#(.drabble)

“S-slow,” Choso grits through clenched teeth as you lower your cunt on him. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” His words are strained, face flushed—you know he wants to do nothing more than to thrust himself up into you, but in reality, Choso cares for your comfort and cannot fathom hurting you just to get his own pleasure faster. 

You shake your head as sweat beads on your forehead. “Fine,” you reply. “I'm fine, Choso.”

The veins in his hands bulge as he grips your waist, trying to be conscious of how hard he’s holding you. “But you’re so tight,” he refutes, holding his breath as you pause about five inches down on him.

You feel impossibly full, but it’s true that it doesn’t hurt. You're antsy for him to be inside you already, so even if there was a little pain, you would’ve bit your tongue and lied if that's what it took for him to finally fuck you. “Don’t you feel how ready I am, though?” you ask. “You got me—” you pause and bite your lip as you finally bottom out. “Ready with your tongue.”

Choso is practically panting now, and his thighs are flexing repeatedly under your hands with his restless energy. “You only came once,” he says, before his mouth falls open as you lift yourself up and slowly take him back inside you. “Oh.”

“Feel good?” you ask, repeating the motion over and over, slow and rhythmically. You watch his face contort into pleasure as his eyes lose focus, repeatedly rolling back in his head. 

He nods, tipping his head back against the pillow, exposing the muscles and veins that pound in his neck. “So tight,” he grunts. “So warm. A-ah.” Choso’s thighs flex, turning them inward before he relaxes. His head rolls forward, and his eyes open to stare at you through a hooded gaze, his eyes low and clouded. “Are you okay?”

You nod, adjusting yourself on top of him as you pick up the pace while holding eye contact. “I’m good, Choso.” You arch your back so when you slide down on him, his cock is angled perfectly against that spot deep inside you. You fuck yourself on him like that over and over, rolling your hips and using his impressive size to massage your G-spot. “God, you feel so perfect, Choso. You’re so fucking big.”

Choso’s eyes spark. His throat bobs on a swallow. “Do you like that? That I’m big?” he asks, even though this is far from your first time having sex and even further from this being your first time telling him you love his size. But you’ve been fucking him long enough to know Choso loves praise, he loves the reassurance, to be told he’s doing well. 

He lives to please, which sometimes can be negative when he ends up trying to sacrifice himself for the ones he loves, always putting them first, but damn if you didn’t have a problem with it in the bedroom. 

You nod, rolling your hips in a wave-like motion that has you both seeing stars. “Mhm. You fuck me so deep, Choso. Your dick hits all the right spots.”

Choso releases an almost pathetic moan-whimper sound at your words. “Good,” he says. “I always want you to feel good.” He loses himself for a moment, his eyes shutting as you fuck the both of you into a blissful rhythm that need not be filled with words, hot as they always were.

“Um,” he starts after a moment, his breathing choppy. “Can you do that thing you did the other night?” 

You slow down your bounces, taking the opportunity of conversation to slow the motion to a deep grind. “We’re always doing something in the bedroom,” you smile, half out of breath. “Gonna need you to be more—fuck—specific.”

“Mmmm,” Choso releases a low groan as you hump his pelvis while his cock is deep inside you. The feeling strangles his cock and massages it in a way that’s so intense yet not enough. “You put a finger inside me,” he reminded you. “The last time we did this.” Cowgirl, he meant.

You loved how shameless he was during sex. Choso didn’t get shy about asking for what he wanted in bed, as some of your other uptight, macho sex conquests had been in the past. You smile and hold his gaze with mischief alight in your eye as you drag one of the hands you have on his thigh up towards his ass.

Choso spreads his thighs on instinct, looking down at where you're connected as if he can see what you’re doing with you on his lap, blocking his view. 

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and find his hole with your fingers, tentatively brushing them against him.

Choso’s mouth falls open.

“This is what you want?” you ask, slowly tracing his already wet rim with a finger. Thanks to the position and your vigorous bouncing, your arousal had dripped between his thighs and wet his ass, almost as if the night had known where the two of you would end up.

You apply pressure against him, smiling when you press past the tight ring of muscle and sink your finger into his ass.

Choso’s eyes flutter in his sockets. He looks so relaxed yet so aroused, it’s so beautiful. He nods, his hands aiding your slow rocking on his pelvis. “Yeah,” he replies in that deep, husky voice of his that oozes sex. “That’s good. Thank you.”

You almost want to laugh at his thank you. His genuineness is so refreshing, so adorable.  

Leaning back, you lift up, and his cock slides halfway out of you at the same time you pull your finger out of his ass. When you sit back down, you thrust your finger in and curl. 

Choso’s hips buck up on their own. He grits his teeth, his face flushing red. “Oh, that’s good,” he groans again. “Yeah. Again.”

You repeat the motion, picking up your pace as you curl your finger faster, focusing on that soft spot inside him that makes his cock drip inside you.

His noises grow in their intensity. His ears match the color of the roses sitting on your windowsill now, and his hips have begun to meet your dropdown more steadily. 

Choso reaches out a hand between your legs and finds your clit, his eyes watching his hand. He rubs you in quick, messy circles, having a hard time keeping a rhythm when you’re bouncing so fast, but he manages to keep it steady enough, and in no time, you feel your second orgasm race up on you.

“Choso, baby,” you cry, your nails digging into his thigh where you hold onto him for stability. “I’m so close.”

He nods, his eyelids so heavy he looks moments from falling asleep, but you know it’s from arousal. “I’m almost there, too,” he moans. “Can you rub it. Inside me,” he clarifies.

You nod, your moans and his mingling in ecstasy as his cock slams into your sweet spot while his thumb rubs your clit so perfectly. You do as he asks and press your finger as deep as it can go and rub circles against his prostate.

His jaw falls slack. “A-ah. I’m— Oh god, I’m gonna come. Are you—?”

“Yes,” you interrupt, your eyes rolling back in your head. “Choso. Baby. Fuck me. Fuck me, please.”

Despite his bliss, he cants his hips up, fucking his cock into you as you do your best to ride him while your orgasm slowly steals your ability to move. “I want to feel you come,” he groans. “I need it. Pease. Please come for me.”

Your body responds to him on command. Your abdomen clenches over and over as your orgasm races through your every limb, reducing you to a writhing mess. But Choso keeps going, he keeps fucking you through it until he stills alongside you. 

His groans are music to your ears as he holds you down on his pelvis with his hands and fills you with his orgasm, cumming hard and deep inside you. “Oh yes. F’sogood.” His moans are slurred and forced through his teeth. He’s releasing little “Ah. Ah. Ah’s” as you continue rubbing his prostate, working his orgasm out of him just as he did for you. 

When his body finally relaxes under you, you slide your finger from his ass and collapse forward on his chest, gasping for air as if there isn’t enough oxygen in the sex-filled room. 

“Fuck,” you curse, rubbing your cheek against his chest.

His hand rubs your back soothingly, dragging up and down your spine in comforting drags. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice somehow even deeper than usual.

You nod, eyes shutting in bliss as his other hand presses to the nape of your neck and his fingers scratch the base of your skull. It feels like the physical definition of bliss.

“That felt really good,” he whispers after a moment. “Thank you.”

You feel yourself smiling against his overheated skin. “You don’t have to thank me, Choso. I’d do anything you asked.”

He chuckles sightly, continuing to massage your body into otherwordly relaxation, unwinding you after such an intense physical release. “Well, thank you anyway. I like doing this with you. I feel very comfortable with you.”

You love it when he gets like this after sex. All mushy and vulnerable. 

His eyes cracked open. He’s woken up to a hundred mornings, and on today, one of these mornings—that’s not new. Pushing the duvet aside, he swung his legs over the bed, feet flat on the cold floorboards. He blindly swept his heel across the floor for his boxers. It flew there somewhere last night when your fingers were as slick as a slinky, tugging it down and tossing it aside. He kept telling himself he’d remind you to be more tidy, and as often as he told himself he’d tell you of that fact, he easily caved to your whims, never—in fact—reminding you of that fact.

He found the boxer wedged under the cabinet. Black with stripes you found utterly amusing. Ah, the places he’d find them. Hooking the waistband with his toe, he flicked his ankle up and snatched it with his hands. He quickly became decent, shoving his feet through the holes and headed towards the kitchen where you were.

He first smelled bacon. Then, he smelled you. Your strange butter fragranted soap he had to buy in bulks or else you’d stir up a storm with the normally used lavender scented bottles. Hormones does wonder to the human mind—changing soaps are one of them, apparently.

Swollenly pregnant, you stood before the stove on your toes, stirring bacon in the pan. You’re absolutely and utterly lovely, dressed in only his dress-shirt that gaped open revealing the swells of your breasts underneath, the hems brushing against your thighs with every pitter patter of your bare feet on the floorboards. You were also struggling to close the stove.

He sighed. Walked over and flicked off the switches with ease. The heat quickly disappeared. You blinked, then looked up.

“Good morning,” He said mildly, crossing his arms.

His brows were pinched, though, not very mildly. There was one thing you could do when he’s like this. You whirled towards your husband, lower lip jutting out, the spatula in your hand drooping dolefully along with your eyebrows “My feet hurts…”

Guilt-tripping.

“I can see that,” His eyes fell down to your very much swollen sausage legs, “I wonder why. How long have you’ve been up.”

You don’t meet his eyes, hands lowering in front of your belly as you twiddled the knob of the spatula, “A while ago.”

“How long was awhile ago?”

“Not sure,” You trailed off, turning towards the window where the sky is a pretty bright blue, “I can’t really remember…”

He was undeterred, though, “How long?” He reiterated.

“Five minutes…?” You offered.

He stared that sort of stare you knew he’d wrung out a confession eventually, and he did, because you caved in, throwing your hands up.

“Alright, fine!” You cried, “An hour ago, happy? I was here an hour ago, waddling here and there. Got nothing done. Burnt the bacon and maybe the stove.”

“The stove is fine. But one hour ago?” He repeated incredulously, “Honey, do you know how long that is for a pregnant woman to stand?”

“I don’t know!” You sniffled, jabbing a finger to his chest, voice adorably wobbly as if he’d accuse you of the most potent crime, “ I was figuring out how to balance two pots and pans with a stomach like this. And it’s really, really hard okay? I tried my best. I’ve been so stressed these past few minutes, so hungry I could eat a horse, so don’t you go around judging me becuase I—!”

“Mama,” He put both hands on your shoulders—mama, becuase that’s your name now, apparently— and he said calmly, “You could have woken me up.”

“I was hungry,” You blinked the tears away, still petulant, “Starving. Do you know how annoying that is? Heavy, hungry, always needing to piss.”

“I’m here for a reason.”

“Let you help me piss?” You cried, “I have dignity too!”

You’re walking around butt-naked with nothing but his dress-shirt on becuase your maternity dresses were still too small to accommodate your stomach. So, yeah, they’re well past dignity now.

“Let’s not go there” He said, slowly, or else you’ll start wearing clothes and his daily morning view of your swole body is gone, “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

You looked to the floor, frowning, angry at the harmless floor, “You came home late yesterday.” You muttered, kicking the rug, “And you snored. Like a truck. A stupid truck with no fumes after whatever,” You frowned even more, feeling the heat in your cheeks, “After what we did. And I didn’t want to wake you up because you were sleeping like an uncracked tomb.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Honey, I’m not going to die with a few hours of sleep.”

“Don’t be stupid we both know that’s a lie,” You shot back, the spatula finding its way, very threateningly to his neck. The cold bowled-metal pressed against his throat.

“Doctor says it’s bad with less sleep.” You said.

“And doctor says,” He bent down, hooked his arms under your legs and lifted you into his arms, “it’s bad for pregnant women to walk around making bacons.”

You shrieked.

“Hey!” You pounded his chest, “I can walk you bug!”

“This bug his getting you back to bed,” He grunted, wading his way across the hallways to their bedroom, “And this bug is tucking you to bed. And himself as well. Stay still.”

You huffed a hot puff of air against his neck. He sighed, since you obviously did it to steer him off with your morning breath. Eventually you stopped struggling, melted into his arms and wrapped your arms around his neck, sulking,“…Can you fry me some bacon then?”

He felt himself smiling, “With pickles?”

“Sour, sweet pickles.” You said, “Three jars.”

“Good god.”

𝐇𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐍

⤿ drinks often

⤿ and very casually

⤿ when in company he's urged to drink to the point of getting drunk

When he stumbles inside the room he hisses through clenched teeth. You can smell the alcohol as he trudges to the bed and gets rid of his clothes, dropping them here and there on the floor.

"Sir Hebaron, are you drunk?" you tease him as he climbs onto your bed and lies down beside you, arm bent and head resting on his hand looking at you.

"Nooo" he mumbles, a smirk plastered on his lips as he stares at you. "You're beautiful" he murmurs, changing the subject and leaning in for a kiss. "And you're drunk" you whisper.

He pulls away before you can brush his lips. "Yes, I'm drunk," he announces making you giggle, "but tomorrow I'll be sober and you'll still be beautiful."

You feel the urge to cover his face with kisses but his eyes slowly close as you caress his cheek and snuggle against his chest, giggling to yourself.

𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇

⤿ doesn't like alcohol

⤿ and can't handle it

⤿ so when the knights force him to join them, he gets drunk

The dining room is now almost empty when you peek inside looking for Ruth. The remaining knights are still laughing and drinking while the sorcerer has his face slumped over the table and the mug still clenched in his fist.

"My, my" you chuckle sitting next to him, thinking about how insufferable he will be from the hangover the next morning. You run your fingers through his white hair just enough for him to open his eyes and give you a crooked smile.

"Let's go to bed" he whispers trying to pull him up off the table.

Ruth laughs pushing you away, "Lady, I'm a married man, I'm not going to sleep with you" he babbles lifting his head to get a better look at you, "besides, you're not nearly as beautiful as my wife" he hisses, closing his eyes.

He snores slightly, it makes you smile but you can't help but wonder if what just happened should make you pleased or wrinkle your nose.

sleepy and soft.

say he comes back to the hotel room and once he’s freshly showered, he’s got you in his arms, relaxed in bed and chatting about anything that comes to mind. the adrenaline, all that octane, has burned through him and smothered itself out, but still, he has this urgent need to feel you entirely. he kisses you soft and slow, pressing you back into the plush pillows. when he moves to kiss you neck, little fangs dragging lightning across your skin, you try to tell him he just showered, so he shouldn’t work up another sweat. he doesn’t listen to you, of course, just nips at the junction between your shoulder and neck, the soft skin pricking hotly, and whispers that he needs you.

and because you’ve always been weak to him, you let him shimmy you out of your pajamas and take you as he pleases. his hips roll against yours deliciously, agonizingly slow, but each press of his cock against that spot inside you that only he knows how to get to makes it worth it. his mouth is everywhere, muttering praises into your skin and swallowing up each noise of yours that dares to rise abovea soft moan. he makes sure you come first, as he always does, and his release follows just seconds after. his body eases into yours, skin against skin, breaths mingling between you. he refuses to pull out of you for quite sometime, but you don't complain (you never complain) because he fills you in ways undescribable, an otherworldly feeling of completion.

but he is thoroughly exhausted, sleepiness settling heavy into his very bones. he does get up eventually to clean you up and redress you, but each motion is slow-going, syrupy and languid and perfect. he takes you into his arms again the second he's back in bed, whispers of love confessions falling on deaf ears as you let the remnants of his warmth inside you lull you to sleep.

pent-up.

he doesn't bother to shed his clothes or shower first, doesn't even bother to kick off his shoes. the second he sees you in the hotel room, he's getting himself out of the offending mask and sealing you in a kiss that is all teeth and tongue and spit. it's a way you have him often, messy and fumbling, but that always drives the experience of letting him have you from perfect to life-altering.

he barely gets himself out of his boots, his pants, or even you out of your own clothes, soaked with the sweat of yourself and the people you'd been with in the pit that night, crushed against the barricade. he gets you on all fours on the bed and slips inside without much of a fight, his cock straining against the slick of your walls. the pace he sets is brutal and it has you keening loudly; you're certain you'll have a noise complaint before he's even halfway decided to be done using you tonight.

his hands press bruises into your skin, claws digging deep into the plush of everywhere he can reach. the bite of each pinprick has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, a delicious haze filling your head until all you can think of is his name and the earth-shattering way his hips drive into your ass. he pulls you up by the back of your neck, tongue sliding against the shell of your ear as he asks you who your body belongs to, who gets to use it as they please (it's yours, phantom. all yours, comes your reply, each syllable broken and stuttered). and when he's content with your answers, he pushes you down into the mattress, his hand pressing your back into a perfect arch just for him.

he overstimulates you, focused on nobody's pleasure, just on getting that livewire of energy out of himself. you're lucky he doesn't make you count how many times you come because you lose count after three. and when his rutting finally comes to an end, it's almost as agonizing to not have him inside of you as it is for him to keep fucking you. you're so limp and foggy that it makes him giggle hazily himself, proud to have been the progenitor of your undoing.