hungry2bhelpful

[hungry2bhelpful]

Just spectacular....

👏🏾

Imagine...💬📱 ~ nsfw...18+ ~

Words: 1587

Pairing: Dom!Natasha Romanoff x Sub!Reader

💋💋💋

You wake up in your apartment at the ass crack of dawn and automatically reach for your cell to see if the Trio! have messaged.

Much to your luck - and because they're so infatuated with you, with added different time zones - they have.

Wanda is rambling about how different the water tastes where she is.

Carol is complaining about her bed being too uncomfortable.

Natasha is currently complaining about not being able to sleep, despite it being midnight where she is.

Her typing bubble stops when she sees you replying to her.

Natty: Dare I ask why you're up, little one?

Y/N: I gotta pee...dare I ask why you're up...little one?

Natty: Wow someone's woken up and chosen violence, huh?

Y/N: You just bring out my inner brat, what can I say?

Natty: You're lucky I'm thousands of miles away, little girl. Or I'd have my hand around your throat so fucking fast.

Y/N: What a shame you can't, eh? What. A. Shame.

Natty: You really have woken up in a mood.

Natty: And to answer your question, my little thing, Daddy can't sleep. I miss my girl too much.

The bratty reply you would have typed out would be instantly deleted.

Y/N: Oh...

Y/N: I miss you too. So much.

Y/N: Plus the fact you're all in different hotels is stupid. You run the company! You're the bosses...make them give you the same room in the same stupid hotel. God.

Natty: Still grumpy about that baby girl?

Y/N: Yeah!

Natty: Even though we’re all based in different cities?

Y/N: …well yeah surely there’s a hotel that’s in the vicinity of all the places you gotta go for your job…

Natty: Baby girl; Wanda and Carol are about two hours from me.

Y/N: Well that’s just stupid.

Natty: That’s just our work, baby girl. Sometimes it means being apart from each other.

Y/N: I still don’t fully understand what your job is…

Natty: I’ll explain when we’re back sweetheart. You should get some more sleep.

Y/N: But…

Natty: No buts. No excuses. Sleep.

Y/N: Technically you should get some sleep too…

Natty: I will eventually. I’m just not tired enough just yet.

Y/N: If I was there I could tire you out plenty.

Natty: Oh is that so, baby girl? How would you plan on doing that?

Of course you're a blushing mess by this point.

Y/N: I...doing stuff. Stuffy stuff, y'know?

Natty: What sort of stuff? I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about, baby.

Y/N: Yes you do.

Natty: I'm afraid I don't, what sort of stuff? Sleep? Cuddle?

Y/N:...sex stuff...

Natty: There it is. Look at that, good girl. That wasn't so hard now was it, hmm?

Y/N: ...yes

Natty: What sort of sexual things, baby? Enlighten daddy.

Y/N: Depends on if you're packing or not...

Yep, you are 100% the same colour as Natasha's hair.

Natty: What if I am?

You beg your brain to function.

Y/N: Well...I'd crawl over to you

Natty: I do like it when you crawl.

Y/N: I know you do...I'd crawl over to you in the bed and pull the covers down.

Natty: Go on.

Y/N: And I'd settle my body on top of yours and kiss you

Natty: I do miss your lips...

Y/N: And as we kiss, I'd grind my hips down onto your...um...

Natty: Say it baby. Say the word for daddy.

Y/N: ...cock...

Natty: God you're so good for me, my sweet little play thing. I bet you're blushing so much right now.

Y/N: Maybe...😳

Y/N: Do - do I carry on?

Natty: Yes please baby. Only if you want to, of course.

"Oh you have no idea."

Natty: I think you should go from grinding baby.

Y/N: Okay...so I'd grind my hips down onto your...your cock...and I'd um...

Natty is Calling

Your heart all but stops in your chest but you're quick to answer her call.

"Hello...?"

"Hi baby. You wanna grind on my dick hmm?"

You can't help but let out a very loud laugh as your shyness washes over you.

"Oh my sweet little fuck toy. Daddy asked you a question, hmm?"

"I, um - what?"

"Do you, or do you not, my perfect little cock sleeve, want to grind on my dick?"

"...yes..."

"Yes what, baby girl?"

"Daddy."

You can feel Natasha's smirk and it does nothing to calm your burning face.

"And now in a full sentence."

"Yes....daddy, I do."

"Oh such a good girl." She says. "Let your hands wander for me, sweet thing. Trail your fingers over your breasts..."

Sticking Natasha on speakerphone, you put your cell on the pillow besides your head and quickly do as you're told; lifting your shirt to reveal your chest to the slightly chilled temperature of your bedroom.

You tentatively drag your fingers up the swell of your breasts, breath hitching when they graze your pert nipples.

"Pinch them, baby girl."

You squirm, clenching around nothing at the sheer sound of Natasha's voice.

"How did you know?" Your own voice is nothing more than a whisper.

"I know you. Pinch them."

You pinch your right nipple slightly too hard and a moan louder than you anticipated escapes past your lips.

Heart hammering in your chest, your eyes fly to your bedroom door, begging MJ to not come bursting through.

"Keep going, baby."

You do so again, this time trying your best to keep quiet as best you can but Natasha isn't having any of it.

"Don't you dare hold back; I want to hear every single moan you make."

"But MJ-"

"Let daddy hear those moans, baby girl, you're making me so fucking wet." Natasha lets out her own moan and you almost combust. "Touch your clit."

Your fingers wander under your waistband and glide over the area that has your breath hitching.

"There you go baby. Press down on it."

"Mhm."

"I bet you're soaking already baby."

"I can feel it on my thighs..." You let out a sigh.

"You're my needy little whore aren't you?"

"Yes daddy." Your eyes roll when you press down on your clit again, pleasure shooting through your veins. "Fuck I wish you were here, I need you."

"Want to know what I'd do baby? How I'd make you cum?" Natasha's voice sends waves of heat into you. You clench again, hips rolling against nothing. "Rub it, gorgeous girl. Just how you like it but nice and slow. Don't get too excited for daddy."

You use two damp fingers, pressing firmly against the nub that has you moaning again.

"Oh fuck!"

"I'd use my tongue, baby girl." Natasha purrs, "I'd swirl it around that gorgeous clit of yours and suck it into my mouth..."

"Yes..."

Natasha moans and fuck does that sound make your toes curl.

"I'd slurp everything you have to give me into my mouth and swallow it; baby, you have no idea how much we love the way you taste."

Your hands are shaking, wanting nothing more than to move your fingers faster, to get to that sweet peak sooner, but you're an obedient girl.

You do as you're told.

"And when I know you're desperate for my fingers, I'd push two of them into you -" Her voice is trembling, "and finger you so roughly I'd have you screaming in seconds."

That nearly has you falling apart.

"Finger yourself."

You do not have to be told twice, your own fingers sliding into yourself easily.

You hear Natasha moan.

"Get yourself off baby, imagine they're my fingers pounding into you and cum." She's breathless, working herself up to her own release at the same time you do.

You're quick to set a rhythm that your body loves, rubbing your clit whilst your fingers curl inside of you, moving them faster and faster until you can hear a squelching between your legs.

"Cum now, with me, or don't cum at all."

"Y-y-yes, oh fuck, daddy!"

"Daddy's cumming baby, oh yes, yes!"

Natasha falls apart first, her cry of ecstasy going slightly robotic due to the phone connection; but it doesn't stop you from cumming right behind her, a cry bubbling out of your throat as your orgasm floods through you.

You press down firmly on your clit, eliciting more pleasure until you physically can't take anymore and your body jerks with oversensitivity.

Removing your hands, you lie in your bed panting, a large smile on your face.

"I needed that."

"So did I, little one. Daddy has been very tense. Thank you for that." Natasha replies, "drink some water."

You do as you're told, wiping your fingers on the towel strew across your bedroom floor before picking up the bottle of water and taking 6 deep gulps.

You rub your eyes as you settle back into bed, nestling close to your phone as if it could somehow get you closer to Natasha.

You hear her yawn.

"Are you okay, baby girl?" she asks.

"I am, daddy. Are you?"

"Yes sweetie. Are you tired?"

"...little bit..." Your eyes are heavy, sleep once again calling your name.

"Close those eyes, baby, and let's meet in our dreams okay?" Her voice is no more than a whisper, Natasha too on the verge of sleep.

"...in our dreams, daddy..."

You sleep soundly with Natasha still on call, happy and content.

💋💋💋

[hungry2bhelpful]

Bahahahahaha

this…. while there wasn’t a single moment between them when they weren’t flirting like…. come on marvel

[hungry2bhelpful]

Im not even sick right now but this was absolutely adorable. Definitely made my day better. 😁

Bravo 👏🏾

In Sickness and in Soup

pairing: natasha romanoff x sick! reader

synopsis: you planned a cozy welcome home for natasha—clean apartment, candles, kisses. but instead, she comes home early to find you sick as a cat, buried under blankets and full of complaints. while you wheeze through coughs and cravings for fried chicken, nasha dives headfirst into caretaker mode with soups, threats, and soft forehead kisses.

warnings: sickness n flu symptoms :( | wc: 1.9k | genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, sickfic, & romance !! <3

note: this one’s for my sick pookie, @jassgunner—i hope this little fic brings you a bit of comfort (and maybe some secondhand korean chicken). get well soon, love !! :^

You didn’t need a mirror to know you looked like death.

Your sinuses were clogged, your throat was on fire, your skin alternated between boiling and freezing every ten minutes, and worst of all, Natasha was going to see you like this.

You turned in bed with a groan, burying your face into the pillow and trying to remember how breathing normally felt.

She wasn’t even supposed to be home yet. She had just wrapped up a small mission in Prague and wasn’t due back until the next day. You had planned to clean up the apartment, light a few candles, and greet her with hugs and food and kisses. But now, you couldn’t even stand up without seeing stars.

Of course, life was cruel, and Natasha arrived early.

“Baby?” her voice called from the hallway. “Where are you?”

You tensed, tried to sit up, and collapsed dramatically into your blankets with a muffled wheeze. Too late.

She walked into your shared bedroom, duffel bag slung over her shoulder, red hair tied into a bun. She looked beautiful. And then she saw you.

“Oh my God, detka,” she said, dropping her bag instantly and crossing the room. She knelt by the bed, fingers gently brushing your damp hair off your forehead. “You’re burning up.”

You tried to smile and be casual. “Hi. Welcome home.”

She gave you a flat look. “Don’t ‘hi’ me. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t wanna worry you,” you croaked. “Wasn’t this bad earlier.” You coughed again. "And I didn’t want you to see me like—this.”

Natasha sighed, leaned forward, and kissed your clammy forehead anyway.

“You’re still my baby,” she whispered. “Just a snotty, stubborn version.”

“Wow,” you croaked. “Romance isn’t dead after all.”

She sighed, eyes full of worry and that soft tenderness she reserved only for you. “I would’ve come home anyway.”

“I know,” you mumbled. “But I wanted you to finish your mission.”

She leaned forward and pressed a featherlight kiss to your temple. “You are my mission.”

You melted. Despite the congestion and the sweat and the terrible timing, you couldn’t help but fall in love with her all over again.

—

Natasha Romanoff in caretaker mode was something the world rarely got to witness—but you got front-row seats.

Within an hour, she had:

Taken your temperature (102.4°F, to her horror),

Forced you to drink electrolytes,

Changed your sweat-soaked clothes into clean, warm pajamas,

Lit a eucalyptus-scented diffuser, and

Texted Bruce for a list of recommended flu meds and vitamins.

You were lying in bed like a limp noodle, limbs tangled in your blanket, as she bustled around the room like a soldier on a mission.

“Is this what it’s like being married to you?” you joked hoarsely.

Natasha looked up from the mug of tea she was steeping. “Only if you’re lucky.”

You grinned. “I must be the luckiest person in the world, then.”

She set the tea down beside you and sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re not allowed to be this cute while sick. It’s not fair.”

“Sorry. Natural talent.”

She snorted, then reached forward to gently wipe your face with a damp cloth. Her fingers were warm, her touch careful. “You’re gonna feel better soon, solnyshko. I promise.”

“You sure?” you whispered.

She leaned in and kissed your forehead. “Absolutely.”

—

Day 1 of Natasha’s Medical Lockdown:

You refused to take your medicine.

You begged for fried chicken.

Natasha wanted to cry.

“No,” she said firmly, arms crossed as you stared longingly at a KFC ad on your phone. “Absolutely not.”

“But—” you coughed dramatically. “Babe. Just one piece.”

“You are literally dying. You want to eat grease right now?”

“Yes.”

She looked at you for a long moment. “Okay. I see how it is.”

“What does that mean—”

Suddenly, she reached down, scooped you into her arms, and carried you bridal-style to the kitchen.

“You want chicken?” she muttered.

You squeaked. “Wait—wait—are you actually—”

She dropped you gently onto the couch. “No. You’re sitting there. You're drinking soup.”

You frowned like a toddler. “I hate soup.”

“I’m making mushroom soup. With garlic. And thyme. You’ll like it.”

“I want chicken.”

She leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth. “You want me to stay sane while you recover?”

“…Yeah?”

“Then drink your soup, baby.”

—

The next thing you knew, you were wrapped in a heavy blanket, tucked into bed like a burrito, while Natasha appeared holding a tray—on it, a bowl of warm, earthy mushroom soup with little toasted bread bites on the side.

She really did make you mushroom soup. From scratch. With herbs. With soft sautéed onions. With heavy cream.

“Made this from scratch,” she said, setting the tray down. “Organic mushrooms. Cream. Love. All that crap.”

You eyed the soup with suspicion. “There’s no fried chicken hidden under it, right?”

“Nope. But I did add extra garlic.”

You sniffed. “Might as well poison me.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, picked up the spoon, and blew on it. “Open up, solnyshko.”

You turned your head like a cat. “Don’t wanna.”

“Oh my God—”

“I’m just saying,” you croaked, voice congested, “if you really loved me, you’d let me eat greasy food and perish with flavor.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“Your girlfriend is withering away, and all you’ve brought me is fungus soup.”

“It’s gourmet fungus soup.”

“Fried chicken wouldn’t betray me like this.”

Natasha, sitting across from you on the couch, raised an eyebrow. “You’re pouting,” she noted, arms crossed.

“I’m not,” you lied through your teeth.

She leaned forward slightly, voice soft but firm.

“Baby, just drink your soup so you can get better and eat chicken. I’ll even get you the Korean ones.”

You looked up slowly. “From the place with the sweet garlic soy glaze?”

She nodded. “And extra pickled radish.”

You let out a long sigh, dramatically bringing the spoon to your lips. “Fine. But only because you said garlic soy.”

Natasha smirked. “Knew it.”

You slurped. “This doesn’t mean I’m taking the medicine.”

She reached for the blister pack again. “You want that chicken or not?”

You groaned. “This is emotional manipulation.”

“It’s love,” she replied, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And if love means forcing you to get better, then yeah. I’m the villain.”

You leaned into her with a tired smile. “You’re my favorite villain.”

You sighed. “Fine. It’s good.”

Natasha grinned, smug. “I know.”

You held the spoon up threateningly. “This doesn’t mean I’ll take the medicine,” You repeated for the second time.

“Oh, you will,” she said, reaching into her hoodie pocket and pulling out the dreaded blister pack.

Your soul left your body.

“Nooo,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch dramatically. “It tastes like battery acid and sadness.”

Natasha sat beside you, gently lifting your head into her lap. “It’s five seconds of suffering.”

“I would rather eat five KFC buckets with no gravy than swallow that demon pill.”

“I will literally force it down your throat.”

“…Kinky.”

She snorted, biting back a grin. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

—

Day 2:

You were slightly better. You could sit up without wanting to cry. You even managed to change your pajamas.

You still refused your medicine, but Natasha had a plan.

You were lying on the couch, wrapped in a ridiculously fluffy blanket Natasha had bought for you, sipping warm broth while Natasha scrolled through a cooking video on your iPad.

“Whatcha doing?” you asked, voice still scratchy but much less awful.

“Learning to make Ginseng chicken soup” she said. “Wanda’s recipe. She said it’s good for stubborn sick girls.”

You blinked. “You’re learning just to make it for me?”

She didn’t look up. “Of course. Why else?”

You felt your heart grow three sizes. “I’m gonna marry you one day.”

“Good,” she replied casually. “Just make sure I’m awake for it.”

—

You took one spoonful. Then another. Then ten.

“…I hate how good you are at this,” you muttered.

“Then take your meds.”

You hesitated.

She leaned closer, whispered, “Take it and I’ll let you use me as your personal weighted blanket all night.”

You blinked. “That’s unfair.”

“Medicine or I sleep on the floor.”

You popped the pill into your mouth immediately and chugged water like a gremlin.

Natasha smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

—

You were curled in bed, clean, full, medicated (finally), and warm.

Natasha climbed in beside you and pulled you close, wrapping your body against hers like a protective burrito. Your head rested on her chest, listening to her heartbeat.

“You really stayed with me all day,” you murmured, sleep pulling at you.

She kissed your hair. “Always.”

“You made soup. And threatened me.”

“I regret nothing.”

You giggled weakly. “You love me so much.”

“Too much,” she whispered. “Even if you are the most stubborn patient I’ve ever had.”

“…Still want fried chicken though.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “But I’m your impossible.”

She smiled into your hair. “Damn right you are.”

—

The next few days passed in a fever-dream blur.

You slept. A lot.

But even in sleep, you never felt alone. You’d stir awake to cool cloths being replaced on your forehead, gentle hands checking your temperature, soft murmurs in Russian as Natasha sat beside you, reading a book with one hand and holding yours with the other.

Sometimes you’d wake to the sound of her humming, her voice quiet and low as she sang lullabies from her childhood. You didn’t understand the words, but the feeling behind them was all you needed.

Once, in the middle of the night, you woke up gasping and drenched in sweat. Your chest hurt. You sat up in panic—until arms wrapped around you from behind and pulled you close.

“I’m here,” she whispered, voice rough from sleep. “You’re okay, baby. It’s just the fever.”

You clung to her like a lifeline, shaking.

“I’ve got you,” she promised, kissing your shoulder. “Always.”

She didn’t let go for the rest of the night.

—

By day four, you were finally on the mend.

The fever had broken, your throat didn’t feel like sandpaper, and you could breathe without feeling like someone was sitting on your lungs. The next morning, Natasha sneezed.

You turned in bed and gasped dramatically.

“No,” she said flatly, already reaching for tissues. “Don’t say it.”

“I KISSED YOU WHILE I WAS SICK.”

“I KNOW,” she groaned, muffled behind the tissue.

You clapped like it was Christmas. “MY TURN TO BABY YOU.”

“I will run.”

“You’re too weak.”

“Don’t underestimate me, L/N.”

You grinned and tackled her with a fuzzy pink blanket, one that clearly wasn’t hers. “Time for your soup, ma’am.”

Natasha wheezed into the pillow. “I regret everything.”

You kissed her cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Too late now, baby.”

She groaned louder. “I swear to God—”

“Language,” you teased, booping her nose. “I put a cursing jar in the kitchen.”

“I’m dying and you’re making jokes?”

“No, you’re living and I’m in love.”

Natasha froze. “You didn’t just say that while I’m feverish and vulnerable.”

You snuggled closer, your nose brushing against her flushed cheek. “I absolutely did.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re mine.”

Natasha blinked at you, soft despite the grumbling. “Fine. But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

You kissed her temple, grinning. “You already do, baby.”

Natasha sighed and leaned into you with the most reluctant affection ever. “This is embarrassing.”

You just wrapped your arms tighter around her. “You love it.”

“…Maybe.”

And in that sleepy, sniffly moment—with soup between you and shared germs turning into soft laughter—you both kind of knew: yeah, this was it.

Even fevers couldn't ruin this kind of love.

[hungry2bhelpful]

hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god

[hungry2bhelpful]

[hungry2bhelpful]

😆

Y/N, posting on a social media site: “hostage or not, sometimes it’s just nice being held :)”

Natasha, replying to the post: “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU”

*Wanda takes away Y/N’s phone*

[hungry2bhelpful]

How do you talk about trying to brute-force a dream into reality? How do you talk about something you desperately need to make in a weird art-compulsion way whilst also REALLY TRYING to be commercially appealing for the people who fund games? The answer is: WITH DIFFICULTY.

HELLO I'M MAKING THE VIDEO GAME CRESCENT COUNTY

IT HAS BEEN REALLY HARD

Trying to be an artist making a gay witch video game about motorbike broom drifting and messy self discovery whilst ALSO trying to convince game publishers that there is a very specific audience for the game that I KNOW will love this has been akin to pulling teeth with tongs slathered in lard . Slippery, painful, and at a certain point you start wondering that there has GOT to be another way.

So we're doing a Kickstarter! It is very difficult to ask for things but I'm asking this from my favourite place on the internet; if you like video games and you like supporting queer art (I know you do) and you like making stuff a reality that otherwise probably won't exist, please check the Kickstarter for Crescent County out. Follow it, share it, pledge to it when it goes live next month if you can. Cause fucking HELL I need to make this game and our tiny tiny team has been working SO HARD, but the industry is on FIRE right now and we can't make this without your support.

LOTS OF LOVE, TIME TO DISAPPEAR INTO A VULNERABILITY PIT

[hungry2bhelpful]

oh :(

[hungry2bhelpful]

"i'm tired of seeing-" use your filters.

"but there was an icky ship-!" use your filters.

"i don't like that tag-" use your filters.

don't like what you're seeing? use. your. filters.

[hungry2bhelpful]

This is an appreciation post for the fanfic authors who aren’t included on rec lists

For the fanfic authors who don’t get art of their fics

For the fanfic authors who can’t get to 1000/500/100 hits

For the fanfic authors who don’t get comments/reviews

For the fanfic authors who write for small fandoms

For the fanfic authors who write rarepairs or gen fics

For the fanfic authors who get hate for the ships/characters/fandoms they write

For the fanfic authors who write in English despite it not being their first language

For the fanfic authors who don’t write in English

For the fanfic authors who don’t think anyone reads or likes their work

For the fanfic authors who aren’t big name fans

For the fanfic authors who don’t get requests in their inboxes

For the fanfic authors who can’t write stories that are more than a thousand words

For the fanfic authors who only write one ship

For the fanfic authors who are just starting

For the fanfic authors who have been writing fic for years

For the fanfic authors who use fanfic to practice writing

For the fanfic authors who write self-insert fics

For the fanfic authors who write about their OCs

For the fanfic authors who write to vent or cope

For the fanfic authors who are just waiting for their big break

Keep creating, I love you ❤️

[hungry2bhelpful]

Absolutely beautiful

"came back wrong" what about Came Back Afraid. You used to be brave. Too brave maybe, defying the odds at every turn, a fighter, cocky, playing with fire, first to throw yourself at the enemy. Until one day it all caught up to you. You came back, somehow, but now you know all too intimately how it feels to lose, to die, to be destroyed. Now you flinch and freeze and cower at the slightest provocation. Who even are you now if you can't be brave? The grave may have let you go, but the mortal fear still grips you tighter than ever.

[hungry2bhelpful]

So good one of my faves.

“Terror has multiplied. What's more terrifying than a ghost? Thirteen of them!”

Thir13en Ghosts (2001) directed by Steve Beck

[hungry2bhelpful]

genuinely one of the wildest things they did on the show

[hungry2bhelpful]

Agathario + matching each other's freak + text posts (part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

[hungry2bhelpful]

Absolutely stunning as always.

Valentine's Day is here ❤

[hungry2bhelpful]

deactivated / inactive mutuals I miss u and hope you're living your best life far away from here </3

[hungry2bhelpful]

Been a while since I had anything get stuck in my brain like this....

👏🏾Bravo

hear me out. dark detective harkness au.

you go missing one day. agatha is assigned as lead detective of your case. she spends tireless hours rallying search parties and spreading missing posters around. everyone admires how hard she’s working, telling her to not blame herself if you can’t be found because she’s really done everything she could.

and then she comes home at the end of the day, hangs up her coat, and heads to her basement. she enters in codes and keys to the numerous locks, and she comes downstairs with a cheery, “honey, I’m home.”

finds you sitting on the bed, in the room that she perfectly curated for you while she was stalking you. it’s beautiful, each item picked with care, something similar to what you owned before or something she knew you’d like. you clutch onto the stuffed bunny that she gifted you. you cling to her when she comes to give you a hug, having come to crave her affection because it’s all you have now.

it warms her heart.