Synopsis: Something returns in the body of your husband, making him more off putting than usual.
He'd been gone a long time, a lot longer than you expected.
A part of you wished he wouldn't come back, that he'd get lost in those neverending hills of ombre greens, mountains with small streams flowing through them and twisting paths that bore broken ankles and scraped knees if one tripped.
Here he was, though. The reins of the horse that was given as part of your dowery in his fist, his left leg twisted backwards to give him a gangly lean.
The lonesomeness of the high mountains could be crippling, but it was being around your menace of a husband that truly made life there hard. He was the only man in your clan who would take you, and your family would rather lie in their graves to rot than send off one of their own to a traitorous neighboring village.
None of that mattered now, when you were so far from any form of companionship or civilization, your desperation leading to the point of grasping at the few straws your distant, cold husband would offer.
But that man wasn't here, not in this house. What remained of his hollow vessel was unholy, a beast of small resemblance.
The details were all there: dirty off-white field shirt, cracked leather suspenders, even the strong gash of scar across his knuckles, the one that gripped the reins so tightly they twisted in his fingers.
"You're home." Was all you could mutter.
Not, 'where have you been' or 'I was worried sick;' when speaking to your husband, most words would float right past him.
The mud on his boots slid against the oak floors, leaving a wet, thumping sound as he trudged through the living room. Small remains in the fireplace was left in glowing embers, dying flames casting shadows upon your husband's face.
You had never stared long at anything above his shoulders, either out of worry of him striking you for doing so, or maybe fear of finding him repulsive to look at, knowing he was all you had until your life's end.
But seeing him now, his face didn't look much different. A sharp frown turned down his lips, his strong nose inhaling, exhaling so quietly you might not hear him breathe in a silent room; but his chest heaved in wild ups and downs.
Another step forward. The front door was left open, and you could see the summer fireflies landing on the porch outside. A shallow dirt line followed his trail up the steps, as if his boots had been sliding in the dirt all the way home.
You held the oil lamp further away from your face, illuminating the dirt smeared across his. His hair was slick, covering his eyes like dripping ink.
"Want a bath?"
You spoke louder, voice still hoarse from sleep. He didn't look right, and it wasn’t just the dirtiness. Was there some sort of attacker that shook him? maybe a steep fall from one of the narrow roads down the hill?
Not quite... there was something deeper under his skin that was inherently different. His smell, like that of petrichor and iron. As he moved, one arm swung lower than another, his back hunched in a way that made him look broader.
As he walked, his leg cracked in such a loud pop it almost made you jump. Splatters of dark speckled his cotton shirt, becoming brighter as he neared.
It was like watching an injured animal try to scoot itself deeper into the forest, letting itself suffer rather than stop to spare the pain. But instead of a creature trying to escape, he was languidly dragging himself at you.
"You sound... tired. You should get to bed."
Despite the gnawing sense of dread beginning to curl in your stomach, you stood your ground, half of your body leaning from out of your shared bedroom. You'd do your spousal duties, take care of him, so long as he stopped scaring you.
As you listened to him, you realized Bettie couldn't be heard in her stall, and there were no hoove prints following the fresh trail of mud near the front door. Where had she gone? Had he lost her in the high mountains, leaving my her to roam aimlessly in the wide plains?
Or maybe, something had gotten her, your husband barely making it out himself; it would certainly explain the state he was in.
His body cracked with each aching move, back twisting in a way where his ribs jutted beneath his skin, twisting again for his left leg to snap back in place. Before you knew it, his face was hovering, drifting only inches away. Along the dry wall his hand grazed to create a black streak, sliding over the only picture you kept of your wedding day. He was so tall he barely fit in the yellowed picture; though his height was noteable, it never scared you until tonight.
Along with it, his hands... they hung low to the ground, the one resting upon the wall now coming towards you. It grasped foreward for you, opposite to the oil lamp in your grip. Dirt and something thick, like molasses, was stuck beneath his fingernails.
"Mmhn..."
Something guttural came from his lips, his mouth parting with a black thickness foaming at the corner. It glued between his teeth, swallowing his tongue as it drooled down his chin.
This wasn't him. It was his body-- or atleast what you could remember of it. They were pieces of him but they didn't fit right. He looked like a corpse left forgotten and dunked in oil, but he smelled only of rainwater and highland grass, nothing dead following him. Yet, the smell on his hands, the one that came to rest upon your cheek, cupping at your jaw, it was like rotting flesh.
His fingers rigidly stroked your cheek, using his thumb to smear a mixture of black beneath your eye. So cold, the touch sent a shock down to your feet, leaving you frozen still.
You might've not known your husband, not his voice or a solid memory of his face. But this was... something from outside. Someone. But it wasn't the man who promised to hold you in sickness and health.
A wet smear from his finger drew down your lip, the caress so gentle and inexplicably foreign.
Through the croak of his chest, he strained to speak through the black trenches of his mouth.
Will he be rabid with desire when wifey reader finally gets pregnant? <3
Fuck I wanna mess him up so badly
Slut is unfortunately the best word to describe him! He's generally just a secretly depraved, disgustingly yearnful man.
Oh he'd for sure abuse his wife's pregnancy for his own gain, not only because its made it more difficult for her to leave the house, but he'd render her incapable of doing anything. Chores, grocery shopping, meals, thats nothing his pregnant, fragile wife should be doing! he'd only last a few days before settling for intense coddling and complaining everytime she gets up.
It also gives him the opportunity to fuck her on every surface of the house, claiming its their only chance before the baby comes (not true, will still find ways to use the dining table and kitchen counter afterwards). I think he'd be a little jealous that he has to share his wife's attention, but that washes away when he realizes the bump she's talking to is because of him, that those nights of cockwarming and milking himself dry inside of her are what caused this. He'd be incessant, all the more anxious to get home not only to ensure she's safe, but to babble on about how full she looks, how much it makes him all the more hungry for her, knowing that he's created such a visible marking on her that no one else can claim they've done.
I was and still am daydreaming about some scenarios with our dear pathetic yandere husband. (･ω･ )
(I love him so damn much it's not even funny)
We women have our unpleasant strawberry week every month. How's our husband holding up? Is he frustrated? Does he perhaps... support us?
(wink wink)
🍓~
I unfortunately, anon, may have a freakier answer than you're hoping for.
Yan! Husband is so clearly depraved when it comes to his wife. He isn't afraid to steal your used garments, old tissue paper, broken fingernails; eventually he stopped asking himself why he does these things, and its become second nature. So it is no surprise that it has crossed his mind when that time of month comes, what else he can steal and admire without you noticing.
Yan! Husband is more than willing to satisfy you in any manner, your hesitancies doing little to persuade him as he starts to view this as a new way for him to experience all of you.
But he'll settle for your wishes-- biting the sheets to keep his moans at bay while you sleep, avoiding from touching, merely rubbing himself on you. But he is anything if not determined, and quickly gets a bright idea that comes from one innocent lap sit, shifting you to ride his thigh. Of course he'd prefer without the clothes, but the friction is just right, and its one of the few ways he can pleasure you without a frustrated swat at his hand.
Yan! Husband doesn't care if you start with the 'I'm too heavy," or questions about bleeding through. None of it matters when the soft pull of your hips is finally between his hands after days of your stinginess, the strain of his clothed crotch as your palm rubs fast circles on his warm erection. He takes extra care to dot kisses down your neck, whispering words of how lucky he is, how beautiful you look when you're on top of him, trying to ease that emotional temperment he can see almost spilling over.
And of course, Yan! Husband has tried to slip his hand between your legs on more than one occasion as you grind against him, deciding that eventually you'll grow needy enough to let him devour you like he deserves.
Werewolf Boyfriend who begs you to stop shaving so that you can be hairy together. He’s tired of being the only one who sheds, who’s legs are like tall pine trees in the middle of summer, dark and unruly when he pulls out the swimming shorts. So from now on, no haircuts, no shaving. He loves the texture of your body, the way it almost calls for him to touch it.
Werewolf Boyfriend who looooves to gloat about you to the rest of his werewolf friends. Oh, your mate just got a promotion? Well MINE finally finished the pile of forgotten crafts left on our living room table, and you better compliment the misshapen crochet puppet they made, or face the consequences.
Werewolf Boyfriend who often ‘forgets’ to put your work lunch out in the mornings. It gives him just another excuse to visit you during work, rubbing himself all over your computer and desk to make sure any creature in the office can smell him. (As if he doesn’t rub himself on you and your clothes before you leave anyways.)
Werewolf Boyfriend who sometimes kicks in his sleep like a dog, raking at the bedsheets and twitching when he dreams. If you hold him long enough, rocking him or brushing your fingers over his eyelids, he may stop from stomping you off the bed.
Werewolf Boyfriend who can’t help but smell your dirty laundry before putting it in the washer. He tries to do it secretly, but you may occasionally catch him walking around the house looking for the scent beads and your gym shorts pressed up against his nose.
Werewolf Boyfriend who play bites, gnawing on your arms and ankles, flipping you over so that he can slobber on your thighs. Something about it releases this primal urge in him to gnaw, just enough to where his jaw pulses and his tongue salivates.
NSFW under the cut
Werewolf Boyfriend who is the ultimate service top-- he loves to please, to the point where he’s wagging his tail just because he gets to go down on you. He isn’t afraid of nudity, so to see him rip his clothes off fully before pouncing on you isn’t much of a surprise. He loves hearing your pretty sounds, seeing you come fully undone all from him. It reassures him that he’s doing a good job, that you can’t help but hold onto him, and be the one begging this time.
Werewolf Boyfriend who you have to force to bite down onto a pillow to muffle out his sounds. He’ll wake up the neighbors with his howling and whimpers if he’s given his way. You usually have a designated ‘bite pillow’ for these.. “occasions” but one too many instances have shown that it never seems to last after a night. Covered in drool and ripped to shreds, he apologizes for ruining one of your nicer ones, opting for something less expensive next time.
Werewolf Boyfriend who would spread you open in a park, the woods, or your kitchen countertop if he could. When he’s inside you, he’s not thinking about other people, about his surroundings-- which can prove romantic, and utterly embarrassing. You know better than to take him out during rut season, especially if it involves any kind of water and swimwear, or food he eats with his fingers.
Werewolf Boyfriend who has a fixation on your ears and thighs. The ears, primarily because it’s a form of revenge. With you hanging on his and pinching them all the time, he tries to get you back by biting and licking them to tease you, riling you up as just the smallest essence of foreplay. Your thighs, of course because he loves them wrapped around him. Before the evening’s over, they’ll be full of hickies, long lines of dried sticky residue upon them from his tongue. He loves how they clench and shake, how he has to hold you up by your thighs when he’s pumped every inch of energy out of you.
A/N: originally named this doc ‘a dawg gone wrawng’ so I hope that gives you some idea as to what hell this is. Thanks to the anon for Conan's name, I wrote this mainly for his haters! deadass not sure if the drama is worth keeping most interested so his next ringer will probably be smut.
Part 1 , Part 2
Synopsis: You and the werewolf that knocked you up (ahem, kidnapper) discuss future pup names.
CW: Pregnant! Reader described as a future ‘mother’, past mentions of kidnapping, kidnapper/kidnapped dynamic, knives
You weren’t trusted in the kitchen. The only reason he left the knives out, was because he knew you wouldn’t have the gall to mess with them; if you did, a small steak knife wouldn’t do much to subdue the punishment you would quickly find, whether it was aimed at yourself or him. Anything else though, he didn’t believe you could handle. Not when you ached about the balls of your feet hurting, your lower back tensing up as you sat to read for the evening, or the dark circles laden under your eyes that made him throw a look of misery toward you.
It wasn’t just the roundness of your belly or the shift in your hormones causing you to complain. In fact, if you had been doing this entire pregnancy alone, you would probably be fine going back into work, with a slight pain in your tailbone or at your knees, but nothing you couldn’t handle. His hovering though, that was something out of your scope, doubling down on your constant stress from him always watching you. Like he was waiting for you to try and pick at the new keypad deadbolt he bought (mostly as an intimidation tactic.) Truly, a deadbolt would prove useless as long as he was here to stop you.
Considering your recent… adventure had left you both exhausted, enraged, and anxious, your body had been deteriorating. You’d have no appetite some days and others you’d spend an evening ransacking the kitchen, alongside sleeping the entire day away only to be up at night sobbing, wishing you were anywhere but here in this shitty one bedroom flat, with a werewolf who didn’t even know how to decorate a damn living room besides for his PlayStation and 50-inch TV.
He didn’t like to dwell on the past, or really anything that showed how miserable you were. So instead, Conan, the great next-door-whore and soon-to-be father, left you resting at the kitchen island to watch him try to cook, pretending like the fatigue causing your skin to droop and the redness in your eyes could be fixed by a good ol’ home-cooked meal.
“I was thinking about baby names,” He broke the apartment’s stale silence, the slight sizzle of a pan on the stove accompanying his low voice. Often it felt like he talked to you like a hunter would, trying not to spook a fawn he planned on becoming his next wall decoration. “It’s so hard to choose. I mean, our kid is gonna have that name forever, y’know? Don’t want it to get picked on or nothin’ for its name.”
Our kid. What a strange thing to hear. You had known it as a fact, but hearing it outloud was bizarre.
“Names, huh…” You let out a thin sardonic hmph at the thought.. “I agree, there’s enough things it’ll get pushed around for already, don’t need to add another one to the list.”
You didn’t mean to sound so bitter, but maybe it was the lack of concern for anything anymore that left you indifferent.
Conan looked over his shoulder at you, his thickly haired arm still holding the pan’s handle. He was still chewing on the toothpick you saw him grab earlier.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You knew this tone, the one that said you were playing with fire.
“How many mixed parents do you know? It seems like trying for kids in general could be a death sentence…It’s not normal, or even common. This kind of interbreeding…I mean.” The thoughts were building the more you spoke; how hadn’t you thought of some of this until now-- What would your life be after giving birth? Would there be one at all? Humans weren’t meant to carry werewolf pups. Instead of scaring you, the idea almost felt irrelevant; you were already here, caged. Death might even be a blessing. “Either way, ‘our kid’ won’t fit in with either humans or werewolves. There’s no one for them, no place or middle ground.”
The worries you conjured were so surface level compared to Conan’s influence. How’ll this child grow up to be a normal being with a father who won’t even let its mother out of the house? A mother who had other plans in life than this?
“We’re not all that different in species,” Conan argued, turning away from the steaming pan to look at you. “And I guess we’ll just have to be the ones who protect it. I’m not against beating up some snot-nosed brats.”
Finding your hands with his calloused fingers, Conan kissed your knuckles with a practiced gentleness. It was uncomfortably soft, not like the werewolf who once demanded you cry out his name beneath his sheets. He gazed at you through his overgrown hair with a sick sense of watching, like his eyes were trained on you. When was he going to trust you enough again to go out of the house for longer than twenty minutes, at the very least to get a haircut? It’d be a relief to have some time to yourself. To get away from his ever-prying stare.
“The kid will be fine, i’ll teach em’ some fist fighting techniques, show em’ how to properly give a wedgie.Before you know it our kid’ll be the one bullying!”
“Right.” You sighed, giving a small grin to offset the poorly disguised glumness in your voice. The idea was a small drop of water in the desert of your new anxieties.
Conan would rather have you screaming and hitting at him than to see you slumped on the bed again, but it had become so routine at this point even he began to feel defeated. Maybe this was a good sign though, some light in your eternal pessimism at his lame jokes.
He leaned over the counter to press a small kiss to your lips, not waiting for you to return the gesture before moving back to the stove.
“Well, back to names, I was thinking a little Connie, or something badass... like Maverick.”
You made a face at the names, shaking your head a bit.
“I guess I haven’t given much thought to it, but even those don’t sound right.”
“Then…” He did something to the cooked meat to make a sharp hiss of steam rise. “Why don’t we go with something easy, like Conan?”
Conan said the name with a strange lilt, waiting for your response. He kept his back to you, biting at the toothpick in his mouth. Was he secretly hoping you’d pick that one?
“You just want a kid named after you,” You cracked a genuine smile. “Connie, Maverick, or Conan junior is the best you can think of?”
Conan gave you a teasing look, taking the mouthwatering steak out of the pan with a pair of tongs.
“Hey, I don’t hear you coming up with anything better.”
Looking down at your stomach, the bump started to look more familiar. You didn’t know what to think about the creature occasionally kicking at your uterus and forcing you to vomit in the mornings; it seemed like it was more a part of Conan than it was you, especially with the way he tended to it with his ear pressed to your stomach, rubbing your belly like you were some magical human lamp.
“Technically, I guess the name would be fitting. ‘Little wolf’ isn’t too far from the truth.”
Conan placed two plates full of meat and salad on a round dining table across from the kitchen.
“And we’ll do Conanette if it's a girl.” He quipped.
Rolling your eyes, you attempt to get out of the kitchen island’s chair. “Alright don’t push it.”
As soon as you move to stand, Conan is quick to rush himself in front of you, blocking your escape.
“I’ll carry you to the table.” He places one hand on the counter and stares at you cautiously.
“It’s literally like three feet,” You look behind him at the food, the hole in your stomach desperate for something with flavor and not the mere Saltines you’ve been eating all day.
“Just let me do it. Please?” He looked almost desperate, most certainly ready to brood if you dared to reject him.
The last time he carried you was… not a pleasant ride. Is that why he wanted to pick you up now, to repair what he’s done? You almost grew irritated at the thought. Did he really think picking you up with your consent this time was going to change anything? You were a prisoner here, not some sweet lover. Just another one of his one-night stands gone wrong.
Well, at least this explained why the sadism and horniness he usually radiated had been partly snuffed.
A hard kick in your stomach made you clench your teeth; seemed like the little monster was as hungry as you were.
“So fucking persistent...” You mumble, hurrying him with your hand to get it over with. If you wanted to eat and not be brutalized by a fetus, there was a clear option to choose.
Conan was quick to follow, putting an arm at your back and under your knees to pick you up bridal style. Your bump had gotten big enough to be uncomfortable if he didn’t hold you right, but his arms were overly heedful when picking you up. Laying your head to rest on his collarbone, he kept your thighs away enough from your stomach to keep you uncramped. The werewolf had deadlifted barbells twice your size, leaving you to be a solid, comfortable warmness in his arms; this was one of the few times his strength didn’t appear to make you afraid, the image of your comfort practically egging on the hubristic grin that spread on his lips.
“See, it’s not all bad being treated like royalty.” He smirked, watching you hold the satisfaction of a ‘thank you’ or a smile from him.
“Can you please hurry, mini Conanette is beating on her cell bars,” You wince, the smell of the seasoned meat making your mouth salivate and your stomach twist. You weren’t willing to let him know, but the warmth of his arms beneath you, the smell of his skin-- it brought about a gentle comfort, accompanied by a kind of unfamiliar terror that made you want to crawl out of your flesh.
Conan pulled out a wooden chair by the table with his foot, leaning down to set you in it.
“T’s because little Conan knows his daddy’s here.” Conan gets on his knees to be eye level with your stomach, letting his hand rest on your knee. “Stop beating on your mother, you brat. Once you get out here, you’re gonna have to fight me like a man for all the pain you’ve been causing.”
“Okay, that’s enough out of you.”
His little remarks had forced a small laugh from your lips, making the evening like that more of a dream than reality. This was the same man who drug you back to his apartment, who won’t let you outside without a tight grip of his hand in yours?
You pull your chair in, searching for your fork and knife. Instead, a fork and a spoon were placed beside your plate, your steak already cut up in bite size pieces for you. Odd.
That’s when you noticed it; the table was set up as per usual, but the tablecloth had been dry cleaned, and small candles were lit in the middle, a porcelain plate keeping the wax in a secluded pool. You even had a napkin at your side, something Conan didn’t particularly take note of often in bringing.
The werewolf turned your face toward him with his large hand, careful not to strike you with his sharp claws.
“Eat up, you need your protein.”
He almost sounded condescending, but the hard kiss pressed to your temple made you unsure.
This poor attempt at what looked like a date, an effort at putting back together something that never could be fixed, would not fool you. The missing knife was starting to make you nervous as Conan sat down on his side of the table, digging in, untroubled. It looked to be another freedom stripped away indefinitely, your food’s preparation an unfunny joke in how it was akin to being cut for a child.
Your laughter was gone, replaced by something sour bubbling in the back of your throat. You’d have to hope, to pray that today he just wasn’t taking any chances so you wouldn’t ‘ruin the evening,’, that you’d find the missing knife block back on the kitchen counter tomorrow morning.
A/N: I hear you anons, I have compiled all the kinktober days I have planned thus far. KINKTOBER PROMPT LIST HERE
LAST UPDATED: Oct. 24th, 2025.
Day 1: Orgasm Control/Masturbation. A mysterious stranger has been watching you fail to pleasure yourself-- thus, they take it into their own hands.
Day 2: Kidnapping. Sugar Daddy! Dragon kidnaps his ex-sugar baby to take her hand in marriage while she takes his load.
Day 3: Threesome, Alien Abduction. Your skepticism on aliens is thoroughly destroyed as two female extraterrestrials explore what you have to offer.
Day 5: Wax play. A female masseuse goes much farther than her job descriptions entails, while you learn about the beauty of fully nude massages.
Day 6: Outside Sex/intoxication. Sevika pulls you behind an alley after a heated night at the club, using your shared drunkenness for her benefit.
Day 11: Somnophilia/Come Licking. Your sleep paralysis demon can have just as much fun with you while you're asleep as it can when you’re awake.
Day 12: Sissification, sex work. You’re commonly mistaken for a female prostitute at the brothel, however its much to a new demon client’s enjoyment that you aren’t.
Day 13: Medical/Dildos. An incredibly hot doctor uses her skills(and toys) to perform your yearly examination.
Day 14: Possession. The demon haunting you since using an ouija board finally makes its mark.
Day 17: Messy sex. Your fitness trainer corners you in the bathroom after a sweaty workout, demanding a messy answer for why you’ve been ignoring her calls.
Day 18: Size Queen + Dom/sub. A ridiculously huge hybrid! Monster submissive gets put in his place by his dominant pillow princess.
Day 19: Sensory deprivation/creampie. Your sex robot recently ordered a new appendage without your knowledge, using it and her manipulation to ruin you.
Day 20: Mirror Sex/Dubcon. Getting out from a long shower, you find your mirror oddly placed in front of your bed, and a ghost-like figure roaming itself over your body.
Day 21:Forced orgasm/monsterfucking. You, an archeologist, accidentally release a thousand year old, glowing-eyed mummy from its tomb, who has a unique way of saying thank-you.
Day 23: Praise kink. A werebear wants to make sure his darling is dressed as cutely and deliciously as she is.
Day 25: Double Penetration. Your minotaur husband brings his twin brother over for a much needed breeding evening (Still def applying cuckholding to this one, anon)
Day 27: Gangbang. Only a werewolf alpha's top commanders get to take part in claiming you.
Day 30: Breeding/degradation. A warlord demon seizes a fallen queen’s country, taking her as a war trophy and breeding prize.
All the other devotees trying to ignore the reader wobbling out of the altar room with gold cum dripping out of her pussy
At this point I think they ignore the intense moaning and incoherent praises from the back altar room, its become such a common occurence. It doesn't help that their god has a CLEAR favorite-- he doesn't even attempt to hide it. Life goes out of its way to pave a path for his top devotee, and he doesn't care what god or mortal knows it. Perhaps they should take some notes, if all it takes is sitting on his cock and pledging their allegiance to him in life and death, that's not a bad trade.
