”

“God, Y/N.” He moaned. “You are going to be the death of me…” The way he was so affected by it, only fed the tingly feeling in my body, spreading it to my limps. The tension in my lower stomach now growing bigger with every second, causing me to produce a guttural moan. I clasped my hand in front of my mouth, my gaze wandering towards the open balcony door, but Thranduil didn’t seem to mind one bit. Quite the opposite. He let out a growl, taking my hand away again. “Let them hear. Let the whole kingdom know, that you are my wife.”

Shifting his weight, he leaned back on his ankles, raising my hips, while fucking me deeper into the mattress. The new position caused him to hit a particular deep spot inside of me, pushing all the air out of me in a loud cry of his name.

“Say it again, little one. Let everyone know who you belong to.” He darkly smiled at me, his thrust not faltering one second. “So beautiful. So perfect for me. Taking my cock so well.” Praising me, he didn’t let go of my eyes. “Keep your eyes on me, bereth. I want to see you, when you come.”

I couldn’t help but stare at him, mesmerized by him, not able to resist the drawl he put into calling me his wife. His wife. That title alone did things to my mind, I wasn’t prepared for. The knot in my stomach was about to pop, threatening to pull me under. And by the way he was grinning, he knew. Knew from the way I shivered, the way my walls fluttered around his length. “Go on, my starlight. Let go for me. I wanna see those beautiful eyes roll back in your head. Wanna feel how you twitch around me and make a mess on my cock.” He spurred me on. And on cue I came.

Hard.

My back arched from the bed, eyes rolling back inside my head. I shivered in his hands in pure bliss of my orgasm, his name ringing through the room loud enough, that I was sure even the soldiers standing guard on the southern entrance were able to hear me. This orgasm was hard and fast, crushing into me like a rogue wave. Thranduil still kept his pace, thrusting into me, roughly praising me: “That’s it, darling. Ride it out. You are doing so good. Looking so fucking beautiful.” And I could feel my cum leak on his lap, drawing lush sounds from my core.

“Meleth!” I cried out, now completely kicked out of reality.” Crying out in desperation I reached out for him. Thranduil gave into my pleading, leaning forward again, pressing me down with his full body, effectively caging me in between his hot chest and soft mattress. “Yes…” I mewled, wrapping my legs around his waist, feeling him thrust much deeper into me. I was again babbling absolutely unfiltered: “Don’t stop, meleth. Makes me feel safe. So good. Thank you.”

“Of course, darling. Everything for you.” His voice sounded strained and I realized that he was close as well. “Its okey. You can let go.” I tried to get the words out straight, but another moan rippled through me, him groaning, desperately gripping a pillow. “No. I am not finished with you. I want you to come with me.” The pure determination and love in his words, striking me deeply, so that I couldn’t help but, whimper again. I earned a soft bite on my shoulder, followed by more praises: “Fuck yes… I love it when you do that. Taking me so well, moaning for me in such beautiful tones.”

Sneaking a hand between us, he pressed two fingers on my clit, sloppily rubbing circles over it. I clenched around his cock as an answer, goosebumps spreading over my skin, as he forced the fire to burn up in my body once again. A shiver ran down my spine, my walls fluttering around his cock, my legs wrapping around him even tighter. It spurred him on to fuck me even harder, his fingers moving faster, the sloppy kisses on my neck now closer to love bites than anything else. I started to shake uncontrollably, my body overwhelmed by the desire and stimulation that he had and still was administrating.

“I got you.” He rasped out and it was all I needed to hear. I came again, succumbing to a shivering mess underneath him, clamping down on his cock. “Fuck, Y/N.” He groaned and I could feel him twitch inside of me. The feeling of his hot seed shooting up my core made me whimper desperately and I couldn’t help myself but to think about what it would feel like to carry his child. Slowing down his pace, he rode out our orgasms, smothering every bit of skin with wet kisses. He was breathing hard, trying his best to catch his stance again.

Pressing me close to himself, he rolled onto his back and I was now lying on top of him. “You did so good, meleth nin. Took me so well. I promise I will always love and protect you. You are everything to me, the only thing I would give away everything I own for without batting an eye.” Listening to his sweet ramblings, I let the tears roll from my cheeks, cherishing his love and the sweet intimate moment between us.

To my dismay, it was interrupted far too quickly, when I felt the mixture of my slick and his seed trickling out of me. Wriggling in his arms, I tried to find a comfortable spot, but the stickiness just got worse. He was quick to realize what was the problem. Pressing a kiss to my head, he rolled around again, getting up from the bed. “Stay there. I will get something to get you cleaned up.”

I just watched him scramble through the room and come back with a bowl of water and a wash cloth. He looked so incredible hot like this. His hair messy and disheveled. Eyes still glowing with desire. And when he saw his cum seeping out of me, I believed to see his gaze grow even darker. I sighed loudly, catching his look with mine: “How was I ever able to deny me such pleasures…?” He laughed at my words, slowly sinking to the bed and cleaning me up with soft little touches. “From now on you will never have to. Whenever you need me, feel free to come and get me.”

“Even when you are in a meeting?” I asked and he smirked at me: “Especially then.”

[brunhilde-oldest-valkyrie-ror]

⚡ SFW and NSFW Headcanons – Thor x Wife! Reader⚡️ Disclaimer: GIF is not mine credits go to its creator

SFW:

• Y/N is one of the few people who can truly reach Thor emotionally. She’s the calm in the eye of the storm—her presence alone is enough to ease the thunder in his soul.

• When Thor is overwhelmed or introspective, Y/N never pushes. She simply stays close, letting him know she’s there—and that’s all he needs.

• Their home life is surprisingly simple. Thor enjoys slow mornings with Y/N—silent breakfasts, occasional cuddles in fur blankets, and watching her move around the home with soft eyes.

• She often brushes his long red hair for him. He never asks for it, but sits down quietly and waits for her to do it—it’s their quiet love language.

• Thor doesn’t express jealousy outwardly, but gods help anyone who threatens or disrespects Y/N. The air itself will grow heavy, and the look in his eyes alone is enough to make even the boldest warrior back down.

• He’s not verbally affectionate, but he always keeps a hand on Y/N when they’re together. Whether it’s a hand on her thigh, the small of her back, or holding her close—he grounds himself through touch.

• In public, he’s the fearsome God of Thunder—silent, deadly, untouchable. In private, he’ll rest his head in Y/N’s lap, let her trace the scars on his skin, and hold her like she’s more sacred than the heavens themselves.

⚡ NSFW: if you don’t like it you can skip this part MDNI!⚡️

• Thor doesn’t say much—but the way he looks at Y/N during intimacy says everything. His intense gaze while holding her hips or kissing her deeply can leave her trembling.

• He listens to her body, her breath, every sound she makes—and uses it to guide every movement.

• He tries to be gentle, but sometimes Y/N teases him into losing control just a little—and when that happens you’re In for a treat. He’ll pin her down with just one arm, hold her wrists with ease, or lift her like she weighs nothing.

• He’s extremely aware of his strength and always makes sure Y/N is okay—even when he’s being rougher. The aftercare is divine.

• To Thor, Y/N is his goddess. He kisses every inch of her slowly, reverently, and devours her like she’s a blessing from Valhalla.

• If she ever feels self-conscious, he’s quick to shut it down with his hands, his mouth, and the other various ways he can think of making her feel like the most wanted being in existence.

• Thor doesn’t talk much, but the rare things he does say—especially in a deep, low voice—wreck her:

• “Mine.”

• “ Look at me baby.”

• “I’ll never let you go.”

• After he’s done completely ruining her (in the best way he knows how to🤭), he’ll hold her for hours. Big spoon, strong arms, heartbeat like distant thunder in her ear.

• Sometimes he’ll fall asleep with his face buried in her hair or her chest, fully relaxed—because in Y/N’s arms, even a god can’t let go.

Extra: NSFW because why not😌

Thor x Wife!Reader | NSFW | Post-Battle Intimacy | Emotional + Physical Release. Also he’s red your pink I didn’t really know what other color to choose.😓

⸻

The crowd’s roar had long faded. The arena had emptied. The blood had dried.

Thor stood in the private chamber reserved for the gods, his massive form still scarred, chest rising and falling with the slow ache of divine exhaustion. Mjölnir rested against the wall, still humming faintly like a growling beast that hadn’t quite settled. His knuckles were bruised. His back was torn. But his eyes—his fierce, stormy eyes—softened the second she stepped in.

“My love.”

She rushed to him without hesitation, her hands reaching up to touch his face, brushing damp red hair back behind his ears.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered, fingers trembling slightly over a jagged bruise on his cheekbone.

He caught her wrist gently, pressing it to his mouth in a reverent kiss. “I won,” he said quietly. “But I feel like I lost something.”

She understood. The fight against Lü Bu hadn’t just been physical. It had been personal. Brutal. Almost beautiful in its destruction.

“You didn’t lose anything,” she murmured, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re still mine. Still here.”

Thor let her push him down, eyes locked on her like she was the only thing tethering him to this realm. She climbed into his lap, straddling him, cupping his jaw. Her thumb brushed over the blood just starting to dry near his ear.

He leaned forward, foreheads touching, his breath warm and shaky. “Touch me, please my love,” he growled softly. “Make me feel alive again.”

She didn’t hesitate.

Her mouth met his in a deep, consuming kiss—slow at first, tender, until his large hands gripped her hips and ground her against the heavy tension building between them. The god who had just shattered a warrior of Lü Bu’s caliber now clung to his wife like she was the only softness left in the universe.

“Don’t hold back,” she whispered against his lips. “You don’t have to.”

Something snapped inside him—something raw, buried under all that divine composure.

In one fluid motion, Thor flipped her beneath him, his mouth trailing down her neck, across her collarbone, worshiping her with a hunger that had nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with need. His movements were desperate but reverent. He didn’t want to take her—he needed to merge with her, to feel something other than the echo of violence.

Her legs wrapped around his waist as he entered her with a guttural groan, the heat of him filling her completely. She gasped, arching into him, fingernails raking down his scarred back. Every thrust was deep, unrelenting, but full of purpose—like he was trying to erase the battle from his memory and replace it with her.

“Say it my love,” he growled against her throat. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Thor,” she moaned, head thrown back. “Only yours. And always yours.”

That pushed him over the edge. His pace grew rougher, each thrust slamming into her with godlike force—but always controlled, always focused on the way she gasped, the way her eyes glazed over, the way her body sang for him.

And when they both shattered together—him with a low, primal growl, her with a cry muffled into his shoulder—it wasn’t the end.

It was the healing.

⸻

Afterward, Thor didn’t move. He just held her. Buried his face in her hair. Let her fingers stroke through the crimson strands of his, steady and soothing.

“You bring me peace,” he said quietly, voice barely audible. “After the chaos… there’s only you my love.”

She smiled against his chest, heartbeat slowing to match his. “Then I’ll always be here—when the storm clears.”

[kawaiigirly21]

The Beast In His Arms: Chapter 2

Not even a week later, trouble started when Nayera started letting Cecil run tests on her. They studied her strength, her speed and agility. They asked extremely personal questions and inquired that they were ‘Necessary’ for their studies. “Have you and Invincible had sex?” A scientist asked while another checked her heart rate.

“Excuse me!? How dare you ask such an explicit question?! I do not see how my personal affairs have anything to do with my abilities as a hero!” To say she was offended was an understatement. She was royalty for God sakes! A princess! And they dared to ask her something like that?! Petulant rats! Standing from her sitting position, Nayera fought the urge to smirk at the size difference between her and the scientists.

Suddenly Cecil walked in. “Leaving so soon? We're not done.” The man said as he watched Nayera gather her things to leave. “I believe we are good sir. For your so-called scientists have insulted me for the last time.” Cecil in return rolled his eyes. “Who knew your kind was so sensitive. All they did was ask you necessary questions.” Nayera was quick to turn around and back Cecil up against a wall with her teeth bared.

“I’ve had dolls bigger than you in my adolescence. I’d hate to see you end up like them. Broken and used. Now, let me leave.” Later that day, as Nayera laid her head on Mark’s lap while listening to him talk about his day, she felt tears sting her eyes under her bangs. “Babe? You’re pretty quiet tonight. Is everything ok?” Mark asked while stroking her tail. She nodded silently and moved her head closer to him trying to gather all his warmth.

“I heard about the incident today, In the  GDA HQ. Is that why you’re being so mopey?” His fingers trailed from her tail to her back to her head. Gaining another silent nod from her, Mark sighed before leaving down and pressing a sweet kiss to her forehead. “ I’ll talk to Ceil. It wasn’t fair for them to ask you stuff like that.” Thinking for a moment, Mark smiled and tapped Nayera on her nose. “Wanna race? Here to home? I’ll even hold back to give you a chance.” Nayera sat up and smirked. “You are going down!”

Many Many months later, Many things had happened to Mark and Nayera. While Mark struggled with his morality, Nayera struggled with her ability to control her anger. With this came arguments. Loud and explosive arguments. At that time, the couple decided to take a break until they were sure they were stable enough to be together again. They however still remained friends. “Mark, pass me that?” Nayera asked as she scribbled in her stress relief art book.

Her markers and colored pencils spilled across his bed as the pair sat in comfortable silence with the occasional question or two. “Mark? Hello?” Looking up from her book, Nayera noticed Mark staring off into space with a frown on his face. “Mark? It's not your fault about what happened. That powerplex guy is going to get the help he needs in prison…” Mark looked over at Nayera as she leaned over him. Her bangs parted slightly which gave him a good look at her pale blue eyes that albino animals usually had.

She had a soft mile on her face and brushed a caring hand through his hair. It gave him flashbacks to the day he met her…The day he actually fell in love. “The help he needs because of the fight with my dad and I killed his sister and niece or the help he needs because the fight between him and I killed his wife and son?” Mark grumbled. “I know none of it is my fault but it feels like…” Nayera then pressed a sweet kiss on his head.

“It’s not your fault Mark. End of discussion. Now, Pass me that marker!” She giggled, making the man smile. It seemed like when he was around her, he felt better about his situation. He didn’t think about it much unlike when he was by himself leaving his mind to wander. He missed her smile. He missed her laugh…he wanted to get back together but wasn’t sure on how to approach the subject.

Sitting up, Mark handed Nayera the purple marker before taking a deep breath. It was now or never. “Hey…Nayera? I wanted to know…what’s your …If you want to…Um..Fuck! Do you wanna-” “Hold that thought Mark!” Nayera noticed her watch beep red. “Guardian emergency. I gotta skedaddle! We’ll continue this later, kay? I’ll just leave my stuff here. See ya Marky Mark!” Leaning in close, Nayera pecked him on the lips quickly before leaving.

Mark could feel his heart palpate as he brought his fingers to his lips. “Does…she still love me like I still love her?” Before he could further dwell on it, Mark picked up his phone when he noticed Eve calling him. “Hey Eve. I’m at home…why? I’m not in Paris Eve. Trust me I would know if I’m in Paris.”

“Wait…So if you’re not in Paris…Who is…?”

AN: The variants are in the next chapter!! Which variant should Nayera meet first?

@mikajack9273

[followyourfleart]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝟒: 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐅𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡 ˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ‎

Next | Pervious | Fic Masterlist | a03

blurb - You’re playing catch-up—doing the makeup work of building a bond with your best friend’s wife, the woman you should know like the back of your hand by now. But you don’t. And things go from great to awkward when she starts asking questions. Innocent ones, at first. Until they start circling Joel.

Word Count: 7.0 k

This wasn’t your kind of bar.

You were used to polished floors and polished men—slick voices talking revenue, margin growth, IPOs. The kind of venues where deals were sealed with scotch and a smirk, where the lighting was low enough to make everyone look important and no one look tired.

This? This was a different beast.

This place had sticky floors. Torn vinyl seats. An ancient jukebox that looked like it had war stories. The whiskey was cheap, and the bartender looked like she could punch a hundred men. The kind of joint where nobody cared what your name was, as long as you tipped in cash and didn’t start a fight.

You’d picked a corner booth with the kind of instinct that comes from being tired down to the bone. One leg folded under you, elbow hooked on the backrest, you let your fingers curl around the cold glass, sweating on the table. Whiskey sour. Two limes. The closest thing to familiarity you could find.

The blues singer on stage wore denim and cigarettes like armor. His voice dragged like smoke across gravel, every word aching out of him as if it hurt to speak at all.

You liked that.

It was better than silence. Better than stillness. Better than being alone in your home with a boring weekend waiting you. A reward, Tommy said. More like babying

The place smelled like old wood, old beer, and a hundred bad decisions. But it was honest. Nobody in here was pretending to be more than they were. No curated personalities. No agendas. Just bruised hands and cheap drinks.

Your phone buzzed once. You glanced down.

[MARIA]: Just got into the parking lot! Parking’s a bitch, huh?

You smirked and typed back.

[YOU]: Agreed! If I die out here, bury me next to the pothole that took my tire.

You didn’t hit send just yet.

You looked around instead.

Your eyes caught on a couple near the bar, tangled in each other—drunken kisses, off-beat laughter, hands fumbling under the table like they couldn’t wait to get home. Young. Stupid. Reckless in the way only people who’ve never lost anything can be.

Your mouth twisted slightly. You looked away, back to your taped-up ankle. It didn’t hurt anymore, just uncomfortable to move.

The singer crooned low into the mic again, like he was confessing something to the floor. “This one’s for anyone who ever left when they shoulda stayed…”

The lyric hit too close. You downed the rest of your drink, ice clinking against the glass. You were mid-eye roll at the PDA couple by the bar when the seat across from you squeaked.

“I swear I aged five years looking for parking,” Maria said, breathless but grinning, sliding into the booth like she’d done it a thousand times.

You snorted, shifting to sit upright. “You and me both. I almost curb-stomped a Ford Focus.”

“I believe that. You’ve got that ‘mildly homicidal in heels’ look about you.”

You smirked. “Branding is everything.”

A waitress sauntered over. You lifted your nearly finished whiskey sour. “I’ll do another, same thing.”

Maria barely glanced at the menu. “Just water, please.”

You clocked that—filed it away—but didn’t say anything. Yet.

When the waitress left, you leaned forward, elbow on the table. “So. This is a little off-brand for both of us, huh?”

Maria raised a brow. “You mean the dingy bar with duct-taped booths and a man crooning breakup songs like he's in active mourning?”

You nodded. “Exactly. I usually prefer my liquor accompanied by jazz and $60 candles.”

“Yeah, well, I figured if I dragged you somewhere you couldn’t network, brand, or flirt your way through, you might actually talk to me.”

You gave a quiet laugh. “Alright. Tactical. I respect it.”

“Tommy says you’re all work and no play.”

“Tommy also used to eat glue.”

Maria laughed so hard she slapped the table. “You both are such a menace.”

You grinned, leaning back against the cracked booth. “You knew that when you married into it.”

“Yeah, but I never really got to know you before. You were always like this myth in Tommy’s stories. Always moving, always plotting. All action and sharp words.”

“Flattered. I think.”

Maria smiled, soft now. “You’re different in person.”

You tilted your head. “And how am I in person?”

“Still terrifying,” she said dryly. “But warmer than I expected.”

You tried not to let that settle too deep in your chest. “Well. Don’t tell anyone. Might ruin the brand.”

A pause fell between you, not uncomfortable—just thoughtful. You sipped your drink. Maria reached into her bag, pulled out a tiny Tupperware of almonds, and popped a few in her mouth.

You blinked. “Are you seriously snacking right now?”

She shrugged. “Gotta keep something in my stomach. Heartburn’s been a bitch lately.”

Heartburn. Water only. The flat shoes. That hand that was resting absentmindedly on her stomach. The way her hoodie hung a little looser than usual.

And suddenly, your eyes widened just a fraction.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

You tried to hide the smirk pulling at your lips. “So, no cocktail for you, huh?”

Maria looked smug. “Designated driver, obviously.”

“Mmhm.” You swirled your drink, watching her over the rim. “And the snacks?”

“Blood sugar,” she said lightly.

You tilted your head, grin growing. “And the shoes?”

“Comfort,” she replied instantly.

Your brows lifted. “And the constant hand on your stomach?”

Maria paused. Slowly—very slowly—her eyes narrowed at you.

You held up your hands in surrender. “Hey. I didn’t say anything.”

“But you know.”

“Congratulations on your… water.”

Maria groaned and covered her face with one hand. “I was doing so well.”

“You were doing decent.” You grinned. “Tommy know?”

“Obviously.”

“He told Joel yet?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “I don’t think Joel even notices when I’m in the room, let alone my reproductive status.”

“Lucky you.” You sighed dramatically. “You're safe.”

Maria smiled again, but softer now, eyes a little glassy in the low light. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“I should be thanking you. This beats scrolling spreadsheets at home.”

“Even with the blues singer crooning about his third divorce?”

You lifted your drink. “Even then.”

You weren’t sure what you expected when Maria slid into the booth across from you—maybe a little awkwardness, maybe stiff small talk to cover for how little you’d actually hung out one-on-one. But she kicked off her shoes, ordered a water, and gave you a look like tonight is happening, and somehow, it worked.

“You ready to tell me all the things Tommy doesn’t want me to know?” she asked, grinning like a woman on a mission.

You sipped your drink, smirking over the rim. “You sure you’re ready to hear it?”

“Born ready.”

You leaned back against the torn vinyl, one leg tucked under you. “Okay. Tell me—has he ever mentioned the Fourth of July incident?”

Maria’s eyes lit up. “Go on.”

“So. We’re maybe ten. Our parents left us with a neighbor while they went to some adult barbecue. We wanted fireworks, but no one would give us any. So Tommy decided to make his own.”

Maria already looked concerned.

“He mixed together baking soda, aluminum foil, and vinegar in a soda bottle. Called it ‘Texas Boom Juice.’”

Maria sputtered into her water.

“It exploded in his garage. Ruined a shelf full of paint cans, sprayed old Christmas decorations with chemical foam. His mom didn’t speak to him for three days. His dad made him clean the garage in 102-degree heat with a toothbrush.”

“Oh my God.”

“He still blames me for not warning him it wouldn’t work.”

“You knew it wouldn’t work?”

“I was ten and smarter than him. Not a high bar.”

Maria laughed so hard she had to lean forward. “Okay. New rule. One more story every ten minutes.”

You obliged.

There was the time Tommy tried to build a skateboard ramp using plywood and cinder blocks—and shattered his front tooth on a faceplant so dramatic, his parents almost sued gravity. The time he got caught sneaking into the local drive-in by hiding in someone’s trunk, only to pop out too early and scare a toddler into dropping her popcorn. The time he asked a girl out by writing a note in ketchup packets on her windshield.

Maria wheezed. “Ketchup?!”

“He said it was ‘bold.’ She said it was ‘terrifying.’”

“God, he’s lucky I found him when he had matured slightly.”

You tilted your head. “Has he though?”

Maria gave you a look. “Okay, fair. He just hides it better now.”

There was a pause, the kind that happens when laughter fades but comfort lingers.

She caught you glancing, gave you a small smile—one that said she saw your curiosity and didn’t mind it.

“You know,” she said gently, “he talks about you all the time.”

You blinked.

“Tommy,” she added. “Says you were the only one who ever really called him out when he was being an idiot. Said it helped him grow up.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “That man was allergic to maturity.”

“Still is, most days. But you were kind of a turning point for him.”

You looked down at your drink. Swirled the ice.

“He always looked up to Joel,” you said softly. “But I think… he needed someone to see him not through Joel.”

Maria nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

“He’s good now, though. You made him better.”

“That’s the goal, right?” she said, half-smiling. “You find someone who brings out your good parts. Or just accepts the weird ones.”

“I’ll cheers to that.” You lift up your glass and take a sip.

“So,” Maria said, chin propped in her hand, eyes twinkling with curiosity, “I’ve heard enough Tommy stories to write a memoir. What about you? What was life like before New York?”

You snorted, the sound dry as the bar napkin under your drink. “Loaded question.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, “you cornered yourself by making me laugh. Now I want the full backstory.”

You smiled despite yourself, leaning back into the cracked vinyl booth. “I grew up in Arlington. It was… fine. Hot as hell, good barbecue, football worshipped like a religion. The usual.”

“And family?”

You hesitated. Just a beat. “My dad—Clyde—he’s the reason I turned out remotely okay. You know how he is. Retired Army. Old-school and kind. He’s best friends with Tommy and Joel’s dad. They served together and stayed tight. So… me and Tommy? We’ve known each other since we were in diapers.”

Maria raised her brows. “That explains a lot.”

“Yeah, he used to say I was his first mistake. Like, karmically.” You smiled, watching the memory settle. “We terrorized our parents. Set off fireworks in a mailbox once. Joel ratted us out.”

Maria grinned widely. “That sounds like Joel.”

“Boy Scout, even back then,” you said. “He was older, always had that ‘I’ll tell Dad’ energy.”

Maria laughed. “God, I can see that.”

You nodded, then went quiet for a second.

“My mom…” You paused, looked at your drink, then shrugged. “We didn’t talk much. Still don’t.”

Maria didn’t push. Just gave a little nod like she understood more than you were saying.

There was a silence, but not an awkward one. It was the kind that let the music fill the space between people who might become friends. Onstage, the blues singer started another verse, voice curling around the words like smoke.

“She’d hate this place,” you said suddenly.

Maria tilted her head. “Your mom?”

“No,” you said, then corrected, “Actually, yeah—her too. But I meant the version of me I used to be. Power heels, dry bar events, clients who spent more on watches than I made in a year.”

“You miss it?” Maria asked, honestly.

You looked around. The scuffed tables. The peeling paint. The freedom in the way no one gave a damn what anyone else was doing.

“Some days. I’m usually too busy to think this hard. Sorry if I’m boring you.”

“No, never.” Maria smiles, “I’m glad we’re spending time like this. It’s good for people like us.”

“Like us?”

“Workaholics.”

You huffed out a laugh at the word “I can see that in me. Your…” Put together. Happy. Perfect life.

“Not a classic workaholic?” Her smile turns into a smirk. “Well, I do work another job. I’m an assistant district attorney. On my free days, I help Tommy.”

“Shit,” You whistle “Tommy’s got himself a dedicated wife.”

“He’s blessed.”

“Trust me, I know.”

And then, like she’d been biding her time just right, she tilted her head with a spark of mischief and said, “Okay. Now tell me what’s going on with you and Joel.”

You blinked again. “Excuse me?”

She gave you a knowing smile. “You two walk around like magnets trying not to touch.”

You laughed, maybe a little too quickly. “We’ve always been like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s not tension,” you added. “It’s… friction.”

“Which is just fancy tension.”

You narrowed your eyes at her. “Did you drag me out here for intel?”

“No,” she said, sipping her water like it was wine. “But if it’s freely offered…”

You laughed, tilting your head. “We’ve been butting heads since we were old enough to talk. Joel was my best friend’s big brother, who took everything too seriously. I was the family friend who made it my mission to knock him off his high horse.”

Maria smiled. “You? Stir the pot? No.”

“Right?” you said with mock offense. “Unbelievable. But yeah, Joel hated that I never treated him like some wise oracle just because he was older. Once, when I was ten, he tried to give me this lecture about ‘respecting rules,’ because I climbed the neighbor’s fence to get a football back. So I threw it at his head.”

“Did you hit him?”

“Square in the jaw. He still has a tooth that’s a little crooked.”

Maria burst out laughing. “I knew you were dangerous.”

“I was just a truth-teller,” you said, smirking. “Like when we were teenagers—Joel got all moody and broody, started thinking he was smarter than everybody. So I’d sneak into his truck and retune his radio presets to pop stations.”

“You did not.”

“I did. It was glorious. Tommy would catch him flipping through stations like his masculinity depended on it.”

Maria was full-on giggling now. “God, you really loved pushing his buttons.”

“Someone had to. He was too serious all the time. Even when he wasn’t mad at the world, he walked around like it owed him something.”

“Sounds familiar,” Maria muttered under her breath, grinning into her water.

You laughed. “Exactly. But look, we weren’t always at each other’s throats. We had a brief truce once.”

Maria raised a brow. “A truce?”

“Yeah, like… a year-long détente. I think we were both too tired to argue. It was weird. We’d actually sit in the same room and not insult each other. Even laugh sometimes.”

Maria gave you a sly look. “And what broke the truce?”

You paused. Sipped your drink again. “Oh, you know. Life. Growing up. People change. Paths diverge.”

She tilted her head, studying you, but didn’t press.

You continued, keeping your tone light. “Anyway, the last time Joel and I had an honest conversation was about thirteen years ago. And by ‘honest,’ I mean we yelled a lot and probably set a record for the most uses of the word ‘hell’ in one argument.”

Maria winced playfully. “Yikes.”

You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Let’s just say we don’t do well with confrontation. Or diplomacy. Or really anything that involves being in the same zip code.”

“Well,” Maria said, sitting back with a warm, curious smile, “For two people who don’t talk, you sure do act like there’s a whole conversation happening every time you’re in the same room.”

You snorted. “Yeah. That’s called tension, Maria.”

She smirked. “I call it potential.”

You gave her a look. “I’m starting to regret this girls' night.”

She clinked her water glass to your whiskey sour. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

You laugh, but your mind wanders. Wanders thirteen years into the past.

Because you weren’t about to admit what it was like in that last year before the fallout. When the edges softened a little. When the two of you had stopped throwing punches long enough to see what was underneath.

You wouldn’t tell her how sometimes, on nights when his dad got mean and Tommy was away, Joel would show up at your window—silent, angry, eyes hollow—and you’d let him climb in. No questions. No judgment. He’d crash on your floor, or sometimes right next to you, the two of you staring at the ceiling, pretending the world didn’t exist.

You weren’t going to admit how that kind of quiet—that charged, aching silence—had felt more intimate than any conversation you’d ever had.

That version of Joel—quiet, frayed, unguarded—you didn’t talk about. You barely let yourself remember it.

So instead, you leaned into the smile.

“He always had that look like someone just told him fun was illegal,” you said. “I considered it a public service to get under his skin.”

Maria’s eyes flicked to yours—sharp, but kind. “Yeah, but did you like it?”

Your smile faltered. Just a breath.

You shrugged. “It was familiar.”

Another beat passed. Then she said, more gently, “Do you miss it?”

You looked down at your drink. Let the ice settle.

“My mom used to say it’s not worth missing things that were only half-real.”

Maria watched you carefully, but said nothing.

You gave her a lighter look. “And besides—he started it.”

She laughed again, soft and surprised. “God, you really are trouble.”

You raised your glass to that. “Takes one to marry a Miller.”

As the drinks flowed, the night blurred at the edges. It got easier to laugh. To talk. To say things you might've kept buried under more sober circumstances. You didn’t mean to overshare—but Maria had that effect. And the whiskey didn’t help.

You might’ve said something embarrassing. You probably did.

But she just smiled like she understood. Like she wasn’t keeping score.

Eventually, someone called last round, and the lights got brighter. Harsher. So you left.

The air outside the bar was cooler than you remembered. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe the hour. But everything felt a little softer. Quieter. You and Maria stood under the flickering neon for a moment, her arms crossed over her chest, your heels clicking lightly as you shifted your weight.

“That was fun,” she said, not quite ready to say goodbye.

“It was,” you agreed, tugging your jacket tighter. “Next time I’m picking the bar.”

“Oh, I’m already scared.”

You both laughed as you headed to your cars, her silhouette slipping into her truck, headlights flashing on. You waved as she pulled out, then climbed into your own.

She drove off in a flash of headlights, and you slid into your car, letting the leather seat chill your thighs. The drive home was short but long enough to let your mind wander—through dusty memories and clean breaks. Arlington. Your dad’s laugh through the wall. Your mom’s perfume clinging to the couch cushions even after she stopped sitting there. The echo of who you were before you traded quiet for ambition, front porches for boardrooms.

And then, like a glitch in the reel: Joel.

Stubborn, gravel-voiced Joel. Who could ruin your whole day with one look. Who used to sleep on your floor in silence after screaming matches with his father, tension still humming in the air. Who now looked at you like a storm cloud he’d rather outwait than engage.

God, you hated him.

You missed him.

You hated that you missed him.

The porch light was still on when you got home, a quiet beacon against the dark. Inside, the TV flickered low and warm in the living room.

“Hey, Sugar Cubes,” your dad called from the couch, one hand lazily flipping the remote. “You out corruptin’ Millers?”

You leaned against the doorframe, kicking off your boots. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He smirked. “She survive it?”

“Barely. I was gentle.”

“You? Gentle?” He snorted. “Don’t lie in my house.”

You came and sat beside him, stealing half his blanket. On the screen, some old black-and-white movie played, guns and grit and men with jawlines sharp enough to cut steak.

You sat in silence for a while. It was nice—this kind of quiet. Earned. Heavy without being hard.

He eventually looked over at you. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, meaning it. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

You smiled, and kissed his cheek. “Night, old man.”

You made it to your room and flopped face-down onto the mattress with all the grace of a tranquilized bear. Kicked off your jeans, stretched one leg up like a dancer mid-fall, and groaned into your pillow.

Buzzed. Maybe a bit more than that.

Your phone sat on the nightstand. Innocent. Tempting.

You picked it up.

Opened your messages.

Scrolled past every number that didn’t make your eye twitch.

And there he was.

Joel Miller.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, fingers hovering.

Then—God help you—you typed:

[YOU]: How does it feel to walk around like a human middle finger all day or is that just something you turn on when I’m in the room?

You blinked at the screen. Smiled.

Sent it.

Then dropped your phone with a soft clatter.

It buzzed once. You didn’t check it.

Sleep tugged at you like a tide, and you let it take you—mouth dry, heart full of noise, and one regrettably sharp text message deep into the night.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

The hiss of a bottle cap.

The sharp click of a lighter.

The smell of cherry-scented body spray trying to cover up the acrid, sweet burn of vodka.

You were small again. Eleven. Maybe twelve. Sitting on the porch step, knees pulled into your chest. The sun had dipped, and the cicadas were out, loud and rhythmic. You didn’t hear the door open behind you, but you heard the voice.

“Whatcha doin’ out here, baby?”

You looked over your shoulder. Your mom. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy. Smile wide. Too wide.

“Just… watching,” you’d said.

She sat down beside you, joints creaking like they were older than they were. She held a can of something. Coke? No. Not just that.

“Watchin’ what?” she asked, swinging her legs like a teenager. Her bracelet clinked against the can.

“The sky.”

She nodded, thoughtful. “Good thing to watch.”

You want to lean into her. Want her to ask you how school was, or how Tommy was doing, or why you’d stopped wearing your hair in ponytails? You want her to smell like soap and sun, like she used to.

Instead, she turned to you with that dreamy, dazed smile and said, “You know, sometimes I think you’re gonna be smarter than me. Already are, probably.”

You blinked.

She sipped her drink, then laughed. “Don’t look at me like that. I mean it. You’ve got that brain your daddy doesn’t know what to do with. Gonna go far, baby girl. Just don’t forget where you come from.”

You didn’t answer. You looked down at her bare feet. At the chipped nail polish. The half-moon bruises on her ankle. You hate that you loved her so much.

“Hey.” She bumped your shoulder with hers. “You love me?”

It was a trap. You knew it even then. But you nodded.

She smiled. “Then promise me something. If I ever… I dunno. If I ever get lost in my own head again, you’ll come find me. Okay?”

You didn’t promise. You couldn’t.

You stared straight ahead, watching the clouds become different shapes.

She didn’t push. Just kept sipping. Kept watching the sky like it was gonna give her answers.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

March 12th, 1989

The first tap was faint. So soft it almost blended into the hum of your fan.

The second tap? Not so much.

You sat up in bed, heart jumping straight into your throat. Three more taps, fast. Urgent.

Not the door.

You froze, pulse pounding in your ears. This wasn’t a knock. It was your window. Your second-story window.

Which meant it sure as hell wasn’t the delivery man.

You moved fast, slipping out of bed in your shorts and tank top, cursing every horror movie you’d ever watched alone. The floor was cold under your bare feet. You crept across the room, silent as a shadow, and reached for the aluminum bat tucked behind your dresser.

Your dad always said if someone ever tried anything, you don’t freeze. You swing first and deal with questions later.

Another tap. You gripped the bat tighter, already picturing headlines.

Local Teen Girl in Sleep Shorts Beats Pervert Senseless with Softball Bat.

You yanked the curtain back and raised the bat—only to freeze.

Joel Miller stood on the other side of the glass, head low with his messy hair covering his face, one hand held up like he was trying to talk down a feral cat.

You lowered the bat an inch. “What the—Joel?”

His mouth moved behind the glass. “Can I come in?”

You blinked. “You’re lucky I didn’t knock your teeth in.”

“Figured it was worth the risk,” he said with a huff , lip already split.

You unlocked the window with a huff and shoved it open. “What the hell are you doing, Miller? You scaling walls now?”

He gave a crooked half-shrug, lip split and bleeding. “Figured it was worth the risk.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t answer until one booted foot hooked onto the sill, and he hoisted himself through—fluid, practiced, like this wasn’t the first time he’d climbed into a girl’s room through a second-story window.

You stepped back with a grimace. “Jesus. You’re bleeding on my floor.”

“I’ll bleed quieter if you give me a towel,” he mumbled, already toeing off his boots.

You crossed your arms, bat still dangling in one hand. “You get in a fight or fall down a flight of stairs trying to look cool?”

“Guy was messing with Tommy.”

You groaned. “You fought someone. After your dad explicitly said not to.”

“Yeah.”

“And now you’re avoiding going home because…?”

Joel dropped onto the carpet like his whole body weighed too much. “Didn’t feel like a lecture. Or Mom’s sad eyes.”

You watched him, heart still catching up to everything. “…You could’ve gone to Tommy’s.”

He snorted. “He talks in his sleep. Like, full paragraphs.” A pause. “Didn’t feel like that either.”

You glanced at the window. “So you came here?”

He finally looked at you. “Didn’t think you’d answer the door.”

You bit your lip. “Didn’t think you’d knock on the glass like a psycho bird.”

That pulled a breath of a laugh out of him. Small. Honest.

“You’re lucky I didn’t swing.”

“I’d have deserved it,” he muttered, dabbing at his mouth with the hem of his sleeve.

You sighed, turned to grab an old hoodie off your chair, and tossed it at him.

“Here. Stop leaking all over my rug.”

He caught it with one hand and gave you a look. “You’re real hospitable, you know that?”

“Only ‘cause I’m too tired to call the cops.”

Then you saw the scrape under his sleeve. The crusted blood at his lip. That stiff way he was breathing. You sighed again, softer this time. “Joel.”

“I’m fine.”

You raised an eyebrow like you were trying to launch it off your face. “You always this bad at lying or just when you’re concussed?”

You stepped closer, reaching for the hem of his hoodie.

He pulled back a little. “Hey, I’m good—”

“Uh-huh. And I’m Miss Texas.” You shoved him—lightly—back onto the bed. He fell with a soft oof.

“Hey!”

“Quit whining. I’m checking for bleeding.”

“I think I’d notice if I was bleeding.”

“You don’t even notice when I stole that hat. Sit still.”

You peeled his hoodie off, biting your lip when you caught sight of the bruises. His ribs were already turning a mean shade of purple-blue, his eye was swelling, and that cut on his lip looked worse under good lighting.

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “You really won, huh?”

 “Didn’t lose,” he muttered.

You shook your head and turned toward the door.

“Where you goin’?”

“To get frozen peas and regret all my life choices.” You opened the door, pausing. “Don’t move. If you bleed on my pillow, I’ll smother you with it.”

He gave a lazy salute as you slipped out.

You returned a few minutes later, arms full of an ice pack, first-aid stuff, and the last clean towel you were willing to sacrifice. Joel hadn’t moved—except to take off his boots. That was something.

You shut the door with a soft click. “Still here, huh? Guess I didn’t dream this.”

He looked up. “Depends. You usually dream about half-naked guys in your bed?”

You scoffed. “No. They’re usually smarter.”

He smiled, but didn’t argue.

You pointed at the chair. “Sit up. Shirt off.”

He arched a brow. “You're always this bossy with your patients?”

“Only the dumb, bleeding ones.”

He peeled his shirt off slowly as he walked over to the chair, ribs clearly sore. You tried not to look too hard. You failed a little. Just enough.

You had never had a boy naked in your room. Okay, lies. You had never had Joel half-naked. You did this with Tommy, sure. He’d seen you in a bra, even just panties. But this… too much, too fast. Especially for two people like you and Joel.

You pressed the peas against his ribs, and he winced.

“Baby,” you muttered.

“Says the one who shrieked when a moth flew at her face last week.”

“That moth came at me with intent, Joel.”

He chuckled, chest rising under your hand. He was rock solid. Not with muscle, but the feeling of touching around person. His skin was rough here, just like his hands, like his expression, most of his life. You kept your eyes on the icepack, but your awareness shifted—drawn to the slow rise and fall beneath your palm.

Then everything went still.

He wasn’t laughing anymore. Not smiling.

 Just watching.

You could feel it. That shift in the air. The quiet that wasn’t comfortable anymore. Heavy. Coiled.

“You always gonna take care of me like this?” he asked, voice low. Dry.

You didn’t look up. “Only when you’re dumb enough to need it.”

A beat. Then, “So… often.”

Your lips tugged upward, barely. Your heart kicked once, hard. You didn’t let it show.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

“You got a real sharp tongue,” he muttered.

“You’d be bored without it.”

“Wouldn’t call it boring,” he said after a pause. Not quite agreeing. Not quite disagreeing either.

You moved the icepack again. He tilted his face without you asking, like he’d already given up the fight.

When you pressed it gently to the bruised skin under his eye, he hissed—and his hand shot out without thinking, gripping the back of your thigh.

Not your knee. Not your arm. The high, soft part just beneath the curve of your hip.

You froze.

So did he.

His fingers twitched once, then loosened like he’d just realized what he’d done. “Shit—sorry,” he said, voice rougher than before. Embarrassed. Controlled.

“Y’need something to hold onto,” you muttered, eyes still on the bruising, “I’ll give you a free pass.”

He let out a breath—almost a laugh, almost something else—but he didn’t let go.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “Don’t need a crutch.”

You swallowed. “Didn’t say you did. Just said I don’t mind.”

Joel didn’t laugh. He didn’t let go either.

His jaw flexed once. Like he wanted to say something, but didn’t trust whatever might come out.

So he stayed quiet. Fingers still curled into the back of your thigh like it helped him hold steady.

You kept the icepack in place, pretending your skin wasn’t burning under his touch. For a long second, neither of you moved.

You had to look like some sort of movie poster—Joel in your room, shirtless, the lighting low and gold, your bodies too close, too still. His hand on your thigh like it had every right to be there.

Not in a fight.

Not in anger.

Just there.

You weren’t used to that. You weren’t sure he was either.

Always physical fights, not physical normal touches.

Joel didn’t say anything. Just kept his hand there, warm against the back of your thigh, thumb brushing lightly—maybe unintentionally, maybe not. The coldness of the icepack was nothing compared to that.

Another beat. The kind of silence that felt like it might break if either of you so much as blinked the wrong way. Then Joel shifted just slightly, enough for his thumb to brush a little higher up, the touch deliberate this time. Testing.

Your jaw tensed. But you didn’t move away. Didn’t lean in either.

That’s where the line lived. Right there.

In the stillness.

“Joel,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes weren’t on the ice anymore. Weren’t on your mouth, either—thank God. They were somewhere between, like he couldn’t decide which part of you to look at without it meaning something.

“I ain’t gonna do nothin’,” he said finally. Low. Rough. Serious. “If that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

You didn’t deny it.

His hand finally dropped. A sharp absence that left your skin colder than the ice ever could. You straightened, stepping back the smallest distance—enough to breathe, not enough to forget.

Joel leaned back against the chair. Rolled his shoulder with a faint wince. “You got bad timing.”

For once, you didn’t respond. Just shut up and toss the peas on your desk. You grabbed some of your extra pillows from the closet and your heavy winter blanket. You started to throw them to the side closet to the door. Safety, just in case your dad decided to come check on you.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” Joel said, brows furrowed like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“I’m not letting you take the bed,” you shot back, already halfway into making a pathetic little nest of pillows and a blanket on the floor beside it. “You can barely see outta one eye and you’re limping like you fought a damn bear. Lay your ass down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.”

“I’ve slept on worse.”

“And I’ve seen worse, and I’m still not letting you—”

Joel didn’t wait for the rest.

One second you were reaching for your next pillow, the next you were airborne—hauled up with a grunt and tossed unceremoniously onto the bed like you weighed nothing.

“Joel!” you yelped, half tangled in the blanket, stunned.

He didn’t even look at you.

“I said you ain’t sleepin’ on the floor,” he muttered, turning his back as he dropped down beside you with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his chest. “Quit makin’ me repeat myself.”

You scrambled up onto your elbows, staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “Did you just throw me into my own bed?”

“Didn’t throw. Just… relocated.”

“Oh, hell no.” You moved like you were gonna get up, but he stuck an arm out without even looking—barred your way with a tired groan, keeping you trapped between his body and the edge of the bed.

“Try me,” he warned, voice rough, already halfway to sleep. “You’ll be strapped here next time.”

You stared at the back of his head, fuming.

He didn’t budge.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just… settled there, shoulders rising and falling slow and even, like exhaustion had finally won out.

You laid back with a huff, glaring at the ceiling.

The bed was warm from your body. The space between you wasn’t nearly wide enough.

“You’re such a jackass,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer.

But you saw it in the way his shoulder twitched—just a little. Like he’d heard. Like maybe he agreed. Then he flopped onto the bed, his back turned to you.

And still didn’t move an inch.

The silence stretched long in the dark.

You stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, wide awake despite the ache in your bones and the weight of the day behind you. Joel’s breathing had evened out, slow and steady beside you—but something about the way he was lying stiff didn’t quite say asleep.

Eventually, your eyes adjusted, shadows and shapes forming in the dim room. That was when you noticed it.

A dark shape, just below his shoulder blade. Too clean of a line to be dirt, too raw to be old.

You frowned.

There’d been so much blood earlier—you thought you’d checked everything. His ribs, his eye, the cut on his lip. But not his back.

Carefully, slowly, you pushed yourself up on one elbow. The blanket had slipped low, exposing bare skin. A long, purple brush that was inflamed at the edges. Dried blood had crusted around it from some other wound.

You reached out, fingers hovering.

Just to see. Just to—

You traced it, light as a breath, careful not to press too hard.

Joel shivered.

His shoulder twitched. A breath hitched in his throat.

You froze. “Sorry,” you whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I ain’t asleep.”

His voice was low. Rough. But not angry.

You hesitated. “You want me to stop?”

There was a pause. Long enough for you to think maybe he’d fallen asleep after all.

Then, finally:

“…No.”

So you let your fingers trail lower. Slower. Not quite over the wound anymore—but close. You followed the shape of it, the heat of it, brushing the edge of a bruise before gliding to the dip of his spine. Skin that was too warm, too tight. Holding more pain than he’d ever admit.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

So you kept going.

Your palm found the middle of his back, steady and warm. Pressing down just enough to say, I’m still here. That was when he let out a breath—long, rough, and quiet. Like something deep in him had cracked and finally started to leak.

It didn’t scare you. It made you softer.

So you moved closer, slow and deliberate, fitting yourself behind him. Tucking your knees into the backs of his. Curling your arm under his. Letting the whole of you settle against the whole of him.

He froze.

Like someone had cut the wire again.

“…What are you doin’?” he rasped, low and raw, like the sound was being dragged from somewhere he didn’t want you hearing.

“Relax,” you whispered, adjusting your arm so your hand rested just beneath his ribs. “You’re still bleeding. I’m keeping you warm.”

He let out a disbelieving huff. “Since when do you give a damn if I’m warm?”

You shrugged against him. “Since you decided to play human sword for Tommy.”

“I didn’t—” He stopped. Exhaled. “…He was gonna get hurt.”

“I know.” You smoothed your hand over his side. “That’s why I give a damn.”

He didn’t reply. Not for a while.

You could feel him trying to push something back. Lock it behind his ribs and throw away the key.

So you pressed in closer, your voice brushing the skin of his shoulder.

“Be quiet.”

He was.

For a moment, all you heard was the soft rasp of his breathing and the pounding of your own pulse in your ears.

You felt the way his chest rose, stalled, then fell again. A breath half-held and barely released.

No response this time. Not out loud.

But under your palm, you felt it—that flicker of something beneath his ribs. A sigh that didn’t make it all the way out. A tremor that wasn’t pain.

So you didn’t say anything else. You just smoothed your hand over him again, grounding. Gentler now.

His muscles stayed tense, like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that the fight was over. Like it didn’t know how to unclench.

You waited.

And then, after a long, stretched moment, he shifted just slightly—only enough to lean into the warmth of your touch. Barely there. Barely anything.

But it was permission.

So you moved again, your hand tracing up the slope of his ribs, skimming the bruised plane of his side. You could feel the breath flutter in his lungs, ragged from adrenaline and effort and silence. You didn’t look for words. Not anymore. You just let your hand settle, firm and steady. A tether.

You blinked, heavy and slow with exhaustion, and before you could second-guess it, before your mind could get in the way, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

Soft. Barely there.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

But his body was humming. Every part of him was on alert under your mouth, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to lean into you or run.

You didn’t explain it. You didn’t mean anything by it—at least nothing you had words for. The kiss wasn’t romantic. Wasn’t anything.

Except… it was something.

You let your lips rest there a second longer, then pulled back and let your forehead rest against his spine. Your hand stayed where it was. Anchoring.

The room was so quiet, it felt like even the walls were holding their breath.

No movement. No words.

But after a moment, Joel let out a low, fractured sound in the back of his throat—somewhere between a sigh and a question.

He didn’t move away.

And neither did you.

You let your hand stay exactly where it was, warm and steady on his side. Your knees were still tucked into his. The rhythm of your breaths slowly syncing. His hand slowly coming to rest on yours, large and rough. His fingers tracing your fingernails in little circles.

Not friends. Not enemies. Not anything that made sense.

But still—you stayed.

And so did he.

Woah woah woah. I love a good double upload.

Are you guys eating this up or am eating in the corner by myself.

[pparadiselost]

crying wolf.

werewolf michael kaiser x red riding hood fem reader clichés always hold a grain of truth to them. warning(s): nsfw, noncon, murder of an uninvolved character, breeding, knotting minors do not interact.

a big bad wolf lives in the woods near your village. 

that much you know. 

the wolf has been the talk of the town for years now, and no matter how many men set off to kill the wolf or how many traps had been set up to catch it once and for all, the sly beast always managed to escape the trickery of your town.

there came a point where you stopped caring about it. you had no reason to step into the woods, satisfied with your quiet life in town, and outside of the stray sheep being killed and eaten every few months, the wolf really didn’t do anything to disturb your quality of life. it must suck to be a sheep farmer while this was all going down, but you weren’t a sheep farmer, so you didn’t care.

“you ought to be more careful!” the old cheesemonger’s wife scolds you as she hands you a generous chunk of cheese. “you know, the huntsmen are saying that they’re going to form an escort group in about a week’s time. shouldn’t you wait until then to go visit your grandma?”

you shake your head. “mama said i should go as soon as possible. grandma hasn’t been feeling well for a while, and ever since the whole wolf scare, we haven’t been able to visit her frequently. i just want to make sure she has enough food, because she can’t really do much herself.”

the old wife clicks her tongue and waggles her finger. “i keep telling my husband here, they really ought to catch that wolf quickly. this is how these things always begin. a couple sheep here and there, and next thing you know, the wolf’s run off with a toddler. who’s to say it won’t develop an appetite for a pretty girl like you?”

“oh, please.” you snort slightly. “the only things with an appetite for women like me are the drunkard sleazebags that waste their money away in the taverns.”

“well, you can say that again,” she laughs. she winks as she tucks you an extra slice of sweet cheese into your basket, and she waves you off before you finish off your errands and head home.

the chilled autumn breeze nips at your skin, and you huddle under the red cape your mother’s lovingly sewn for you. it’s become your best friend when winter starts to draw close, and you’ve worn the garment for years. you’re sure you’ll wear it in due time when you’ll set out through the woods to your grandmother’s, where the bright crimson ought to serve as an identifying beacon of sorts for your ailing grandmother. 

the sun threatens to set in the distance by the time you gather up all your supplies and head to the outskirts of the village, where your home is. you double check the contents of your basket at your front door, not wanting your mother to scold you for having forgotten anything.

a bottle of hearty wine? check. loaves of bread that won’t go bad soon? check. cheese, meats, and fruits? check.

“i’m home!” you called out, swinging your front door open. your mother jumps and places a hand over her heart, exhaling deeply when she notices it’s just you.

“you scared the wits out of me, dear!” she scolds, stirring intensely at the pot in front of her. “a knock before you come in wouldn’t hurt, you know!”

“says the person who leaves the front door unlocked.” you toss your boots off and hang your cloak up, and you set down the heavy basket on the already set dining table. you swing in to a seat at the table, stomach growling at the scent of fresh stew. “i got everything for grandma tomorrow. is there anything else you need me to bring to her?”

“do you think i should pack some jam for her? i have a few jars that mr. ah… what’s his name again- well, he gave me some because his sister had made too much, and i reckon that your grandmother wouldn’t have too many sweet things to eat while she’s sick,” your mother suggests. you shrug, and she wipes her hands down on her apron before grabbing at the pot’s handle. “stay put where you are, dear. hot pot coming through!”

“i don't think it'll hurt. might as well bring it over if i’m headed there in the first place,” you offered. your mother smiles at you fondly as you practically lunge for the pot, spoon in hand to scarf down a well-deserved meal.

“slow down, or you’ll get a tummy ache,” she reminds you. you swipe at your mouth with your sleeve, earning a wince from her, but she doesn’t say anything. the night quickly melts away into the everyday hum of dinner followed by a quick berry pie dessert. 

you haven’t even thought of the wolf until your mother tells you to go fetch the rest of the laundry she forgot to get earlier in the day. you balance a laundry basket on your hip as you drag your feet outside, wishing you were snuggled up in your bed with a book instead. the cold wind bites at your exposed neck and face, and you scowl as you haphazardly yank at the clothes and socks hung up on the laundry line.

“stupid wind,” you grumble under your breath. you stuff some shirts into the laundry basket, but when you reach to grab at the last pair of socks on the line, the wind tussles it free from the clothing pin and the socks go flying off in the distance. you let out a yelp before running after it, watching the white socks flutter like a pair of doves before landing onto the dirt.

“stupid, stupid wind!” you doubly curse as you bend down, yanking your nightclothes up so that the hem won’t be stained by the dirt. you reach to grab the socks before something in the ground catches your eye, and you shift to take a closer look.

your eyes widen in horror.

pawprints. wolf pawprints.

you shudder and quickly stand up, racing back to the safety of your laundry line and basket. the cursed beast must have been wandering around the wilderness near your home. a shiver runs down your spine at the thought of some stinky mutt of a wolf sniffing at your laundry, and once you see that there are no more clothes left on the line, you march back home and shut the door firmly behind you.

you have nothing to fear. you’re no sheep and definitely not meal material for the big bad wolf. you don’t even bring up the pawprints to your mother once you’re inside, and you don’t even think of the wolf again when you go to bed, bracing yourself for the long journey to your grandmother’s cottage tomorrow.

…

…

…

“do you have everything?”

“yes, mama.”

“are your boots comfortable?”

“yes, mama.”

“will the cloak be enough to keep you warm?”

“yes, mama.”

you swear the entire day’s going to be over by the time your mother’s done fretting over you. she’s not only gone over the contents of your basket once, twice, thrice, four goddamn times, and she’s still convinced that somehow she magically forgot to add everything to it. she keeps fretting over you, pulling the cloak tighter around your throat and making sure the hood covers your head comfortably.

deep down, you know she means well, but she keeps fussing over you like you’re a newborn baby. you’re old enough to take care of yourself, old enough to know how the world runs, old enough to stand on your own two feet without having her circling you like some kind of anxious mama bear. which she is, you suppose.

she kisses your forehead gently, looking at you with the weathered affectionate eyes only a mother could ever muster up. “i know you’re sick of me worrying over you like this. i can’t help it—you’re my baby.”

“i’ll be back before you even know it, mama,” you joke back. “and if i’m not back by dinner, you can assume i’ll be at grandma’s for the night. either way, i’ll be back by tomorrow for sure.”

“i’ll be waiting for you,” your mother promises. she clasps your hands, rubbing her calloused palms over yours. she squeezes your fingers carefully, grinning at you despite her obvious nerves. “my baby’s all grown up! going through the woods by herself and everything… what am i going to do when you actually leave the nest?”

“oh, you’ll be fine.” you hoist the heavy basket up, flashing your mother a thumbs-up. “i’ll be on my way then. i shouldn’t dally around too much, or it’ll get late.”

“right, right. i guess i’ll bake something to pass the time while you’re gone. maybe making your favorite pie ought to incentivize you to come home faster!” she agrees with a hearty laugh. you’re just about to turn around and set off before your mother cries out a panicked “wait!”

you look over your shoulder. “huh? what is it, mama?”

“i know this is probably just me fretting,” she looks at you firmly, and she wrings her hands slightly, “but it’s better safe than sorry. make sure to never wander from the main road, okay? you’ve heard about the wolf that’s been terrorizing our village. i don’t want to risk you getting hurt.”

you’d snark back at her a bit normally, but the pure fear in your mother’s eyes makes you bite your tongue for once. “i’ll stay strictly on the path, mama. besides, the wolf’s never taken a human before. and i’m sure there’ll be huntsmen and all sorts of other people out and about at this time of day, so i’ll be okay.”

“i know,” she sighs. “it’s a mother’s instinct. i can’t help but fret over you constantly.”

she waves you off, and you’re on the path to your grandmother’s before you even know it. the weather today is perfect: brisk refreshing air, a few cotton-white clouds in the bright blue sky, and the mischievous twinkles of sunlight streaming through forest trees’ branches. 

truth be told, you like these solo adventures more than anything else in the world. living a quiet life in your village has its perks, but when everyone knows everybody, you rarely get a chance to set out by yourself without the scrutiny of your entire town on your back. you hum a little song while you skip through the beaten path in the woods, savoring the solitude. it shouldn’t take you more than a few hours to make the round trip, save for a quick lunch break in the middle and maybe a snack for the road at your grandmother’s abode. 

you couldn’t be happier right now. the basket swings from the crook of your arm as you stroll through the woods, admiring the wilderness. a pair of butterflies flutter every now and then, and you can make out the melodic warbles of birdsong. you wonder if it’s mating season for the creatures; the closest you ever got to romance were the fairy tales in your book (your mother’s old hand-me-downs, from when she lived in the port city before moving her to marry your now-absent father) or the occasional wedding that took place in your village (the last one was 7 years ago, when the wheat grinder’s daughter married the postman. you pressed the flowers from your corsage between the pages of a heavy dictionary).

either way, you wish your village had more to show a young woman like yourself. everyone seems happy living their rustic life, and while you were satisfied with the peace that your mother strove so hard to provide you with, you knew that the world had more to show you.

and you crave it. just as the horizon of the woods seems to stretch on forever and ever, you wonder if there’s something beyond it just waiting for you. 

maybe there ought to be a great marble castle, blinding white in the distance, complete with a prince charming inside atop his great steed. or maybe big markets with all sorts of treasures from afar! sometimes when a stray merchant stumbles across your town, you’d eavesdrop on the stories they’d tell to the little kids (you always dreamed about tasting the delicious spices they bragged about. cinnamon, was it? oh, that sounded fabulous).

but instead, you’re stuck with this bumfuck, hillbilly country town. there aren’t even any good looking guys here, and you know it’ll take at least a decade to convince your mother to let you move out away from the safety of her arms. the height of gossip here is a stupid wolf running around the woods. your village is so boring that they can’t even find a human to gossip about.

sweat dots your brow once you’re a good way into your journey. parts of the woods clear out into patches of grass or the sporadic lake, and your stomach starts growling slightly. you debate pushing yourself a bit further before you decide otherwise—your mother had packed you a delicious lunch, and it wouldn’t hurt to give your feet a quick break while you wolfed it down.

you scan the nearby woods for a clearing you could sit at, and after a few more feet of walking, you’re greeted with what looks like a meadow of wildflowers in the distance. you keep your eye on the main path before plopping down on the side of the beaten track, leaning your back against a tall tree.

‘lunchtime, lunchtime,’ you excitedly think to yourself as you peel back the cover of your basket. in the corner, all wrapped up, is a pair of sandwiches, a bottle of water, and a whole apple that your mother has prepared for you. the bright noon sun above your head indicates to you that it's the perfect time for lunch, and you lick your lips as you unwrap the sandwiches.

you go to town on your food. you have to force yourself to slow down a bit so you won’t choke on your food, and you listen to the back-and-forth of bird calls as you savor the taste of tasty bread. the crisp tanginess of the apple is welcomed by your tongue after you finish your sandwiches, and you chew thoughtlessly.

crunch.

‘hm?’ you don’t even move when the sound of rustling comes from behind you. it’s probably a deer or something. the sound of rustling wasn’t uncommon this deep into the woods, and huntsmen often told stories about daring foxes or squirrels that would venture close to the tracks to fight over scraps that other travelers had dropped.

crunch. 

you swallow down the final bite of your apple, inwardly wishing you had more. you dangle the core in between your fingers, and you wonder if you should toss it into the woods. yeah, that wouldn’t be too bad, right? 

crunch. 

the birds could pick at it for a bit, and then maybe the bugs could enjoy the sweet treat. what use would you have for an apple core? you stand up, dusting yourself off the best you can, and without looking too far into the woods, you rev up your arm and throwing the apple core as far as you can into the trees with as much force as you can muster-

-only to hit something square on with the apple core.

you blanche. what did you just hit? you weren’t looking too closely, and you had expected the apple core to unceremoniously fall somewhere on the ground and be forgotten. but instead, something of considerable size lurks in the woods, and you hold your breath as you haphazardly grab your basket and your cloak, getting ready to run for it.

“ow…,” a boyish voice whimpers. 

huh??? you freeze in your place, confusion flickering through your brain as a shadowy figure rustles around the place you had tossed the apple. a voice? you hadn’t expected that. you were supposed to be the only person here.

did you accidentally hit a wandering huntsman on accident?

“w-who’s there?” you call out. “come out and show yourself!”

“i was trying to-,” the voice grumbles. you hear footsteps and the crunching of breaking branches and leaves, and you keep your distance from the voice. the figure shifts closer to you. “-before you hit me in the face with your leftovers.”

your breath stops just short in your throat when you see a young boy around your age step out into the light. you clearly look confused—you’ve never seen him before, and no one’s mentioned anything about a boy this deep into the woods.

“who are you?” you ask, your own voice hushed. “i’ve never seen you before.”

“i should be asking you that,” he huffs. he folds his hands over his chest, and he pouts. “i want to know about you first.”

“i live in the village.” you point the way you came, down the path. you make the wise decision to casually leave out your name and any other important information you can. “are you from there too?”

he shakes his head. “i live in the woods.”

the woods! you’d never heard of anyone living in the woods. it was pure wilderness, dangerous and scary, no less for someone who wasn’t even a veteran wilderness expert! for someone that lived in the woods, the boy looks surprisingly well groomed. his long blond hair pools over his shoulder and down his chest, and it looks clean and well maintained. his cheeks are rosy and pink, and his bright blue eyes stare you down with a kind of pride you’ve never seen before.

“that’s dangerous, you know,” you point out. “there’s a wolf that's been running around these parts lately. it’s not safe for you to be out here all alone.”

he raises an eyebrow. “a wolf, huh?”

“yeah! it’s been killing sheep in my village. everyone’s been talking about it,” you remark. “i’d take you back to my village if i could, but i can’t.”

“i’m not welcome there,” he coldly remarks. his eyes narrow slightly, as if he’s leering at you. “besides, i wouldn’t want to live in a stupid village anyway. i’m happier on my own. everyone else and their stupidity would make me mad.”

annoyance shoots through you, and you shrug. “suit yourself. i can’t force you to go if you don’t want to. but i’d rather not have blood on my hands.”

“blood on your hands, huh?” the blond boy steps closer to you. “where are you headed to?”

“why do you want to know?”

“because it’s not often that i see a girl wandering around this deep by herself. you said it yourself: it’s dangerous out here.” 

you hold your ground as he steps closer, circling around you. he’s tall when he stands at full height, almost enough to rival some of the tallest men in your village. his body is toned, most likely from living in pure wilderness for however long he has, and despite the lighthearted banter between the two of you, something in your gut swirls with anxiety when he prowls around like a wild animal.

“i’m headed somewhere,” you answer vaguely. “i have some stuff i gotta deliver.”

“and it’s that way, isn’t it? opposite your village?” he approaches closer, and you whimper when he sniffs at your ear. “lemme guess… that old lady’s house on the other side?”

your stomach drops. the boy grins, his sharp canines on full display when he sees the awestruck look on your face.

“bingo! you smell like her,” he laughs easily. “that’s a long journey for a pretty girl like you.”

you pull your cloak closer to yourself, instinctively wanting to shield yourself from the strange boy. “that’s enough! i’m going to get going.”

“sure, sure.” he sends you off, still grinning like he’s won some grand prize. “be careful out there though, darling.”

he cocks his head, watching you as you start running away from him. the blond smirks to himself, your sweet scent still clinging to his nose as your silhouette flickers from his view and then disappears into the distance.

“a wolf, huh?” he murmurs. he sounds amused, still thinking about the flabbergasted expressions on your face. something inside of him stirs sinisterly. 

he’s hungry, he decides. 

and suddenly, sheep meat doesn’t sound as appetizing anymore.

…

…

…

horror weighs on your heart like a brick thrown into a pond. it ripples and quivers violently, forming merciless waves that spread out, swallowing up anything in its path and leaving things warped in its wake.

your grandmother’s house is trashed. the windows are smashed in, and the front door is broken. your heart hammers in a panic, and your mouth goes dry. your pupils shake as you stand a distance away from the house.

your mind is blank. what happened? robbers? wild animals? a murderer?

you know deep down in your heart that the correct thing to do is turn on your heel and run, run until you find someone else, run until another person could take care of the issue for you. but your feet stay glued to the ground, and your thoughts swirl over with terrifying ideas.

your grandmother is inside! she’s a weak, defenseless lady, practically confined to her bed because of her old age and her illness… there was virtually nothing she could do to defend herself if anyone attacked her. 

what if you were already too late?

“g-grandma…!” you cry out. your basket bounces next to you as you run into the house, tears clouding over your vision. the house seems too big, like it’s swallowing you up without the safety of your grandmother. the inside of the cottage looks just like the outside. furniture overturned, big claw marks etched into the walls, and absolutely no sign of your beloved grandmother.

your blood turns cold at the claw marks.

was it the wolf? 

“grandma, if you can hear me, say something…!” you whisper, too scared to raise your voice properly. “o-or move something! grandma, you’re in here, right?”

your body trembles uncontrollably. the only room remaining that isn’t within clear sight is your grandmother’s bedroom. your gut tells you to leave immediately. you don’t want to go in there, but you have to. who’s going to help your grandmother if not for you? what if by the time you ran away and brought other people, it was too late for her?

your steps echo throughout the ruined house like the toll of church bells, and you press your lips into a thin line. you reach out for the door, which, despite its dilapidated state, somehow managed to stay partially attached to the hinges. you push, forcing your head to quit spinning from your fear.

“we meet again, darling!”

your heart drops to the ground. blood paints what seems like every inch of the room, and you immediately stumble backwards, tripping over your own feet and landing like a sack of potatoes onto the ground. 

‘move…!’ your brain screams at your body. ‘get up and move!’

but you can’t. the scene unfurling in front of your eyes makes your limbs feel like they were made of lead. you can’t bring yourself to do anything. you can’t crawl, can’t scream, can’t do anything except stare back up at the blood-drenched young man that looms above you with a wolfish smile.

he licks his lips. he looks exactly as he did in the woods. tall, with long blond hair and dazzling blue eyes. except this time, there’s a pair of pointed wolf ears that sprout from the top of his head and a bushy tail in between his legs. he’s splashed with crimson, and his mouth is smeared the deepest red.

“see, i knew this was where you were headed to,” he laughs. “are you looking for the old lady that was in here? sorry to tell you, sweetheart, but i think i was a step ahead of you.”

you can’t bring yourself to breathe.

“you- you’re the wolf…,” you choke out. the smug smirk never leaves the boy’s face as he leers down at you, and another wave of pure dread drops like a deadweight into your stomach when he nods.

“about time you pieced it together, stupid girl.” the boy clicks his tongue mockingly. “i always watched that stupid village of yours get their panties all in a twist trying to catch me. i mean, human or not, did you guys really think you’d catch anything with stupid traps like that?”

you raise your arms instinctively when he leans down. “please don’t kill me…! i won’t say anything- please don’t eat me!”

he pauses, and he takes a long inhale. you clench your eyes shut, bracing yourself from the crunch of your bones under his sharp teeth, and for the smell of your blood to fill the room. this is it. this is how you die. another victim to the weird werewolf that had terrorized your town for god-knows-how-long, gobbled up mercilessly in the same way the boy had devoured your poor, helpless grandmother.

he laughs again, and you shudder. you tentatively peel your eyes open, only to scream when you see yourself at eye-level with him. 

“did you think i was going to eat you too? nah, i’m not gonna do that to you. i’ve had my fill with that bony old grandma of yours.” he grabs your wrist, and you yelp when pain shoots up your arm. he yanks you up to your feet, and you shakily lean against him when he drags you into the heart of the scene of the crime. you don’t want to look at all the blood splattered against your now-dead grandmother’s bedroom, and the boy flings you like a ragdoll onto her bed.

he looks so monstrous, towering over your cowering form. in every other way, he looks like a normal human, like any other boy you’d see frolicking in your hometown, but his animalistic features betray him. the gleam in his eyes mark him as unmistakably a ruthless predator, and your heart feels like it's going to give out.

“what are you going to do to me?” you eke out. “are you going to take me hostage?”

“hostage? for what? do i look like the kind of person to bargain with stupid humans?” he snorts, and when he shakes his head at your foolishness, his long hair tumbles over his broad shoulders. you look like a deer caught in headlights as he clambers onto the bed, and he presses a hand on either side of your face as he cages you in between his body and the mattress.

he’s smiling, but you can’t detect any trace of goodwill or kindness on his face. “do you really want to know what i’m going to do with you, my darling?”

you didn’t know how to respond. he leans down to your level, and you whimper when you can smell the stench of blood and death on his mouth. despite this, he presses his lips against the outline of your jaw, and you quiver underneath the boy as his tongue darts out to lick at your skin.

“i’m going to make you my mate.”

your head feels like it’s caving in. 

“what-?” you flinch. “no- no, no- nonono- you can’t do that… i can’t- no, i can’t do that! i can’t be your mate…!”

he narrows his eyes, yet his lips never leave your face. he keeps kissing you greedily, and you push at him to no avail, unable to wrench his heavier, stronger body off of you. you start sobbing and crying out, yet the boy pays no attention to you as his mouth tastes your skin like a starved man.

“be good, or i’ll force you. you wouldn’t want that, would you? i don’t want to hurt a pretty thing like you,” he hisses. you sniffle and swallow back your oncoming sobs and you avert your eyes. 

“i promise i’ll be gentle. besides, i’m way better looking than any of the men in your village,” he attempts to cheer you up. “c’mon. look at me. isn’t something like this more exciting than a drab country wedding? i’ll treat you like a princess. just love me, darling. does it matter if i’m a wolf or not?”

“you’re a wolf that kills! i don’t want to be with someone like you!”

he frowns, and his hands move to your cloak. your heart pounds painfully against your chest as his fingers twist at the material. your mother’s painstaking handiwork dissolves like sugar in water under his grip, and you know moving to defend yourself is futile. he quickly shreds your clothes as you cry quietly.

“you would do this too, if you were me.” his fingers trace over the bare skin of your collarbones and dip towards your breasts. his hands are sticky and warm against the chill of your body, and he cups your chest. it’s insane, how well your body fits into his big palms. he watches you with lust-stricken eyes, and his cock strains against his pants when he sees your tears wetting your pretty face and you laying there underneath him, not bothering to fight him off.

he knows. he knows you’re being obedient out of fear rather than true submission, but it’s good enough for him.

“i’m lonely,” he whispers. “you don’t know how it feels. having to kill to live. having to stay in the shadows. having to always yearn from afar because all of those stupid humans can’t see that i’m more similar to them than i am different.”

“t-that’s no reason to ruin my life…!” you protest. it’s a last ditch effort, but you shakily inhale anyway. “please… let me go. we can pretend like none of this happened. i promise i won’t tell anyone anything. i’ll give you my word. just… i can’t be a wolf’s wife- i can’t- i can’t do that-”

he shakes his head. “i want you. you talked to me in the forest. offered me help. treated me like a normal boy my age. i was too scared, so i hid my ears and tail, and you were none the wiser. that- that’s enough proof, isn’t it? that with enough time, you’d come to love me for who i am…”

you let out a strangled cry as a hand starts groping your tits, rough fingers brushing over your sensitive nipples. it feels foreign, having your boobs touched like this, but a dull heat thrums deep inside your stomach. the boy looks entranced as he stares down at your form. the way your plush chest molds and bends to his hands makes him desire you even more, even if he’s aware that you’re terrified to death of him.

“i can’t let you go. i can’t,” he doubles down. any of the remorse you had managed to wrench out of him disappears bit by bit, and he groans as he paws at your body greedily. “god, you’re just so pretty… i have to have you.”

you clench your thighs together. his lips meet yours, and you nearly vomit at the taste of iron on your mouth. he’s clumsy, but he kisses you so hungrily, eager to lap up any semblance of affection. you grip at the sheets as his hot tongue swipes at your closed lips, and you’re determined to deny him. he frowns into the kiss, and you feel a twinge of pride well up.

the wolf exhales angrily. the hand that’s been roaming your chest twists at your nipple harshly. you yelp at the pain, and the boy shoves his tongue into your mouth, moaning into the kiss. you start thrashing slightly. he doesn’t heed any mind to your discomfort, and if anything, he begins grinding his clothed hips against your thighs.

he can’t get enough of how you feel. your kisses are like honey to his mouth, and his body melts at the feeling of you against him. you know he’s going to leave bruises all over your tits from how hard he’s grabbing at them, but despite everything that’s overwhelming you, the heat that pounds against your core only builds. 

you can’t breathe. you clench your eyes shut and try to bear it, try to work through the sparks of pleasure that cloud your mind from having your breasts molested, as the wolf kisses you how he wants you. your mouth tastes foul when he finally pulls away, and a string of saliva connects the two of you momentarily.

you glare up at him. 

“i want to fuck you…,” his voice trails off. “i want to fuck you so bad. but i have to be gentle. i promised to treat you well…”

your pussy curls at the thought of taking the wolf’s dick. he bucks his clothed erection higher and higher up your legs, and he moans shamelessly into your mouth as he kisses you again. he slobbers all over your mouth like a feral dog, his tongue slithering into your throat like he’s fucking your mouth. 

you don’t enjoy this. you don’t want this at all. yet you can’t ignore the throb that pulses at your core, the way your walls squeeze every now and then painfully against nothing. you’re not turned on by this—you’re not. you want to convince yourself of that so badly, but every time you realize the situation you’re put in, pinned down to a bed with a werewolf that wants to stuff every inch of his dirty cock into your cunt, arousal swirls inside your body. 

his hands trickle down to your pants, and fear pricks sharply at your heart.

“i’ll be a good mate.” he peels the rest of your clothes off, mimicking the gentleness of a human lover the best he can. “i can be like a real human husband. no, i can be better. i know i can be better than any of those stupid boys in your village.”

you shudder when cold air rushes at your bare cunt. the slick that coats your slit is undeniable, and the boy’s pupils widen at the sight. he swallows, and you watch as his neck bobs. even by human standards, he’s handsome, and your body betrays your mind as he coaxes your thighs open.

“you want me too, don’t you?” he asks. he offers a weak smile. it’s almost sickening, how someone who mercilessly took everything from you can pretend to be a human in hopes that you’d grant him any pity. “i’ll make you feel good. i’ll be everything you want me to be.”

he lets go of your legs, and he grabs at his own clothes, shredding them apart. he groans when his cock springs free of his pants.

your heart drops into your stomach.

“i-i can’t take that-,” you choke out. “that’s too big! you’ll kill me- i’m not kidding…!”

he tilts his head to the side, and he shrugs. his cock is inhumanly huge, and if he were to put that inside your cunt, you swear that you’d be able to feel it in your throat. it’s long and thick and swollen up to an angry red. a few prominent veins run along his length, eager to stuff itself into your soft and vulnerable cunt. his balls hang heavy and big, undoubtedly filled with all the cum that he wants to fuck into you.

he grabs at your thighs again, and you squeal loudly in protest as he keeps you pinned in place.

“stay still-,” he grunts, “it’ll hurt less if you stop squirming like that! you’ll get used to it with time. it might hurt a little, but it’ll feel good with time… now shut up, and let me fuck you already-”

you grit your teeth and brace yourself as he starts rubbing his length against your lower lips. he moans softly, savoring the way your warm body feels against him. you can feel his cock twitch dangerously against your folds, and you whimper in a mix of pleasure, disgust, and fear whenever his cockhead catches at your sensitive clit.

he lines his cock up at your fluttering hole, and you stop breathing. your chest feels tight, and your head feels blown out. you prep yourself for the oncoming pain, but he pauses for a moment.

“give me your name.”

you blink. “huh?”

“if- if i’m going to take you to be my mate, i should know your name at least. before i do this,” he whispers sheepishly. your stomach twists with hatred. why should he care? he’s going to do all of these horrible things to you, so why is he even bothering to pretend to play the act of a caring lover?

“yours first,” you hiss. “if a wolf like you even has a name.”

“i do.” his response surprises you. “michael. it’s michael. i have a human name like you do. i heard that it means ‘he who is like god.’ now tell me yours.”

you lay there for a moment, dumbfounded. you didn’t expect a monster like him to have a label like that. and less so a name as blessed as “michael.”

you hang your head. “...(y/n).”

he hums, and you flinch when his cockhead threatens to break into your hole. “it’s a pretty name. a perfect name for a perfect mate.”

you bite the inside of your mouth and properly brace yourself. he pushes his hips in slowly, his gaze fixed on where his cock connects with your pussy. you weren’t sure exactly what you were expecting, but the pain comes faster than you thought. it burns and stretches, and you cry out, stiffening and lashing out, trying to get him off of you.

“hurts…! ‘t hurts-!!” you screech. you pound and claw at his shoulders, yelling and immediately bursting into another onslaught of tears. the tears are hot and heavy as they trickle down your face, and your legs shake uncontrollably. it genuinely feels like he’s splitting you into two, and the torturous pain makes your head flash white.

michael nearly falls on top of you. your cunt is disgustingly warm and inviting, and it stretches out and envelops him. it’s hot and wet and tight, and despite your constant protests, your pussy is heavenly around his cock. you’re so small, and he knows his wolf cock is about to break you. but god—he wants to break you. if breaking you feels this good, he’ll eagerly shatter you into a million pieces so that he has the depraved honor of being the one to destroy you and strip you of your humanity. 

he clenches his jaw. he couldn’t lose his mind. not like this, not when his endgame was right there. “take it. i’m going to be your mate, so you better get used to taking my dick and get used to it fast.”

you hold back a strangled sob. your tears are freeflowing, and it’s hard to breathe. his cock feels like it’s pressing straight up against your womb, and he’s not even giving you the mercy of adjusting to his size slowly. his length invades every inch of your cunt, and his ridiculous girth has you stretched out thin. you know you can’t take this. he’s actively molding your tight hole into the shape of his cock, and if he keeps himself in here any longer, you might actually go insane.

your words slur sloppily. “you’ll kill me- you’ll fuck me to death-”

his breathing is strained just from the pleasure of putting it in, but he still manages to snort at you mockingly. “you won’t die. no one’s ever died from sex.”

you wish you had the spirit to shout back at him, to put up more of a fight. but that instinct has been long extinguished at this point, and you’re nothing more than a sniveling mess as you struggle to breathe through the tightness in your chest. 

“c’mon, don’t be boring now.” he truly can’t get enough of the sight. the pretty girl from the village, face stained with tears, legs spread out all for him to fuck into her pretty cunt. to put it as frankly as he can, the boy doesn’t know what he wants to do first with you.

the sweeter part of him wants to kiss away your tears, to comfort you the best he can with a low voice and whisper his undying love to you, to convince you that a life as a wolf’s wife won’t be all that bad. you’ve caught his eye for a reason, and he wouldn’t want to have you snatch away whatever dregs of humanity the hybrid wolfboy was clinging desperately too. even if everyone else regarded him to be some kind of barbaric monster, deep down, even he has a soul that yearns painfully for love. for a romantic partner that could accept him as an equal and open their heart up to him.

but maybe this other part of him is what makes him a monster.

he loves seeing you reduced to this broken mess. he enjoys it, the primal fear that’s evident on every inch of your face. the way you’re nothing more than prey in his arms, with no other choice but to let him fuck your tight pussy out on his monstruous cock, to be the direct cause of all the pain and anguish you’re going through and to enjoy it like it’s the thrill of a fresh kill… it makes the wolfish streak inside of him go wild with delight, and he wants to keep you pinned down and helpless underneath him so he can soak up that bliss a little longer.

your stomach coils up on itself when you feel him slide his hips back slowly. the strangled noise that leaves your mouth is a mix between a pained shriek and a pleasured moan. he’s really too much for you to fit inside, and your strained walls cling to his cock. you’re barely hanging on for dear life just from him penetrating you. you can’t even imagine what it would be like once he would start actually thrusting and having sex with you.

“ahhh, you’re just too cute,” he teases you. “i never knew love could feel like this… it’s so good, isn’t it? no regular human dick could even come close to what i’ll make you feel, my little wife.”

you sob as he slowly bullies his cock back into you, once more making sure that you can properly feel the torturous stretch. the pain wobbles dangerously on edging you towards pleasure, and your vision blurs over slightly as the mounting heat in your gut tightens up. it’s gross, it’s inhuman that you’re getting off on having sex with a wolf, but your own self-restraint is being tested with the small cries you’re letting out.

“ah-,” you pathetically squeak out, “ahh…! michael- michael, please- i can’t do this!”

“yes, you can,” he promptly corrects you. his thrusts are shallow, granting you the rare mercy of sparing you from being speared in half on his entire length. “look at you… you’re starting to feel good, aren’t you? i can feel everything… that little cunt of yours won’t stop tightening up around me. you’re squeezing so much! it’s like your pussy knows better than you who you’re meant to be with.”

your mind shakes. it’s all you can do to keep yourself conscious. all the stimuli are too much: the anxiety, the pleasure, the adrenaline. your thoughts are being smoothed over, all logic coming to a screeching halt as the tightness welling up in your womb is all that your body can focus on. you hate how easily his name falls out of your mouth, how easily you find it to moan, and the wolfboy eagerly devours the attention you give him.

how angelic you must look to him right now! his mate, his precious mate, moaning out his name in pleasure, no matter how terrified they are of him! he moans softly too, and he can’t help but buck his hips deeper and harder into you. your voice and all your little noises are too adorable to him, and he just wants it all.

“you like it, don’t you? yeah, i know it’s starting to feel good. give in to me. you don’t have to do anything but let me have my way.” his breath is hot and heavy and tinged with the sharp tang of blood. you cringe when he kisses at your neck and cheeks again, but with how rapidly his hips are picking up at the rhythm, your thighs tremble dangerously. “i’ll make you cum again and again… oh, you’re just so lovely…”

your cunt sucks him in greedily. feeling his cock rub against your walls and prod dangerously at your cervix makes you grow blank, and your body keeps reacting more and more to what the wolfboy is doing to you. you wonder if this is what people mean when they say they’re being fucked stupid, and if it isn’t, whatever he’s doing to you is coming horribly close.

“fuck…! fuck- no- michael- michael, please-,” you whimper out. you two both know perfectly well that your cries are from how good it feels, but you still refuse to verbalize it properly. michael smiles into the curve of your throat, and he kisses your jugular with what you can only describe as a sickly kind of affection.

“what are you asking for, my love?” he chuckles endearingly. you sob, and your toes curl into the disheveled bed when his cock slides into you just right. your vision skews its axis slightly, and you let out a sharp exhale, mouth lolling open a little. he nips at your skin with his sharp teeth to snap you back to life. “tell me properly with those human words you’re so proud of. ‘please fuck me harder, michael! make love to your wife! give me more of your cock!’”

your cheeks burn with humiliation when he ridicules you, but deep down, you don’t know if you can wholeheartedly refute him. you do want more of him. you do want him to fuck you harder. your cunt purrs in delight every time he slides in and out of your slick hole, and his cock manages to ruthlessly hit all the right places. 

it’s unfair. it’s unfair how everything’s stacked against you.

you must have ignored him for too long. michael frowns disapprovingly, and a low growl vibrates in his throat. he ducks his head and bites down on your shoulder, sharp teeth digging themselves into the curves of your soft flesh. you scream out in pain, your walls clamping down on him and another flurry of torturous pleasure shreds your stomach.

“p-please fuck me harder, michael…!” you’re fully crying. your words don’t sound like your own, and you certainly don’t feel like yourself. the tears and snot smeared all over your face makes you feel like some lowlife, and you hate the way he forces you to beg for him. “make love to me… give me- give me more of your cock!”

“see?” he licks his lips, and he grins devilishly as you as he pulls away from your now-marked shoulder. “that wasn’t so bad, was it? nothing wrong with you for wanting more from your husband. i’ll gladly indulge my darling.”

a shaky scream pounds at your chest, and blinding hot pleasure overwhelms your head as he picks up his pace. your moans reach a high-pitched squeal as he fucks himself into you, his cock rapidly pulling in and out of your pulsing hole. it’s not like you make it particularly easy for him either; your disgustingly tight pussy walls cling to him and almost refuse to let him go. 

does your body love his dick that much? does your cunt want to savor the feeling of him stretching it out that badly? those thoughts make kaiser swell with pride as he reaches a fast rhythm. despite how sloppily and quickly he’s ramming his whole length into you to make sure you feel every single bit of his dick, he still makes sure that each thrust has his heavy cockhead drilling right at your womb. 

he prods at your deepest parts, shamelessly making sure that your womb knows it’s time to be bred. it’s time for him to fill you up with his cum, to fuck a baby into you, to force every part of your body to be tainted with him. from inside and out, from outside to in, kaiser wants to selfishly claim every part of you. that’s what good husbands do to their wives, don’t they? that’s what your folk—the human folk—did, right?

the tightness that gnaws at your core refuses to relent. your arousal runs rampant through your veins, and it feels like your guts are tying themselves into a knot. you don’t know how else to describe the heat that mounts in your core and inside your head. your body and conscience are at odds with each other. your brain rejects michael, your mouth begs for him to hold you and fuck you harder, and your hole sucks him in like it doesn’t want to let go.

“that’s my pretty wife. you have such a fucking slutty body- begging for your husband feels good, yeah? i know, i know, darling,” he drinks up your tears, his hot tongue lapping languidly at your face. you choke back another sob, and he moves to steal a kiss. his tongue invades your mouth, and your eyes gloss over. you’re overwhelmed with his presence. it smells like him, tastes like him, feels like him. you’re crying out and mewling in pleasure into his mouth, and he literally eats up every single one of your lewd noises.

his balls slap against your ass, desperate to empty themselves into you. his cock twitches and throbs inside you, making you shudder in delight. it’s a sick kind of lovemaking, if you could even call it that. your own slick dribbles down between your legs, and the lubrication only makes it easier for michael to greedily shove his cock into your fluttering cunt. 

“can’t take anymore- michael, ‘m gonna lose my mind-!” you breathe out. you hate to admit it. you don’t want to tell him how stupidly close you are. you blame how monstrously huge his cock is; how else would he be destroying your body in such an inhuman way? your vision is unstable, blurring even more around your teary edges, and the heat that licks inside of you is unbearable. 

michael knows it. he can feel it. the way the velvety lining of your cunt coaxes his cock right up to your cervix, the way it keeps squeezing him and writhing around his sensitive inches, the way your own voice seems to hike higher and higher. your legs tremble underneath him, and michael is thrilled to know just how far he’s successfully broken you. the shame and embarrassment that’s scribbled all over your face makes him almost uncontrollably giddy. 

“are you gonna cum, darling? did my cock make you feel that good?” he laughs mockingly. his words are like thorns against your ears, yet with how roughly he’s pounding into your pussy, having mounted you like the uncivilized animal he was, you couldn’t deny it. he’s a predator through and through, and with you trapped in his reach like prey, you know all too well that he’ll be moving in for the kill soon.

the insatiable tightness inside you teeters on the brink. you’re barely holding on, each breath growing more strained than the last. michael doesn’t let up his pace, continuing to rut into you. each snap of his hips has you close, so close, so fucking close—you don’t want him to stop. you clench your eyes shut, bracing yourself to hurtle headfirst into the crash, to topple finally past the point of no return where you would irrevocably become the wolf’s.

“i’m cumming…! ah- michael- cumming- cumming…!”

heat rips through your body in half. you throw your head back, the foreign feeling consuming you whole as if you had been thrown directly into fire. your cunt clamps down on the boy’s cock, and it feels like he’s about to split you into two. your vision completely blurs, and the world rushes around your senses. it’s too much yet not enough at the same time, and you rake your nails down the wolf’s bare back with such a fervor that you must have shredded up his skin and drawn blood.

you shake and squirm and thrash underneath him, but no matter how much you writhe against his body, michael won’t let his grip on you go. he relentlessly fucks you through your orgasm, leaving you a sobbing mess as your juices squirt out of your abused hole and drip down onto the shaky bed. his cock pounds harder and harder, and he groans out as he feels your slick and pulsing walls flutter and clench around him.

“hah- that’s what i thought-,” he chuckles. you can’t breathe. you can’t think. the incessant throbbing in your stomach is still there, but it’s morphed from arousal into something a little more painful. he’s overstimulating your already overrun cunt. “your husband’s dick is that good, isn’t it? don’t worry; i’ll fuck you like this as much as you want… i’ll get you to cum over and over again.”

you dumbly shake your head. your head is foggy, and the throes of your climax don’t want to let you go. “n-o… can’t take any more- no more- don’t want any more…!”

“you’re going to take it, like the good wife you are. you don’t get a choice in this. i’m your husband,” he snarls. you shudder, whimpering in weak protest as he continues using you. it hurts, and it burns, and the coil that refuses to let up in your stomach makes you feel sick. how much longer could this monster last? it feels like he’s been having sex and using your body forever, but even after ripping an earth-shattering orgasm from you, he still hasn’t cum yet.

“it hurts- i can’t do it…!” you smack at his chest again, but you know he won’t let you go. your tears sparkle cruelly on your cheeks, and michael sighs lovingly as he laps at your face. he swings back and forth constantly between treating you like you were a mere bug to cherishing you. was this some kind of karmic revenge from the universe for thinking so lowly of your own village? the home that seemed so far away now?

“take it- take it- fuck- let me make you my proper wife…” fear floods your body when you can feel his cock twitch dangerously deep inside you, your bruised cervix contracting and sucking him in. his balls tighten and continue to slap against your ass, but with how quickly and frantic his movements are, he’s going to cum. “fill you up with my pups… we’ll be such a happy family together-”

your eyes shoot open. cold reality splashes over you as if slapping you back to your senses, even in the midst of being manhandled. “no! no, no…! don’t! please, please, michael- that’s the one thing you can’t do! don’t cum inside- i don’t want to get pregnant with your babies!”

he grits his teeth, and he presses his entire body weight on top of you, determined to keep you physically where you are. he’s determined to make sure you can’t escape from his grasp, as if you’d be able to go anywhere with how disheveled and haunted you are. it’s a good look for you, second only to the loving glances he knows you’d never spare him.

“shut up, shut up…! this is your job, this is what you’re supposed to do! this is what lovers do!” he thrusts once, twice, and when he brings his hips down one final time, your fate is sealed. his own cry dies out, buried deep inside his throat as he cums deep and hard into you. your breath lodges into your neck, leaving you with nothing but bitter defeat and the taste of uncertainty all over your mouth.

his cum spurts everywhere, and it floods your womb. it burns and goes everywhere, painting your insides a pretty shade of ivory white, and you can feel every drop of it flowing into you. it’s poison, it’s heavy, and it’s awful, yet your cunt has no choice but to take every little bit of it. you bite down on the inside of your cheek as it starts to eke out, and you force yourself to endure it. you have no choice but to; this is what survival is for you now. this is the only answer you have now.

you don’t know how you’re going to live with this. you try to console yourself by telling yourself that you had gotten over the worst, but you know that you haven’t. you never will.

“nnghg…!” a stray cry slips from your mouth when something tight and way too big for you to take invades your strained hole. a sharp pain invades and spearheads through you, and your entire body stiffens as his large knot shoves its way into your plush and stretched out pussy. his cum overwhelms your body, stretching out every inch of your battered womb. your stomach bulges just slightly, feeling stuffed to the very brim.

michael nearly collapses on top of you, keeping you folded in half and in a perfect, vulnerable breeding position. his eyes are blown open wide and glossed over in a kind of drunken stupor, yet he refuses to let you go in any capacity. it’s not like you have the physical means to anyway; you’re already so weak from having him force himself onto you, and the pain of being bred and knotted is taking everything in you to not pass out right there and then.

he reaches towards your face, cupping your tear-stained and broken expression with his large palm. you don’t know if the feeling that stirs in your gut is simply the aftershocks of sex or pity towards yourself, but seeing michael look down at you with such a triumphant yet lovestricken gaze isn’t doing your any favors. you know you have no choice but to get pregnant with his children, to watch in horror as your body turns into nothing but a host for these parasites he’s determined to fuck into you over and over, not a single squeeze of semen going to waste with the knot he’s plugged you up with.

“we’ll be perfect together,” he whispers. his words are almost like a mantra he’s brainwashing you with. you wonder who needs it more, the manipulator or the one being manipulated. everything feels like a punishment to you. just where did you go wrong? were you too ambitious for your own good? too hopeful? too willing to jump at the first opportunity for escape that came your way, not caring to see if any part of the rosy details were traps?

or maybe the worst part was that you might have done nothing wrong at all. maybe this was all a twisted machination of the universe. maybe just like what michael believed, you were destined to fall into the wolf’s grasp one way or another, to disappear from the face of society and the world as you knew it, to have him drag you off into the darkness and to become the broken but beautiful wolf’s bride that he must have dreamt of forever.

“i love you.” he kisses you, and you don’t have the strength nor the courage to say those blasted words back to him. it’s not like you could say them back sincerely either. instead you avert his gaze, turning your face towards the red scraps of your cloak that lay on the ground as if they were miniature corpses of their own, left over from a long lost war.

you hope your mother can forgive you when she realizes you won't ever come back home.

KINKTOBER 2023—le cinquième jour, le dernier jour.

[latenightdaydreams]

Hii i was wondering if we could pretty please have a part 2 of Viking!werewolf!konig it was so goodddddd

-🧸

Yes!🩷

Viking!Werewolf!König x Reader Part 2 (fem)

MDNI🔞

Part 1

Master List ✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, mention of death, p in v, a little bit of dacryphilia

1.6k word count

.

.

The sound of men talking loudly around you wakes you up. Your eyes open slowly as the memory of last night comes flooding back to you. For a moment, you almost believe it was simply a bad dream, but then you're greeted with the visual of a few Viking men sitting around you. The green dress on your body, not your own. As you fully wake up, panic begins to set in. The language being spoken is unknown to you, but you notice one man gesturing at you.

In fear, you scramble back off of the animal hide that you’re sleeping on. Fight or flight adrenaline floods your body as you get to your feet. When you turn to run, you instantly crash into a man with an enormous frame. His shirtless body is riddled in scars, with the tattoo of a wolf over his heart. Long pale blonde hair falling out from underneath the wolf's head the man is wearing. His sharp, pale blue eyes inspect you as you gaze up at his face.

You realize that the fur is the same color as the beast from last night, causing a loud scream to erupt from your chest. König wraps his arms around your waist to keep you from running as he chuckles softly. He expected this reaction after the strange meeting last night.

“It’s me, Liebling. Don’t be afraid. It’s your König.”

“You’re the wolf!”

The fear in your voice was clear. The small group of men behind you begins to laugh at your reaction. One look from König quickly quiets their outburst. He turns his attention back to you, one of his hands moving up to caress the side of your face.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe with me, Liebling.”

König’s voice is soft as he speaks to you, his touch gentle as he holds you against his bare chest. Your body quivers as you take deep breaths, trying to steady your breathing. His scent is oddly soothing, bringing your thoughts back to last night. You turn your gaze up to him.

“You- you’re a human?” There is a look of confusion in your eyes as your hands rest on his chest. 

“I’m a man during the day. At night I become something else.” His eyes study your face, waiting for your reaction.

“Are you…the Wolf of the North?”

“Ja, I am. So was my father and his before him. It’s passed down.” He speaks of his lineage with pride.

There are no words to be said as you stare up at König in a mix of wonder and fear. A million questions are running through your mind as he gently caresses your face still. König can still see the lingering unease in your gaze.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

“You’re my mate, my love, my wife. I would never hurt you.” König’s voice is almost a whisper as he speaks with genuine love.

“N-no, I already have a husband; Bjorn.” You attempt to back away from König, you just realized you don’t know what has become of Bjorn.

König quickly pulls you flush against his body again, not allowing you to get any distance from him. The mention of your husband causing a flare of jealousy to arise in his gut, he understands that you simply are in shock, but why are you denying him? That pathetic excuse of a man doesn’t deserve you.

“Husband? The man that was hiding last night? He didn’t even attempt to fight for you, Meine Liebe.” König’s words sound harsh, but he is just attempting to get a point across. You could have been in true danger and that man was just going to let you get hurt to save himself. That’s not something a worthy man would do.

“Bitte, don’t worry. I’ve been searching far and wide for my mate, I promise to give you a happy life. I know you feel the connection too.”

Before you can respond, König leans down to press his lips against yours. Your eyes close as you melt into the kiss, sparks flowing throughout your body as you give in and kiss back. His tongue delves into your mouth, desperate to taste you. A low hum rumbles from his chest as his hand drops from your waist, squeezing the supple flesh of your ass. You hate to admit it, but he’s right; being in his arms feels natural.

“König!” A man shouts for him, pulling him out of this moment with you.

König’s lip’s part from yours, a string of spit connecting the two of you still. He sees the man who called him, guiding another man in front of him. With one last quick kiss, König leaves your side and approaches them.

“Stay here.” He whispers to you.

The moment you turn your head you see him, Bjorn. Your heart began to pound in your chest. He’s alive, yet you aren’t overwhelmed by emotions seeing him. With small steps you slowly follow König, even though he told you to stay.

Bjorn has his hands bound behind his back as he gets shoved to the cold grassy ground beneath him. A wild look in his eyes as he fears what the Vikings will do to him. König approached with his arms crossed, his pale eyes boring into Bjorn’s.

“I found him in a barn, hiding in hay.” The unknown man says to König.

“Bjorn?”

Your small voice causes the men to turn their gaze in your direction. Bjorn looks surprised to see that you’re still alive. König seemingly upset that you didn’t follow his demand. He walks to you, blocking your view of Bjorn.

“I told you to stay back.” König grabs your chin, forcing your gaze on him.

“I know, but—”

“That’s my wife!” Bjorn cuts you off as he yells at König.

König’s expression hardens as he rolls his eyes. He turns around to face Bjorn and approaches him quickly, getting in his face and grabbing him by his neck and gripping hard. Bjorn tries to peel his hands off as he struggles to take deep breaths.

“She’s mine.” The words come out rough through gritted teeth.

You watch the scene feeling helpless. Bjorn was a coward, but he doesn’t deserve to die. In an attempt to calm König, you walk beside him and touch his shoulder. You catch his attention; he turns his head to you and pushes Bjorn backwards to the ground as he faces you.

“Please don’t.”

“Liebling, please leave. I don’t want you to see this.”

Those words cause your heart to sink; he is going to kill Bjorn. As you attempt to change König’s mind, he motions for his man to grab you and take you away. The tall red head man walks to you and effortlessly picks you up before walking you away to one of the tents. He places you on the animal hide, telling you to stay before walking outside to the tent to guard it.

In the distance you can hear an animalistic growl followed by a terrified scream from Bjorn. Your heart drops, tears forming in your eyes as your breathing begins to pick up. A few moments later, König walks into the tent. The rush of killing has his senses heightened and seeing you laying on his bed causes blood to rush to his cock. He pulls off his pants and walks to you.

You feel König’s body heat radiating on your skin as he presses himself up against you. The feeling of his erection pressed against your ass as he pushes it into you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and takes a deep breath. His hand traces the curve of your body, moving down to the hem of your dress and pulling it up.

“König, what are you doing?” Your voice raspy from all your tears.

“I’m making you feel better.”

König grabs your hip and turns you on your back, quickly getting on top of you. When your legs open, your natural smell consumes him making him even more desperate for you. You watch him as he admires your cunt, slapping his cock on it and watching as your clit swells. He looks up to your face, your eyes and lips puffy from crying.

“Meine Liebe,” König slowly pushes his hips forward, pressing his cock into you. “You’re so beautiful.”

Even in his human form, König’s cock is absolutely monstrous. An electric wave of pleasure pulses over your whole body as he slams his hips against you, attempting to cover himself completely in you wet warmth. Pathetic mewls leave your lips as your walls flutter tightly around him. His hands slip up your body to your hips, pulling you into him whenever he thrust forward.

“König!” You cry out, your mind growing hazy in a whirlwind of pleasure; Bjorn fading away into the background of the moment.

Hearing you call his name is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard. He grabs both of your hands and holds them above your head, his fingers gently intertwining with yours. At this angle he can shove his cock deeper into you. His eyes never leave yours, watching you closely as your beautiful face contorts into faces of orgasmic pleasure.

“Liebling.” König moans as he leans down to kiss you, his tongue forcing its way past your lips. The vibrations of your loud moans traveling into him. Your body squirms in a mix of pleasure and pain as he relentlessly bucks into you. He can’t control himself; he can feel the primal need to breed you taking over. Your old mate is dead, now you’re completely his.

[goingthruthedishwasher]

Take your shoes off, stay awhile -

Cod Apocalypse AU

Ongoing, sporadic updates (as is obvious). Prologue linked here, This is the first real part tho. gax x reader, ghost x reader, soap x reader. Canon-typical violence, eventual smut, probably not super slow slow-burn. nfsw. I apologise for my accent-writing in advance.

------

(Soap POV)

The truck was quiet.

Well, quieter than it used to be. When they first commandeered it (the concept of 'stealing' doesn't work so well after the end of the world), the truck was loud. It was this big rumbly, diesel-hungry beast that huffed and groaned and grumbled. But, it turns out, Simon was handy with a wrench, and, as Price put it "Got the damn'd thing to shut the hell up." So it trucked along (hehe get it) down the road, mostly quietly.

That was something they had found out, that noise tends to attract... things. Soap wondered if they'd ever be able to come up with a good name for them. He'd proposed a couple, all shot down by Simon or Gaz: Stinkers, Shuffley Boys, Oozers, Gross-Fuckers, Deaders, etc. He was still quite sold on Shuffely Boys— "C'mon, doesnae feel like it would be an ol' boy band name? Aye, like those Backstreet boys, or what 'ave you?"

But regardless, they had been unable to settle on a name.

They tended to park the truck a wee way from base, in case it did become a beacon, in all the wrong ways. This way, there would still be some separation between them and it. So it was a short bike ride to the truck, stashing the bikes in an old shed, before heading off on another supply run.

This was their routine. It wasn't like they needed all these supplies, despite there still being a fair few people back at base. They had already stockpiled enough to get everyone through a few more decades. But Price has grand plans for starting a commune, a safe, gated community to hide from the Shuffely Boys. Soap is still not convinced it's a good idea, but at least it gives some meaning to these daily trips. So, off they go. It enables them to get off base, at least for a little while. Three soldiers, three grown men, all go a bit stir-crazy when they are asked to stay inside every day.

Plus, it enabled Price to have some time alone with the missus. Price's fucking perfect little wife. That's not fair, Soap mused. Not fair of him to be mad at Mary. She was lovely enough and a heck of a good cook, great at making do with whatever strange assortments of food they brought back. But Price didn't share, and it had been over a year since Soap had managed to wet his cock with anything other than his spit - a fact he was particularly caught up on as of late.

"Knock knock" Ghost huffs from the driver's seat. His balaclava hodded eyes flicked up to the rear mirror, catching Soap's. He was sprawled out in the backseat, leaving Gaz to pour over the maps in the passenger side. Ghost still wears that fucking balaclava everyday, despite their being little concern for his idenitiy getting out now. After all, the world's fucking over. But Soap doesn't press the issue (one time he mentioned this fact, Ghost didn't talk to him for three days, and Gaz practically chewed his ear off, so he keeps his mouth shut about it now).

"Ah foer fuck's sake Ghost. Not another one of yer jokes. Can't a man get a break? Even at the end o' the world?"

Gaz chuckled in the front seat. "Who's there?"

Simon's balaclava twitched, and Soap just knew he was wearing a shit-eating grin right now.

Ghost then proceeded to let out a throaty, wet, disgusting kind of noise- "Oooouuguhuugrrhrhrruhruroohe" like he was in the middle of actively dying.

Soap couldn't help it - he threw his head back and laughed aloud. Gaz just shook his head in befuddled judgment. "You call that a joke?"

"Yeah. It's the fuckin' things turnin' up at the door to kill ya."

"Yeah, we got that part Riley," Gaz returns to his map, putting his feet up on the dash and reclining his chair. "But why exactly does your zombie impression sound like Chewbacca dying?"

Soap scoffed, leaning forward to hang his head between the two men. "And to add to that, how fucken long did it take yer to learn to do that?"

Simon paused a while, eyes fixed on the road, when he answered. "I've been practin' tha' for weeks."

The car erupted into laughter.

----

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monster Hunt: Nanny Knockthrice

A series of chilling disappearances has brought your party to the edge of the mist-haunted Greyspear Forest, as well as face to face with an enemy as ancient and enduring as the stones beneath your feet

Spoken of only in hushed voices, those who live on the edge of the wood tell of a terrible figure, cruel as the harshest winter, bent with age and the weight of the bulging sack she carries. They know no name for her besides the one handed down from elders, and that she appears at the door to each homestead once a year on the same moonless night to knock three times. Terrible fates are said to befall those who answer, so the locals keep to a tradition known as Opfernoct: laying out gifts for their unwelcome guest, keeping their homes dark and quiet until dawn.

Adventure Hooks:

The party venture into the village only to see one of the nearby houses with its roof partially torn off. Asking questions results in flimsy excuses and reproachful looks from strangers, until the truth comes out: A bookish boy named Verner was apparently snatched out of his home on the recent Opfernoct having snuck a candle to read in bed. His parents, who got the boy the book for his birthday have been shamed for not keeping a better leash on their child and kept from talking to the meddlesome party for fear their actions would bring even further reprocussions.

After impressing the local nobles with their adventurous antics, the party are invited to the marquess’s hunting lodge, an event sure to be filled with revelry and rife with opportunities to court both patronage and attractive strangers. Flouting local customs, the marquis has decided to keep her estate lit through ….  Ensuring the party will go on without interruption.  What a surprise then when a thunderous knock sounds at the door, only for a giant arm to shove through the entryway and snatch up a gaggle of guests (some the party despise, some they were quite getting on with) and drag them off into the night.

Recommended Reading: Check out my write up connecting giants & the feywild, which this draws heavily from.

Background: The legend of Nanny Knockthrice begins when the first woodsman sought to make a home within the boundaries of the primeval forest. The moment his axe had sunk into the trunk of a tree, an old woman stepped from the woods and demanded that a price be paid, for these were her lands and her trees, and the woodsman . The woodsman replied that he had nothing to pay the old woman with save the tools of his trade and the clothes on his back, and he would surely die without either. If she could defer payment for a year, until his labour had built his house and filled his larder, he'd gladly let her take her pick of rewards then. The old woman assented, vanishing into the forest just as soon as she'd appeared. Like any deal with the fey the weight of the bargain could not be understood until the woman returned a year later to take her pick of what the woodsman had filled his home with over the past year... snapping his new wife off the threshhold when she came to answer the door.

Challenges & Complications:

More than just her size, impossible strength, or her ability to fade in and out of the mist, the greatest threat Nanny Knockthrice presents is that she takes hostages and is not above using them as bargaining chips against meddling heroes. She will break the limbs of her victims in full view of the party to warn them against interfering, or lob them into freezing water to slow down her pursuers. When threats fail, it's time to open her bag of tricks, which can contain anything from a raging storm, captured feywild beasts, or even the animated bones of her previous tributes. She's liable to use these surprises in between uprooting entire pine trees to use as clubs, or throwing heroes like walnuts into the next valley over.

Stalking Knockthrice may prove the better option of rescuing her victims, but will require the party to venture into the feywild, passing through a veil of mist to a wilderness even more wild and foreboding than they left behind. Getting back might likewise prove an issue, and may require them to strike their own deal with a powerful fey to get home

Nanny's lair is a tumbledown stone cottage the size of a fortress known as the keening keep. Built into the top and side of a clearcut hillstead, it surveys the surrounding woodland like an owl looking for prey. The keep originally belonged to a tribe of batlike fey known as the gloamwing courterie, who now reluctantly act as the giant's servants after their forebearer swore an inverse deal to the woodsman: letting her store her tribute in their keep for a year save for the one night she must heap it on her back and wander the mortal world. While some gloamwings are loyal to Nanny, others resent being banished to the rafters of their ancesteral home, or having to share the darkened corners with all the morose mortals Knockthrice keeps like maltreated pets. The party may be able to strike a deal, keeping in mind the bats are all as sinister as any unseelie fae and might betray them at any point just to keep things interesting.

If the party pays attention when stories are shared around the fire, they might notice a loophole in the deal struck by the woodsman: namely that Knockthrice was not allowed to take either his tools, or his clothes. In the way of fairytales, tricking the giant into accepting either of these will break the cure, though the party might need to be clever about it. The woodsman's clothes are buried with him out back of the ruins of the cabin the party will keep stumbling across in their feywild wanderings. His axe was handed down to his extended family after he died of heartbreak, and could be anywhere by now... such as hanging over the mantle of a noble's hunting lodge, buried in an innocuous tree, or in the back of a creepy peddler's cart.

Art

[serrj215]

Just the Essentials

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65897287 (You can find all my works on AO3)

“I can't believe it”. Cyborg started, “They're actually married.”  He started opening up the kitchen cabinets, gathering tools and ingredients.  

Starfire rushed over to him from the table. “Cyborg. It's true, we have it all recorded. I can retrieve it for you.”  She started searching her phone, floating absently in the kitchen. 

“I know they got married, Star, it's just a big thing to accept.”  

“But it was so joyful!” she sighed. “I will watch it again anyway.”

Nightwing just sat at the kitchen table, an odd smile on his face, not sure what to add to the conversation.  

It was about two in the afternoon, the day after the wedding of the most unlikely couple in the world.  Beast Boy and Raven were married.  

Starfire was right, it was a beautiful and simple ceremony. The reception was the real event, though, and the party did not stop until almost 3 am. The entire team had slept in. Cyborg was making the latest breakfast he had ever cooked, hoping to feed the happy couple before a quiet sendoff for their honeymoon. 

“So I guess it’s yours and Star's turn now.”  Cyborg turned to Nightwing, whose face started to turn a dark shade of red, then white, when Starfire just erupted with different wedding ideas.  Earth customs, Tameranin customs, she was just starting to talk about the ritual combat when Beast Boy swaggered into the kitchen. 

“Hello, everybody! Oh, you may not recognize me. I am Mr. Raven. Nice to meet you,”  he said with a smile almost too big for his face.  

“Funny B. Where is your much better half?” Cyborg asked, stirring the pot of oatmeal.

“Finishing packing, she will be down in a minute. I really can’t wait for this.” 

“You and Raven all set?”  

“Yep,” Beast Boy swung a small bag onto the kitchen counter. The bag itself was barely the size of a loaf of bread. It was one of those small zipper bags people usually have for keeping toiletries.  “All packed.” 

All three Titans looked at him. Then at each other.  

“Okay, is nobody going to say it?” Nightwing looks between his teammates.  

“Say what, dude?”  Beast Boy looked confused. 

Nightwing picked up the bag by its looped handle. “You're leaving for your honeymoon. It's going to be two weeks.” He lifted the bag up and down a few times to judge its weight. “You crammed everything you need into this?” 

“Says the guy that has an entire hardware store in his belt.”

“Two weeks' worth of clothes in…in this?”

“Clothes?” Beast Boy asked. He takes the bag back from Nightwing. “No, I'm just bringing the essentials.” He said to unzipping the bag. “See, two boxes of condoms, a few power bars, and a pair of clean underwear.” 

Beast Boys teammates wore a mix of shock and confusion on their faces.   

Cyborg put the bowl he was holding down. “B, you are going on your honeymoon. I think you're gonna need a little bit more than that.” 

Beast Boy looked at the bag again. “You know what, I do think I am forgetting something?” he started rummaging through the bag for a clue. 

Raven wondered in quietly said a simple “Good morning”  before changing course to her kettle. 

Once her Tea was poured, she turned to the counter, noticing Beast Boy with his bag. 

“Gar, would you mind putting my bag away too?”  she said, pecking him on the cheek. 

She placed a nearly identical bag on the counter while she sipped her Tea. 

“Not you too! Didn't anyone ever teach either of how to pack for a trip?” Nightwing exclaimed.

“I do not understand. I got everything I need in that bag.” She placed her teacup on the counter and unzipped the bag for everyone to see. “Negligee, handcuffs, and lube.” She said flatly.

“That's what I forgot!”  Beast Boy wrapped his arms around her. “You think of everything. I got a good wife.” 

There were questions, lots of questions, and no one was brave enough to ask any of them. 

“Gar, we are going to be late.”  

“My wife is right as always,  We'll see you guys in two weeks. Don't let the city blow up without us, huh?” He said, grabbing the loops of both bags, and the happy couple headed out the door, leaving the three people standing there in dismay. 

“Is this not normal for the Moons of Honey? I would think they would want to bring bread.”  Starfire asked once the three of them were alone.  

Beast Boy couldn't hold it anymore.  As soon as the elevator door closed, he started laughing, almost doubling over.  “Did you see their faces?” 

Raven only responded with a small smile, asking, “You did put our real bags in the car already, right?” 

Beast Boy nodded, wiping tears from his eyes.  “Look at you, I must be rubbing off on you.  The handcuffs! That was a nice touch, Mama.”

“Well, just because I let you do this little joke as a wedding present doesn't mean that they won't be put to use,” she said deadpan. 

“Rae?” Beast Boy stopped laughing. “Like, seriously?” 

She looked at him, and a hungry smile flashed across her face. A moment later, she had him pinned against the wall of the elevator, her mouth crushed to his, her hands running up and down his chest.  She broke away after the elevator reached the garage, the doors opened and closed again. 

She stated simply, “This is our honeymoon, after all.”

********************************************************

So it's been a while. It kinda feels like when I posed my first fic again. The uncertainty of who would read, and who would like it. But I remember I didn't write this for anyone else. I wrote to see if I could do it. I enjoyed it. This is probably a little rougher than my older work. I am using some mussels that have not been put to work in a long time. So I am open to suggestions as I get back into creative shape. Thank you.

[drefear]

Sympathy

Based on this ask, have some angst and smut.

Miguel goes on a mission and hears some of his biggest fears become reality for this villain, then coming home to you.

TW: Sad story, angst, fear, smut, crying.

Bright red webs shot out of Miguel’s wrists as he yanked himself higher, bloodied and wounded from the mission he was currently on. He didn’t have backup often, but today he needed it, and Hobie was late. He held off the anomaly for as long as he could before Hobie got there, then calling in one more spider as the two could barely hold their own. Lyla sent Ben to help and the three were currently having issues with the beast, a Sandman that was rampaging and aiming straight for a hospital. 

“He’ll break the canon!” Miguel’s voice was hoarse as Hobie webbed the Sandman, him and Ben grabbing the enemy as Miguel threw a trap at its feet. 

“Let me out!” He bellowed as lazers surrounded him and kept him trapped in the nanotechnology. Miguel’s shoulders heaved as the sandman pounded on the buzzing tech and finally fell to his knees. 

“Please let me out… I just… I lost my family.” He froze at the villain's words, eyes glancing back at the cowering man. “You lost them?”

“My wife was going to divorce me and take my daughter, and I lost it… ended up killing them both and now I’m here.” Miguel’s eyes widened at the admission and he felt his heart ache. He knew what that was like, to make an accident and lose everything. 

“You’ll be back home soon.” He answered, trying to keep a straight face and now frown too much. He didn’t want the other two spiders to see any type of vulnerable reaction. 

His mind ran back to Gabriella, to how she smiled and the day she disappeared in his arms from his own doing. 

And then he thought of you. 

You with your soft hair and magnetic smile, melodic voice that made him feel easy when he needed to calm down. 

As Hobie went to take the villain away, Miguel stopped him. 

“Why was she going to divorce you?” He looked down at the man curiously. 

“She said I worked too much, I neglected her and our daughter…” He rambled and Miguel stayed quiet, then letting Ben and Hobie take him back to HQ. 

His mind was racing from the villain's words. 

Had he been neglecting you?

He did work a lot, and recently, you’d both been very busy. The spot anomaly was taking up most of his days and nights, usually leaving you alone for long periods unless it was just cuddling your sleeping form and waking up to you gone, cooking him lunch and wrapping it up in a bag for him to take to HQ. 

See, you both were busy, it wasn’t just him. 

But the nagging in the back of his mind didn’t stop. 

He finished the paper work he needed to in a frantic rush, scribbling and typing as fast as he could. He needed to see you, talk to you, hear you say that you still loved him. 

He’d almost failed to ‘thread the needle’ like he taught all recruits, on his way home, almost in a manic state as he climbed up the side of your shared apartment building with his claws. Hopping onto your balcony, he quietly slid open the glass door and heard you humming quietly, the shower running. You hummed when you were thinking, which worried him. What were You thinking about? 

“Mi reina?” He called out, testing if you seemed upset with him or not. 

“Miguelito?” You answered, popping your head out of the bathroom and smiling. “You’re home early, did something happen at HQ?” You inquired, going back into the bathroom to get back in the shower. He pulled his clothing off as he followed you like a puppy, hands itching to touch your celestial skin. A trail of his clothes could be found from the living room to the bathroom door, as he saw your frame behind the glass shower door, scrubbing your scalp. His hands found the bathroom door as he tapped gently, watching you turn and give him a gentle smile. “Hard day?” 

He slides open the door and wraps his arms around you as he steps inside, tucking his head into your shoulder as the warm water heats up the air around you both. You can feel the tension in his shoulders as he leans his head on your shoulder and slumps forward to lean a bit on you. You let out a little surprised laugh as you card your fingers through his hair and hear him give a soft sigh of comfort. 

“Just need you.” He mumbles and closes his eyes, gripping your hips tightly. You understood the unspoken confession; he needed comfort. 

Turning to face him, your hands tangled into his brown curls as the water bounced off of his broad back and you planted soft, gentle kisses to his shoulder while his forehead creased deeper. He couldn’t turn off his mind, the curse of being brilliant, but you knew how to at least quiet the thoughts. Pulling his face to yours, you finally collided your lips with his and kissed him in languide, relaxed strokes of your tongue against his. 

“Bebe…” He whispered against your mouth and sank deeper into your embrace, needing the comfort and love you gave him. 

“I know.” You moved to turn off the water and pull him out of the shower towards your bedroom, but he couldn’t wait any longer. Lifting you up, he sat you on the counter and tucked his head into the crook of your neck, kissing his way down toward your naval and between your thighs. His tongue licked flat against your folds and your spine shot up straight with electricity, eyes fluttering shut from pleasure. His eyes caught the sight of you blushing from his mouth and continued to slowly dine on you, a never ending dinner of sounds he could eat up and not once get full. His fingers held the plush of your legs and moved one calf over his shoulder, pushing his nose against your bundle of nerves and making you whine louder, flicking his tongue into your hole with practiced movements he knew you loved. His pretty little wife was his biggest weakness, and he was yours as well, always addicted to being on him, around him, full of him. Miguel sucked on you and made your head feel light, snapping your hips a bit into his face and turning even more red from not being able to control your own body because of him. Your orgasm hit like a wall and you shivered, clenching on his tongue as he slowed to let you roll through it with ease. 

Standing up once more, he slotted himself between your legs and you held his face in your smaller hands, eyes connected and refusing to look away from each other. 

“Miguelito… Did something happen?” You whispered and he just nodded, his thumb finding your clit and forcing a pitiful sound from your throat. He didn’t want to talk about it, that was now clear, and you would do anything to help him feel better. “So beautiful…” He mumbled as he pushed the head of his cock against you, sliding against your wet juices now soaking him and finally pushing into you. The stretch burned for a split second before his cock nudged a spot that made your vision blur around the edges and your mouth drop open. The grunt he released was one of need, of relief, and it made you even more hungry for him, to sooth him. His hands fell to your waist as he began a steady, even pace and rocked against you as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Leaning your forehead to his chest, you could barely breathe as you felt so imbued with him and only him. Every pent up emotion seemed to pour out of him when you two had sex, and right now, his upset dripped from his skin like honey. The tension was thick with underlying love and urgency. 

The pace never got much quicker, he continued to move in tandem with you as you cried out and felt him hitting every spot he knew you loved, the soaked cavern of your body becoming a home for him now. 

His eyes watched as your face contorted and flinched at every pull of his cock inside of you, gasping a bit every thrust back in. You felt the hot sensation building in your lower body once more, the flex of your leg muscles as your body shook, heels pushing into his back and egging him to keep going. “I’m so close…” You whispered, pitching becoming higher and higher as you felt tears prick your eyes from stimulation of his head bumping your sensitive spots continuously. 

“Let go, mi vida.” He instructed you and just his words had a masterful effect on you, shaking and sobbing through the slow orgasm that held your mind in a chokehold and your body captive. He followed behind you, feeling your whole being convulse and shudder because of him. White painted your insides as he stilled and forced the combined essence of you both as far in you as it could be. He huffed and panted with you, the sound of your heaving breaths all that could be heard. Your eyes scanned him over to check on him, and that’s when you noticed his eyes becoming glassy and wet. 

“Oh, darling…” You spoke and cupped his face again, leaning your head to his and hearing him sniffle. “Please don’t leave… I love you, I’m sorry…” A cold sweat broke over you at his begging and you stared at him, confused. 

“What did you do?” You asked, fear lacing your veins. 

“I’ve been neglecting you, I haven’t been good enough for you-” 

“Oh, no no, Miguel.” You interrupted him and pressed a finger to his lips to quiet him. “You haven’t neglected me, you’re busy. I’m here, I promise, stop worrying about us. I love you.” You assured and pet his cheek a bit, trying to give him some peace of mind.

“I’m right here.”

[trial-n-harerror]

Honey Booker Voice Lines!

game specific lines for my prime asset oc! I don't have art for this atm but I might pick out a few and draw some sketches for them :]

---

Patrolling A woman’s work is never done.. Never done, never done.

I wonder if my mama misses me. Haven’t seen her too much after daddy took me away. I wonder if she was a good woman, good like me. I get it from her.

Can’t have mice scurrying around. Dirty house, filthy house is no place for a good man. It only brings you bad men. Worthless, good for nothing. How am I supposed to..

Sick? No, I make it all better. You just need to trust your Honey.

I know every part of this house, like any good wife should.

Don’t leave me alone. Get away from me! Don’t- Don’t go. Come back. Get back!

I can be a good girl, I promise.

Cook and clean, behave, be quiet. Smile, but not too much. Don’t talk too loud, answer when spoken to. Be pretty, be polite. Ask about his day. Be small, be quiet. Don’t act out. Don’t misbehave

Start Chase Welcome home! Ain’t you glad to see me? Selfish bastard! There’s my pretty thing! Where’s my kiss? Bad boy/girl/love!

During chase Don’t you love me? What’s the matter, what have I done? You can trust me! You can! Come back here, you ungrateful beast! Just wait, wait! I have a surprise! Look! Cut that out! Cut it out!

Giving up the Chase After all I’ve done for you? Sneaky little mouse. I know this game. I don’t like this game. I just wanted.. I wanted.. [Loud Scream] Fine! Have it your way!

Blocked by obstacles I live here! You can’t lock me out! Haven’t I worked hard enough? You think this is funny? Not fair, not fair! You don’t really want me to leave, you little flirt.

Lost sight of the Reagent No, no, no. Please, please. Why are you hiding? What did I do? I was a good girl, I did everything right. Fuck you. That’s not fair! I was just.. You- [upset groan]

Found Hidden Reagent Sweetheart! You rat! Bad spot! That’s cute. Did you miss me?

Grabbing or Executing Reagent Don’t worry, I’m going to take good care of you Isn’t it better this way? If you love me, you’ll stay dead. Mine all mine. You’re so pretty when you die. You’ll go nice and slow, just like falling asleep.

Spotted Incapacitated Reagent Where you belong. On your knees for me? About time. I’m starting to think you like it down there. Mmmmmm…

Spotted Reagent by door trap Never liked those things. Sparkly. See what happens when you don’t listen? Poor thing. Now you want my help?

Alerted by Noise What? What did I miss? Just come out! I hate this game! I hear you, I hear you, you devil. You want me to find you, I know you do. Playing hard to get?

Alerted by Sight Just can’t stay away! I knew you’d come back! Couldn’t get enough. Funny little bunny! Did you think I was stupid?

Investigating Happy wife, happy life. Don’t keep me waiting, baby. This is just too much. My heart. You’re breaking my heart. You don’t need to be shy with me. This isn’t nice, why are you playing mean with me? Sweetheart, I’m getting really tired of this.

Stunned Heartless! Don’t you love me? I am your wife! Piece of shit! You’re no good!

Attack Bastard! I loved you! Sit still. You brute! Take it! Rat! Be good! Squirm, boy/girl/love!