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comfortless · 9 months

Note

hades! konig and persephone! reader

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. abduction, voyeurism, dubcon, not very explicit smut.

notes: this has been on my mind for an eternity actually thank you sweet anon for finally encouraging me to write it out! if you celebrate, merry christmas! and if not consider this just a lil gift for absolutely no reason apart from for being my first Kö request. 💕

A hollow grows within him the moment his gaze meets hers. A chance crossing whilst collecting a rare offering of fruit laid out just for him. Most mortals wouldn’t beckon his attention, and the gods often left him just as well. He knows better than to take insult and become reckless, though… recklessness comes as easily as breathing when his stare settles on her across the glade. She twirls in silent dance, pirouetting carefully as if to avoid crushing the nature that springs up, brushing against her soles. Her voice picks up in a song when she notes the figure watching her from a distance, her cadence no less beautiful than any choir despite the flighty waver in her tone.

When the nymphs rise up from the stream to listen, he stands transfixed for a moment as they pull her in with them for a more elaborate dance, voices all melding until they break into a chorus of giggles and stories.

It should have been left at that.

She walks an earth made for her; flowers blossoming beneath her bare soles, each root extending for just a chance to brush against tender flesh, a breeze that flits gently against her hair. The daughter of Demeter, something unattainable, too precious to be dirtied by the howling abyss below her feet.

He is tethered to darkness and unknowns, an enigma with dried blood beneath his fingernails; the only songs he hears are screams. He’s since stolen flowers from the meadows she dances in. Beautiful peonies and soft green things that smell sweet. Flowers don’t bloom in the dark, they wither and dry.

Days are spent in melancholic longing, nights his roaring grief melds with the wailing of lost souls. Ugly and tainted noises that he dreams will reach her ears, that she will come to him with her lashes wet with tears, wrap him in her arms and quiet all but her own voice as she tells him that he’s more beautiful than her rivers and her blooms.

Yet, she never does.

König takes it upon himself to walk the land of mortals, teemed with life and pleasures more often now. He pulls himself from below with unnatural fire behind his eyes, a horrible, yearning abyss in place of the feathery, clumsy love that he’s watched so many others allow for themselves.

She notices him while he watches her bathe amongst the nymphs, stood upright and imposing beneath the shade of a tree. Each time, while the nymphs shy away with giggles and hands curled over their breasts, she merely keeps her eyes on him; lips-parted and pulse raging. He knows, would swear by it, that his obsession is not entirely one-sided.

Once, she chooses to wave at him, a demure flick of her wrist while his stare remains fixed upon her. The droplets of water from the curve of her neck, down to the swell of her breasts and the pebbled nipples there— down, further into the water that envelopes her and sends his mind to flicker, a roaring flame building from his chest to his groin.

All of his frustrations pale and cower at the fantasy that he just may be able to grant himself the liberty of sinking into something writhing and warm from just one, simple gesture.

He knows he’s fucked, because his first thought after the lullaby of attraction subsides is to poke her just a little; prod her and see what makes her cry the hardest, blanket her in the shadow of himself and pick her apart like a vulture to a cadaver, do things to her that no man ever has or should. It’s not right, and he has to force himself to turn away, the fabric of the veil obscuring his face as he slinks back into the dark where he belongs. Away from the untouchable maiden who seems to haunt him endlessly with her teasing.

The giggles and splashes of the nymphs whisper through the air like the chirping of birds. Though, one voice stands out above the rest of the noise, causes him to halt in his tracks.

“Why does he never speak to us?”

Her voice, so sweet, asking about him when she should be speaking of nothing but the beauty surrounding her, the warmth of the sun and never the cold darkness of the moon.

It’s eating away at him, he realizes, when he can no longer satisfy himself. Nights lain in a haze, staring up at blackened walls with his length in hand. All it takes is the memory of wet lashes and a soft smile, usually. Her beauty is enough to bring even him to his knees, yet, he finds himself instead on the brink of hysteria the first night he finds a vision of her is not sufficient enough to reach the brilliant white haze of a climax.

The thought of stealing her away from her world of beauty to drag her down into the dark with him fills him with both elation and a terrible guilt. Zeus himself is no different; the thought shouldn’t warrant a seeping coldness in his veins, nor should it have caused him to spill his seed into his hand with only a mere flick of the pad of his thumb over his tip, yet it accomplishes both. A waste, when it should be buried deep inside of his beloved.

It takes only two nights for him to plot, to have Gaia choose to favor him, and on the third day the Narcissus flower blooms, pretty and golden. It echoes false promises, softness and beauty beyond even the daughter of Demeter’s imaginations. She will hate him, she will. Her very soul will sour the moment she lays her eyes on him next, but eventually… she will come to understand, return his love with a whisper of her own. Lightly, at best, but it would still be more than he had ever known.

He watches the roots of the plant from below, a pinprick of warm light shining down. The thumps of footsteps overhead, shaking down loose soil like raindrops, giggles like crackling thunder. She’s roaming about with her nymphs again, gentle with her and all of her beauty. After watching her for so very long, he’s more than certain they will be braiding the flowers and falling asleep after fits of laughter with the taste of fruit on their tongues. Only, she’s condemned herself by being so predictable. She will fall, not into soft grasses with a woman’s arms thrown over her, but directly into his own. She won’t eat the fruit of the earth, but drink his wine and allow him to lose himself in her flesh, bedded down against the pelts of beasts and blackened out by shadows.

The wait isn’t long. Her voice breaks through the quiet of the earth below her feet, seems to light up even the space between the two of them as her footfalls halt only several paces away.

“Look at this one!,” she calls out.

Several steps follow after her as one of the ladies of the river comes to join her. He imagines the smile on his beloved’s face, the way her body curves as she kneels down to his trap and his fingers twitch in anticipation of what’s to come.

“Maybe not that one, sweet,” the nymph warns. “There are prettier ones by the bank.”

König can feel his jaw tighten, eyelids pausing to narrow up at the small light as he tries, forces himself to believe that this was fated. She wouldn’t turn away— she couldn’t.

“No... just look at it. We’ve not seen one so lovely since last spring.”

“What if someone else planted it for themselves?”

“But… I want it.”

She sounds so pitiful, so gentle, and he can feel that swell of heat curling inside of him again. The urge to simply love her feels all-consuming with each word that passes from her mouth.

The two above giggle to themselves at her mischief, before finally, the roots begin to move from a gentle tug above. In a matter of seconds, the entire plant has been uprooted. For a daughter of nature to not long for its beauty would be unrealistic, yet he still exhales his relief. The earth riots beneath the women’s feet, splintering cracks and loud discordance echo through the valley. The nymph’s shrieks join the disarray as her featherlight footfalls lead her far, far away from what belongs to him: the dark, the rot, and now her.

With so little time to react, she falls headfirst into the abyss, clutching the narcissus tightly between her soft breasts. Waiting arms are raised to the glimpse of sun and beauty to catch her as he pulls her tightly against his chest, tucks her head against a broad shoulder and grasps at her waist. Whatever he had imagined her flesh to feel like paled in comparison to her warmth, the softness that gives with each press of a digit that makes her tense beneath his touch.

She’s crying, shaking, terrified as she weakly raises her head and offers him a smile. It’s the kind of smile that screams savior, and he can’t bring himself to correct her. No one has ever looked at him with such tenderness.

Everything quiets the moment she looks up to him like that, after condemning herself to him as though she knows nothing of men and gods. She looks at him like he’s an angel, in turn he bites his tongue so hard he can feel the pinpricks of blood and soreness blossom from the wound. He knows he isn’t good, but the heavens have got their filth, too.

“Thank you.” She speaks in a whisper as the world above falls back into place, blanketing them both in shadow and the scent of soil and brimstone. Politeness seems unnecessary, now, though he places her gently onto her feet.

He’s far too mesmerized to stop himself from dropping to his knees in front of her and trailing a hand from her knee to her thigh, squeezing flesh so warm that the very feeling lingers pleasantly against his palm.

If a god couldn’t pluck him from this emptiness and set him on a right path, perhaps a goddess could, as he has always imagined. It’s only confirmed the instant he realizes she isn’t flinching away from his touch.

“I didn’t save you,” he explains calmly.

He’s struck down titans, claimed rulership over the underworld, and yet nothing has made him feel smaller than the fretful look in her eyes as she looks down to him kneeling before her like little more than a common man. As if to provide comfort, selfishly to himself, his massive hands drift higher to rest on her hips still wet with river water and blades of grass clinging to her just as he has longed to do. For what’s felt like an eternity of waiting, of pining, only to have it end with something as simple as a flower.

“I brought you here.”

She’s still beautiful when she cries; a palm is clasped over her mouth, eyes swimming as she trembles in his grip. Of course, she knows what this is about without ever having to ask, yet she still does as if to plead him to tell her that her thoughts are all wrong— that she’s safe and will return to her lovely friends, to her mother that would assuredly be worried sick and furious.

The rise to his feet feels like a mile long stretch, whilst he keeps her caged between the dirty wall and the vast expanse of chest. He shushes her with a gentle tone, wipes her tears away with the ghosting of fingertips before pushing up the veil covering his face to lie claim to her mouth as though his very life depended upon it. Perhaps it did. Though he did not fear Demeter, nor his brothers should she call upon them, he feared not having this ethereal, gentle thing at his side. He feared the creep of loneliness that ravaged his bed each night.

She sighs against his mouth, but does not reciprocate. Everything about her is tense and stressed, a wild mare preparing to kick out for the first time. His tongue lolls out to lap against her soft lips, just twice before he forces himself to part from her.

His beloved brushes away stray tears from her cheeks with the meat of her palms, shivering just a little as she tries to force herself to straighten up, appear braver despite the way she teeters on the edge of falling apart so easily before him. The heavy gaze of obsession fixed upon his face turns further predacious when she apologizes for not being able to help herself in response.

“I didn’t know it was yours,” she explains, holding out the ruined flower to him in one, shaking hand. She protests in her own way, eternally kind, but it all falls on deaf ears as he brushes the petals from her palm and takes her up into his arms again. With an arm beneath the backs of her knees and the other wrapped tightly around her middle, he leads her deeper into the underworld.

A mere taste wouldn’t do.

Her protests are nothing more than soft sniffles when he does take her to his bed of pelts, her arm even thrown over his shoulder as her body presses tightly to him. He thinks for only a moment that he could take his time, stop this all before she truly does grow to loathe him, but the descent into the bed only fortifies his resolve; his belief that this gentle woman of the earth, who smells of magnolia and clear waters belonged entirely to him. For now and forevermore.

“You are to be my wife.”

That quiets her for a moment, her eyes finally meeting his once more as he hovers over her, a palm to either side of her head. She has a mind to shyly curl her hand against her chest then, centered between her breasts which rise and fall with each flighty breath. It’s not panic, but more— curiosity, a misleading thing that he takes to be acceptance until she graces him with a mere murmur of her voice again.

“I don’t belong here.”

König knows that she doesn’t belong in a place like this, for all her grace to be lost to the cold, the rot; his kingdom is nothing but a wasteland riddled with the dead and subjects who take up the mantle of cruelty in his stead. The thought of actually allowing her to go instills rage and melancholy so quickly, he curls his fingers into the fur below to keep himself from flinching.

“You will.”

A digit reaches to trail across her bottom lip, tentative, but the need to touch overwhelms him past the point of caring for much else. To his amazement, she still does not push him away.

“How could that be?”

He doesn’t respond.

More than bedding her, a matter more pressing pushes to the forefront of his mind. Though he knows the likelihood of anyone being aware of her disappearance is nonexistent, a mere whisper from the beaks of crows by this time, he would do well to ensure that she wasn’t leaving. Just as every other soul resigned to dwell here with him, she too would remain.

“You’re famished,” he whispers the suggestion as he splays a palm out over her bare abdomen, only backing away enough to allow her a small length of space between them.

Her concerned stare shoots from his palm to his veil in an instant before she weakly nods her head and props herself up on her elbows.

“Quite… yes.”

She allows herself to be pulled into his lap without a fuss, doesn’t make mention of the hardened cock beneath her. His mind is swimming with the fantasies that kept him tame on so many nights without her as he presses his nose against her temple. A shallow intake of breath, and her lips part readily for him as he pushes the sweet pomegranate seed into her mouth, savoring the brush of her tongue against his fingertip. She eats without thought, never knowing how she’s tethered herself to his plane.

There’s an offering of sweet wine followed by a gathering of honeysuckle for her to sip the nectar from as well before he’s convinced she’s pliant enough. Despite the desire raging within him for all of this time, he would not be cruel to her. The thought of hurting this sweet, little dream doesn’t excite him. It’s her love that he wants, not her anguish.

He lies her back with sweet whispers, gentle caresses as he listens to her murmurs in response. She speaks of the stories only small creatures would know; the way the winds change and the rivers flood, the prettiest places she’s been. No fruit has ever tasted sweeter to her than the pomegranate, and nothing has ever filled him with such emotion as the moment he penetrates her.

He speaks to her through it, tries to, whilst he’s overcome with a pleasure that assuredly no other has ever had the blessing of. She affixes herself perfectly to him, clinging to him as he takes her with gentle thrusts. Gritted teeth and barely contained grunts are met with dulcet mewls as her hands reach for his. His heart aches, truly, at the knowledge that she isn’t meant for this place; his kingdom is nothing but suffering, and she belongs beneath the sun in meadows of flowers. His last thrust is deep, reminds him of the places he dares not tread often, the domains of his brothers, pillow soft clouds and a heaven far above, lost to him.

It’s her consoling him when he fills her to bursting with his seed— delicate arms curling around his head, cradling him against her breasts as she silenced the tears he hadn’t even realized he had shed. He had damned her, yet her soul had not soured; not all flowers withered in the dark.

The endless night is easier on his beloved after the first. She visits with the other souls and comes to him for comfort when the screams and cries in the darkness become too much to bear. She’s less fragile than he had anticipated when she demands he bring her home, and those demands so often end with little else than König taking her into his arms to lead her elsewhere. The underworld can be beautiful too, when seated upon a throne being hand fed by a man that knows little more than to blanket her in as much softness as he can muster. He tells her of the titanomachy, of the white tree, of anything to keep her entertained. His tongue does not shy from telling her that he loves her, too, often met with a shy glance or a soft giggle. Not outright disdain, and for now it feels enough.

She cries often, in longing for her mother and her friends, though never over this love she had never sought herself. Her loneliness only fuels her need for comfort. Selfishly, he believes that he’s saved the night she willingly wraps her arms around him, pulls him close and falls asleep nestled against his chest.

— — —

With the reliance on mortal offerings and Demeter’s anguish having been brought to light with seasons of failed harvests, it was only a matter of time before she was forced away from him. The months without her feel dreadful and empty, but he doesn’t dare disturb her while she walks the earth at her mother’s side. The agreement was beneficial for all of the gods and goddesses, and he knew better than to tread upon it by rushing to her like little more than a pleading dog. When winter took hold, bathing the lands in its icy touch and withering the plants she cherished and freezing over the rivers her nymphs played in, she would return to him as she must.

Each time is different. His beloved is not simply a thoughtless vessel as many of his subordinates. She is the most incredible thing he’s ever had the joy of meeting.

When she returns in tears, calling to him for his comfort he does not hesitate to kiss them all away and remind her that her summers will return and everything above will be just as it was on the day that he brought her below.

Sometimes, she’s angry, jealous even. She asks him often why he doesn’t come to see her while she’s away. He is her husband, after all. Was there anyone else in which he spent his nights with? Someone fairer than even she? The satisfaction of seating her on his cock, satisfying her as she does him on their shared throne far out rivals even ruling the domain itself. He would do anything to prove to her that she was his only; the sole thing he even thought of whilst her mind was filled with new songs and tales from the nymphs she spent her time away with.

Never has she returned with a gift.

Yet, she stumbles back into his realm clutching a small satchel, dripping with the scent of a juice sweet and familiar. A pleasant smile paints her features as she seats herself next to him on the throne. The bench of marble felt far too vast and dreadful to hold someone so delicate, the sight is something he’s grown accustomed to; emptiness is replaced with familiarity seeing her interact with anything here. It may not be home to her, but something in the way she looks to him— as she always had with tenderness, makes him question if a part of her sees him as home.

“I’ve brought something back for you,” she chimes as she pats her thigh.

Each time was different, but it had never been like this before.

He pulls himself to her side before slumping down to rest his head against her, tracing his fingertips along the length of her leg as his gaze drops almost sheepishly.

“Did you?”

She hums in reply, plucking one of the seeds from the satchel before slipping her hand beneath the veil to feed him. His lips part as he takes in the flavor of the aril, the honeyed taste almost akin to the look in her eyes.

“Just like…” She trails off for a moment as she lowers her head to press a kiss to the cheek of his veiled face. The delicate laugh that follows is unlike any he’s heard from her prior, it’s unique, saved solely for him.

“The six that I fed to you?” He asks her quietly, as he pulls himself away from her to meet her eyes directly. The air around them feels thick, loosely charged with a feeling that he can’t quite place; an intensity that he’s never felt before. Any groaning or wailing off in the abyss is silent now, just quiet words spoken.

Things have always felt warmer since her descent, but he’s learned to not expect anything more than she was willing to give. Still, hope cinches his heart tighter than it ever did prior. Even in battle, slaying his father alongside his brothers, he had never felt his heart race the way it does now.

She nods her head, opening up the satchel just wide enough to reveal the other five arils.

“I don’t think that I understand.”

“You should.”

He mulls over that for a moment before the fog finally clears. Any doubt that he had is remedied by a mere two words. He stares at her dumbly, searching her eyes for any hint that this is some horrible, cruel trick; that the implication is something he’s horribly misunderstood.

She couldn’t possibly come to love him… could she?

“To tie you to me,” she says softly.

The smile remains on her face when she closes the distance to kiss him. Not over the veil, but beneath it this time.

Her descent was one of a selfish longing, and his felt as though he was plunging into a world of flowers.

#König x reader #konig x reader #könig x you #konig x you #König #konig #cod fanfiction #konig fanfiction #cod fanfic

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chococolte · 1 year

Text

☼ — pietas maris

♱ : my take on sagau childe

including ☆! — him as a worshiper, and his reaction to being your lover ⛧

word count. 5.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl. ୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. now time for me to disappear back into the aether for another 6 months

The abyss is cold.

It is unfeeling, lacking warmth and passion. It is relentless, cruel, and unkind. It corrupts, ruins, and does so freely, without remorse or thought. It leaves you clinging to the hot blood in your veins, curled up and hidden in the dark reaches of its void.

Childe had always been versatile; quick to adapt, even at such a young age. He grew used to the emptiness, the swelling numbness, and the eventual gnawing loneliness left in his abdomen. They became a part of him as his lungs, as integral as air; to be without felt odd, foreign.

The glimmer of your existence kept Childe company. He did not know who you were, or how lucky he was— only that you brought him comfort, like an old lullaby, or a blanket worn from overuse. He reached for you when the darkness grew too much, too heavy a burden on his small shoulders.

He came to you with little offerings; small trinkets, tomes of unreadable text. Useless to him, but perhaps you would take pity on him in exchange, and let him take comfort in your presence for another day. Childe came to you with rubble shaped in hearts, the gentle breath of his voice as he spoke of his anxieties. He did not think of them as offerings then, merely gifts— pleadings for you to stay a little longer.

His hands, then unruined and soft, made you a makeshift altar crafted out of whatever he could find. He made sure to build it where he felt your whispers were strongest, where your light entirely overwhelmed the darkness overhead. Childe didn't think of it as an altar then, just a place to settle his findings, where he could pretend his sad, little effigy made of you was actually you.

The idol didn't look much like a person at all, and at the time, he didn't think of his behavior as odd. He desperately clung to you for survival, and with no other warm body besides his own, you were the only one he could talk too.

At times, he thought he was going insane. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears whenever he neared your doll, as if it were calling him. Despite the fact that he had made it, proven by the tiny scars on his palms, he still felt as if it was yours.

In the darkness, Childe whispered to you. He said everything his mind could think, childishly exaggerated tales in hopes of impressing you. A foolish endeavor, considering you were a God— but he still hoped that maybe you'd think of him kindly, and let him bask in your protective glow for just one more moment.

He couldn't hear your words, but he could feel them. The twinkle of your laughter was like a soft whistle in his ears. When you were pleased, the air would lightly ruffle his hair. Despite how agonizing his loneliness was, at least he had you by his side.

Childe's innocence, as all things do, eventually withered away in that malevolent black.

He thought of you as his teacher; a guiding hand that trained him, molded him to fit against your palm. When he struggled against the abyssal beasts, he could feel you— a soft brush against his hand, a firm hold on his back, keeping him focused. You taught him when to still his blade and when to strike.

In the arches of his sword and polearm, in the taut and tense pull of his bow, in the whirlwind of his catalyst— you were there, shining from beyond the thin veil separating you.

When Childe was ripped out of the abyss, so was his connection to you. Like a thread snapping, he could no longer feel you; not in the darkness overhead, not in the grip of his blade, of the depths of his soul. You were gone, and he was once again nothing but a boy, lost and alone. Friends and family surround him, thankful for his return, but his mind is still reeling, still stuck in the abyss and the sudden emptiness left in your wake.

Despite himself, Childe had hoped you would have stayed, even once he was out. He thought he was done with being naïve, but that clearly wasn't the case.

He can’t feel you anymore. Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did he do wrong? Questions swirl in his head like whirlpools of thought. Childe feels like he's drowning, suffocating in the mess of his mind. His breaths come out short, quick and sharp. His throat squeezes, constricting his airways, as he realizes what's unfolded.

You left him.

He should've known better. On that first day, all you had done was take pity on him by letting him linger in your light. It was his fault for ever believing that he would never have to be alone again. That even if he had no one else, at least he had you.

This was the result of his own failure. If only he had proven himself worthy.

When his family found him, they found him gripping a small, rudimentary doll. Even when they reached their home, Childe was still clutching the thing as if possessed. When they tried tugging it out of his hands, saying it would help him eat better, he ripped it from their grasp, holding it to his chest.

Childe couldn't accept that you had left him so easily. At night, back in his warm bed, Childe tries to whisper to you again. The familiar warmth sinks into his pores, but it's nothing like yours. He nuzzles closer to the doll, ignoring how it tears into his skin.

"I'm here," he whispers.

Maybe you got confused. He knows you're a God, but even the Seven are not omniscient. When he was torn from the abyss, it was possible you hadn't meant to so cruelly cut the connection between you. Maybe you couldn't find him, and so he just has to tell you where he is.

So he whispers to you in the dark, just as he has so many times before.

Only this time, he's met with silence.

In the years that pass, you linger at the forefront of his mind, haunting him like a wraith. Childe can't bring himself to be rid of you, despite how it hurts every time he thinks about you for a little too long. He's still stuck, perpetually waiting for your return, despite how he knows you've long given him up.

Childe becomes Tartaglia, the 11th Harbinger under the Tsaritsa. He takes a new name, a new mask— he executes her orders dutifully, and he does his role perfectly. He acts as if she's you, despite how desperately he wants to believe otherwise. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can pretend that the cold that seeps into his bones in her presence is yours.

But no matter how many names and identities he takes, he'll always just be your Ajax; the boy who still misses you, despite how short your time together was. And that fact is what burns him the most.

Maybe he should be angry. He knows he has every right to be. Angry that you left him, that you discarded him as if he was nothing. Maybe he should hate you— hate you for leaving him alone, as if you weren't the only thing keeping him sane. Hate you for leaving as if his love didn't matter to you.

He comforts himself by thinking of the time dilation he experienced in the abyss. You cared for him so much that you spun three days into three months. He likes to believe he meant something to you; he must've, because why else would you lengthen your time spent together?

Childe knows it isn't true. He didn't matter enough for you to stay, after all.

At night, Childe finds himself listlessly thinking of you. It's a silent mourning. Quiet tears fall down his cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath his head. He chokes down every heaving sob that threatens to break from his throat; clenches his jaw when they claw too close to his lips. He slaps a hand over his mouth when he's too loud, biting his fingers until they're bloody and marred by his teeth. What would you think if you saw him this weak? Saw the boy you built up crumble, all because he can't feel even the softest traces of your presence anymore?

You would find him pathetic. All he's done is prove that you were right in abandoning him.

When the memory of you is too much to bear, he clutches the effigy in his arms, squeezing it against his chest until it's sharp edges dig into his skin. Even after all these years, he's still kept it close. He tries to feel the visage of you that was once attached to its bearings, whispering for you under the night sky, hoping it'll remind you of your time in the abyss— hoping that tonight he will feel you again, ruffling his hair with tendrils of wind.

He never does.

Childe barely sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of you. You have no body, no face— he can't even begin to imagine what you look like, and he doesn't dare too, even when he knows he has nothing to lose.

He's back in the dark, but you're still there with him, providing him light and comfort. If he knew that leaving would entail being without you, he never would have left at all. Better to be with you than to die without.

Sometimes, he dreams of you staying with him even after he escapes. Your warmth is ever-present. He gifts you riches, now. You have a voice in his dreams, and he can hear you speaking to him. You're kind, and gentle, and he wants for nothing. He has you, and there is nothing more to want.

He dreams he never lost you at all. It makes reality all the more painful.

In a way he knows is pathetic, Childe hopes you at least found him fun. He hopes you found him entertaining, despite how the thought twists his heart and guts into little knots, until he feels vaguely nauseous at the notion. At least then you would have reason to remember him. At least he could say he meant something to you.

In a hidden corner of his room, there sits an altar for you. His wealth as a Harbinger means he has no lack of resources, and so he bejewels the altar until it glimmers even without light. It's obnoxious and opulent to the point of vanity, but he figures that if you like it, he'll earn another whisper of warmth from you— in the vain hope that you hear him at all anymore.

With his hands, now calloused and worn, he carves sigils into whalebone. He doesn't know what they mean, but they were numerous in the abyss; and so he etches them into bone, hoping that whatever they mean, it reaches you.

Childe pushes himself more than he should. His back aches from all the weight he carries on his shoulders, but he trudges forward despite how it hurts. He is more fervent in conflicts, and spectacular scenes of blood and viscera follow him every time he walks onto a battlefield.

His tongue forms words of devotion for the Tsaritsa as he slays another enemy, blood staining his fingers, but in his heart, he only ever speaks of you.

When he fights, Childe can lose himself. He can focus entirely on the movement of his feet, the precision of his blade. He can ignore how badly he misses you, and how in the back of his mind, he desperately hopes that the more blood he sheds with your teachings, you'll find him satisfactory.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and once again he lets himself be drowned by the rush, letting himself forget all of his pain.

Childe is proud of the way that no one can recognize his style of fighting. It is exact and sharp— every strike hitting its target with ease, filled with vigor and intensity. He enjoys the gazes of jealousy, but remains silent when asked. My teacher taught me, he says. He sheds no further light on the matter, and any instance someone shows interest in learning from him, he instantly refuses. Childe wishes to keep you close to his chest, a guarded secret known only to him.

Childish, perhaps. He knows it is. But if he can't have you, then he will have the knowledge of you. He will keep it to himself, and there it will stay, safe in his tight grip.

It drives him insane, the way sees you in everything. When night falls, covering the sky in a blanket of stars, he wonders if you're staring at him from above. When the tides of the sea brush against the shore, he finds himself thinking of you as the moon— you are what anchors him, despite the fact that he hasn't felt you in so long. In his eyes, there is nothing you could not be, and with every breath, he only ever misses you more.

It's during his mission in Liyue that he feels you again. Childe is unable to breathe when he meets the Traveler, sensing you watching from their eyes. His heart thunders in his chest, tempestuous as a storm over the sea.

For a moment, he's happy. You're finally back. He wants nothing more than to run to you, to ask you why you left for so long, to ask how he can make you stay, but then he feels you— a familiar pressure bearing down on him, forcing him to say anything but what he wants to.

Childe watches the Traveler's back fade as it finally clicks for him.

You abandoned him for someone else. You left him... for this. The thought sends him reeling. You left him, just to go spend time with someone else— to give them the same company you gave him, to give them the same guidance you gave him— was he merely replaceable to you?

Was he just a test for you?

He should be angry. And he is, but the heartbreak overwhelms him. He's left choking, battling for air. The agony of having been tossed to the side, of having it be affirmed in front of his eyes. He wants to scream and cry, beg for you to return; but his throat squeezes every time he meets the Traveler, and the words die on his tongue.

You don't want him to speak. He's meant to play along.

Childe had waited for you for so long. Even after all this time, he couldn't get rid of the painful hope that you'd return. He had done his best to bottle his emotions, to keep them shut and locked inside, so that you wouldn't be disappointed in him upon your arrival. Proud that he never doubted you for a moment.

But he had. He had doubted you, cried at the lack of your comfort. Afraid of what it meant to be without you. Fearful of living, never getting to gleam your existence for a second time— and now you want him to pretend as if he never knew you.

As if he can't see the slight smugness in the Traveler's eyes.

His fight with the Traveler is personal. He bares his teeth, snarling like a rabid dog. His every strike is fast, precise with the intent to kill and maim. Childe hopes his emotions reach you, that you know of his bitterness and acrimony. That you know of how long he wished for you, how long he yearned for you to come back— how his frustration has twisted into pure rage, turned into a fine point.

He just has to simply show you how he's better. He has to show you that he's superior in every way to your choice. That you should've chosen him over them.

They are undeserving; watch how he rips through them like they are nothing, slicing through them like they are mist over sea. They are unworthy; see how easily he beats them into submission, how easily they crumble at his feet. The matter of the Gnosis is nothing to him, now— only whether you see how he should be the one you prefer.

It's then that he feels it. Your rage. Your anger at having been battered and bruised. The Traveler stands back up, but something is different now. Their strikes are fluid, prowess and skill increased by an outside force.

You.

Do you hate him that badly? Detest him so much, to go so far as to bless another with your strength so they can prove themselves to be his better? Even in his Foul Legacy form, Childe is forced to retreat; forced to bow his head in defeat, weakened by the burden of his transformation.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He's done the exact opposite of what he set out to do. All he's proven is that your right.

Childe feels your crushing weight bearing down on him. He spits the words out, calls them 'friend' through clenched teeth. He dances to your whims, just as he had previously. Unnatural, stiff movements and words that speak the opposite of what he means.

And then you're gone, left along with them. He stares at their fading back. He can almost imagine you beside them, walking by their side just as you once did his.

It hurts.

The next time he feels you, there is no sign of the Traveler. Only a tight pulling in his chest.

He doesn't know what it means, or what it entails. But he follows, sensing you at the end, waiting for him. Childe doesn't allow himself to hope; that maybe, you have come around. That maybe you do care. That maybe, you never hated him— not truly. That you missed him just as he missed you.

Maybe he meant something, after all.

When he reaches you, he feels it. You're happy. You're happy with him. He feels you reaching out, tickling him with strands of your will. You brush against his skin, burrow deep inside. Childe lets you, still unable to breathe.

He wonders if this is really happening. Have you come back to him, truly? Have you finally realized how much better he is? He feels you graze his soul, reaching deep within. Childe feels you envelop him, swathing him in warmth and comfort.

You're home, you whisper.

He only hears the ghost of your voice, a chime in the wind; but he hears the intent, the meaning behind your unintelligible words, even though he can't understand them.

Childe breaks.

SANGUINE NATUS ; first meeting/as a worshiper

If even just your breath could leave him weak, then seeing you for the first time makes his knees give out underneath him.

It's a foolishly embarrassing display, but Childe can't find it in himself to care. He falls to his knees quicker than his mind can catch up, unconsciously posturing himself to make himself seem as small and harmless as possible— anything to make you stay, even if it means sabotaging his image.

He tucks his shoulders inward, struggling between looking at you until his eyes burn and your image is seared into the back of his eyelids, or averting his gaze because just touching you with them feels like he's sullying you somehow.

His breath comes out short and sharp, his entire chest heaving with each shuddering, raspy exhale. Before he can even manage a sound, he's sobbing, crumpling to the floor— there's no care taken to your perception of him now, only the wailful cries of one lost in the weight of your eyes. Childe knows he's being pathetic, a mess of airy desperation and red eyes; everything he was when he felt the ghost of you leave him, and everything he wished you'd never see. But it's you, and for the first time, he can truly feel your eyes on him.

It's all too much to bear.

"I-It's you, it's you—!" Childe manages to choke, wet tears caking the apples of his face. His eyes strain, burning to see the visage of you through the blur of his vision. Nausea bites at him, his abdomen a sudden storm from the tears that lick at his cheeks.

Childe has always been austere in his worship; strict, solemn in how he acts out every religious rite. There is an icy silence unlike him as he moves, particularly whenever your sanctity is involved. His fingers still tremble despite his stiffness, the desperation loud in every twitch of his limbs. The desire to see you, after all is said and done.

Seeing you for the first time feels as though a wave has overtaken him, drowning him in brine and the cerulean of muddy waters. There is no hiding what he could barely contain before— jerky movements filled with need and the dolor of one disappointed before.

Childe no longer finds himself able to veil it by lies and rushing fights of adrenaline; now, it lies bare, and there's no burning ache to keep it hidden.

His fervor is relentless; a feverish desire to please you coalescing until it's unbearable for his skin. Your reaction to his cries could have been cruel or kind, and it wouldn't have bothered him; all that matters is whether he has finally proven himself worthy of standing by your side.

His worship is eager words spilling from his lips at night, the echo of your name a murmur from his mouth like the sigh of the ocean's waves-- his blades stained red, limp at his sides-- the burning in the back of his throat that comes from years of pleading.

You're here now, even if he can't be with you at all times; and that knowledge leaves him whispering to you, uttering every thought without a moment of reconsideration. It is a ceaseless endeavor, as every word is listless praise and endless adoration. There isn't a moment where he isn't thinking of you in some way, and the mere thought of the opposite leaves him feeling vaguely sick.

He wants to think of you all the time. Though it's such a small thing, in his mind, he has you all to himself— in the sense that there is no one else to take your eyes off of him— there, he can make you happy; there, he can make you proud of him. In that world, you have no reason to be rid of him.

Childe's always kept his habit of crafting you makeshift gifts. They're rugged, imperfect things, but laden with his fingerprints and the palms of his hands. Before, he could only set them still on his altar for you, and hope that it pleased you somehow. He was only ever met with silence, but he could pretend you were happy with him, and the idea alone was enough.

When he catches sight of a sea conch, its pale marks swirled across its smooth surface, he can only think of handing it to you. It's a beautiful thing, and so simple and crude a gift; but maybe you will find worth in such a thing, the simplicity of its nature, and praise him for it.

He gives them to you physically now, unable to shake the urge to do so. His hands always tremble when he hands them over, his knees threatening to buckle underneath him whenever your fingers brush against his. He will never fail to drown in the sensation, allowing everything that he is to become thoughts of you.

Childe has always worshiped you in bloodshed. In the past, he hoped it would leave you satisfied enough to come back; now, it's to prove how much better he is than everyone else. His fear runs deep, like cracks in the earth far below the water's surface, and the sickening feeling of dread whenever you praise someone else suffocates him.

It's unreasonable, he knows, and he has no reason to fear, not anymore— but his heart still quickens at the thought, and his stomach still twists.

It's an all too familiar feeling. When he was first torn from you, he felt as though his heart had been ripped right out of him; and the panic he feels only reminds him of it.

When he's inevitably forced away from you on another mission, he deals with it as quickly as possible, no matter how bloodied or bruised he leaves it. He is brutally unkind in his workings, his words always terse and clipped; a slight edge that never really seems to go away until he knows you're somewhere nearby.

It's when he's forced to stay away from you for a longer period of time that he breaks completely. Upon his return, he is instantly back at your side, heaving sobs and ugly tears running down his face. He can barely think, and a flurry of slurred words leaves his lips— begging to never leave your side again.

Childe knows better than to think he is deserving of your kindness, but he’s desperate to at least stay in your shadow. There, he could stay near you, even if he was swathed in black— even if his only glimpse of you was your back, he would be in bliss. To be near you in some form is all he could ever ask of you.

For all of the power you have granted him, it's only right that he use it for you. A mere word from anyone that isn't pure praise has his grip on his weapon tightening, the tendons on his hand taut and his knuckles pale. He remains entirely oblivious to any moral ambiguity in your actions— whatever you do is right and just; as you are the only one worthy of judging yourself, he does not dare too.

Instead, Childe draws his blade in judgement of others— he will act as your hand and executioner, the arbiter of your faith; it's with only vigor that he hands out punishment, a ferocity bold and true.

AMANS IN SPINIS IACET ; as your lover

Childe's dreams have begun to take a sudden turn.

It's not anything he can control, despite how hard he tries too. They pleased him at first, even though he still couldn't help the way his heart tightened at the idea of you somehow knowing. At that time, they weren't occurring enough for him to be worried, and the content themselves were innocent enough for him to think nothing of it.

You held him close to you, pressing benign kisses across his freckled cheeks, playing with his hair with soft fingers; little things that he could believe meant nothing at all, just a desire to feel your affection in the only way his mortal heart knew how.

The dreams turn nightly, and Childe finally realizes it's much more than that.

It begins at signs of your favoritism. Glances that last more than they should, summoning him to your chambers more frequently; Childe does not deny you, and he can't help the faint giddiness that clouds his mind every time he feels your gaze linger on him. It's a euphoric sensation to know that he is the one you are looking at; no one else. Only barely does he manage to rein in his emotions every time.

You speak much softer to him, and your touch is more affectionate. He turns drunk on your approval, willingly dancing to your whims if it meant having your fingers coiled in his hair for another moment. Before he can stop himself for even daring to think it, Childe lets himself believe he's special to you— and that is where the problem arises.

The thoughts don't stop. Even if he screams to drown out the noise, they still manage to be so loud. The dreams are relentless, more loving, more vivid. He can feel the warmth of your palms as you caress his cheeks, the weight of your breath when you draw your head near; they feel so real, that for a moment, he thinks you're the one sending them to him.

He feels as though he's dirtying you in some form, as if he is the one committing an unforgivable sin against you; somehow managing to desecrate you with just his thoughts alone. The idea sends him into a panic-induced frenzy, kneeling before his altar with rushed, unintelligible apologies on his lips.

Despite his self-hatred, whenever he wakes from one, Childe is left blissfully dazed, nuzzling into his pillow with hazy clarity— pretending that it's you, instead. He wonders what it would be like if his dreams were real, if he could really be so special to you in such a way; entirely irreplaceable, entirely yours.

It doesn't take long for his will to be eroded by his desperation. His desire to resist was already hanging by a thread, and as the dreams persist, any resistance on his end is lost. He falls ever deeper into an abyss of his own making, allowing himself to be undone by his own creation.

Childe has always been needy, but as his feelings rear their ugly head, it only grows worse. He has always loved you— and he had been struggling to choke his own feelings down for as long as he could, fooling himself into believing that they didn't exist in the first place. In his eyes, it's only right that you be the one to shake the foundation he lay; making him crumble until every dark part of himself is laid bare in front of you, only for your eyes.

There's a drastic increase in his desperation to be near you, and any lack of refusal on your part only exacerbates it. He neglects his duties entirely in favor of staying by you in some way or another, be it either by your side, or following you from a distance like a lost puppy.

Your admittance of feelings only makes Childe more fervent. He can barely hear himself speak, his heart fluttering against his ribcage like a caged canary. He can barely believe anything you're saying, and for a moment, he wonders if he's lost in another dream of his.

At your assurance, Childe doesn't dare to doubt you any longer. He falls entirely into you, allowing you to consume his every thought. He doesn't think to fight back, letting you envelop him until his every breath is coated in your name. He is yours, and he has no desire for anything more.

His desire for your approval now emboldens him. Childe's always acted out of an interest in garnering your attention, and though he now knows of your feelings, it does nothing to satiate him; instead, it leaves him hungrier, greedy with an eagerness to please.

He doesn't take from you without asking, but he asks enough for it to be a nuisance. Your affection is everything to him, and he can't bear to go a moment without it. He asks to lay his head in your lap, for you to play with his hair— the loss of your touch is the loss of himself, and sends him reeling back to memories of when he was without you.

The first time you kiss him, his legs instantly give out underneath him, a small groan leaving his lips. Childe doesn't bother to dull his reactions; you deserve to know how easily weakened he is by your touch, with even a brush of your fingers enough to leave him breathless and wanting.

As your favorite, Childe is quick to be rid of any competition. Whether or not you see them as possible suitors doesn't even cross his mind— the fear that snakes around his heart is ever-present, and if they're better than him in some form, it only grows in persistence. He doesn't hurt them, because surely that would upset you, and any devotee of you is worthy of respect— but he is quick to showcase his superiority, and to do so broadly without shame.

Childe grows used to his new status, and uses it to stay by your side constantly. Any attention you give to others is met with instant jealousy, seething glares sent to whoever stole your gaze, even if they only preoccupied a second of your mind.

He could never be mad at you, as clearly the fault lies within himself.

Any signs of your likes and dislikes are instantly noted. If you compliment someone for their behavior, he begins to emulate it, or at least he tries too. If you like Zhongli for how well he executes your orders, then Childe will be the same; only he will do it better, quicker, and prove himself still deserving of your love.

If he were perfect, then you would have no need for anyone else. If he were perfect, he would never have to worry about whether you'll grow bored of him the moment he stops being entertaining enough.

The thought of you with another leaves Childe sick without fail. He knows he has no control over you, and that if you wished to be rid of him, he would willingly walk into whatever punishment awaited him— but now that he has tasted what it feels like to be so utterly yours, he can't bear to imagine another sharing the same treatment.

You kissing another, holding another, letting someone else lay against you; all of it only serves to further blur his vision. Even if it is sinful of him to feel, he can't stop the emotions from swirling in his chest.

You are everything; the earth laid beneath his feet, the foundation of which he relies on. To be without you is to fall, to be without you means death; and if he must carve his skin and bone to fit the picture you want him to be, then he shall.

#[🦇] — my writing #genshin impact #yandere genshin #sagau #yandere male #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin x reader #self aware genshin #yandere childe #sagau childe #self aware childe #genshin cult au #cult au childe

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skyrigel · 3 months

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Baby, you're mine.

Ex bf! Mattheo Riddle x gn!reader

Hi, umm kinda wanted a jealous fic where Mattheo's a complete jerk ( fool ) for you. Basically that one time he ruined your date and also the time he made up. Draco being a little shit but we love him.

" Isn't he a dork ? " Mattheo smirked, his fingertips brushing against your back when you snapped back at him.

" You're such a jerk matty." You perched your lips, crossing your arms as his smirk only widened, his eyes softening at the sight of you.

" For you, always." He added with a wink, you wouldn't smile, no, you will not give him that.

" Why don't you leave me alone ? " You turned to walk ahead, you were aware of your charms class that was just about to start.

" How about you don't go on this date ? " He suggested instead, catching up with you, few third year Hufflepuffs parted away.

" Marcus is a very good guy." You mumbled, Matheo scoffed hard and his malice was very much visible in the way he scowled at his name.

" Didn't you like bad guys ? " Matheo tried his soft, sweet voice, the one that always melted you, but not this time, you wouldn't let him.

" Does it matter ? Weren't you fucking Susan or was it Komal, i remember." You narrowed your gaze at him, your mouth tightening as his soft facade crumbled, his jaw slackened but he was quick to recover.

" It was...it meant.. nothing to me." He nodded his head, eyes blazing with sincerity but if only, if only.

" Mattheo, I know you haven't got heart—"

" Babe—"

"—but these girls have got one, so don't break theirs." You glared at him once before marching towards your charms class, eyes brimming with tears.

You should've known as soon as you entered the great hall when the silence on Slytherin table was too much, Draco was practically buzzing, his mouth was perked up around the edges, being not so subtle with his glances on you.

Mattheo was just another case, he was staring at you, not minding the concernful eyes that gazed him down, clad with longing and desire, he didn't care about them.You dutifully paid him no attention.

The mist cleared when Marcus didn't come that evening and it wasn't a surprise when you found him in hospital wing later , poor boy even refusing to speak with you. Well done, mattheo.

" Hey Y/n, heard you got stood up—" you shot bat boggey hex at Draco, with mere mumbling under your breath as you swinged your rucksack on one shoulder, feeling very tired.

Draco scowled but said nothing, Mattheo only smiled smugly.

" I was thinking—" Matheo started, you stomped your books down.

" Don't talk to me." You said, feeling anger boil inside you.

" I didn't do it on purpose." Mattheo dropped his gaze to your lips, you looked away.

" Oh really ?! " You huffed a humour less laugh that oddly sounded a croak.

" He..He talked shit about you babe, what was i supposed to do ? "

" Listen." Draco said, ducking his head when both you and Riddle glared at him.

" Well anything but to beat the pulp out of him." You cocked your head, wincing to think about the damage Mattheo had done, it would be a hard for Marcus to ever date again.

" He said he just wanted to fuck you and be done." His eyes glistented and you didn't know if Riddle could cry, he did when you broke up with him but—

" Said that he wasn't being serious so I shouldn't worry, just a fuck." He swallowed hard, his adam rolling up and readjusting again, every ring of his cartilage pressing around his skin.

" Tell me baby, what I was supposed to do ? Shouldn't I kill him ? What if...what if he broke your heart ? " He pressed down his forehead against you, Draco looked away, swaggering towards the other end of the corridor, others following.

You closed your eyes at the feel of him, Mattheo could be cold but how could you let go of this warmness that tingled your way, how could you forget the sweet darling boy who sung lullabies and wrote poetries for you, how could you ?

" He can't..." You gulped, " he can't break my heart Matty, you already did it." You sniffed hard, would it be okay if you just...just hugged him and kiss him for one last time, just once, would it be okay ?

" I am sorry darling, I am so sorry." He nuzzled closer, his nose caressing your cheek as he inahled you in, your scent, the way you made him crazy and feral. All of you.

" I hate myself for not hating you." You admitted, feeling your heart shedding off some burden.

" And I love myself for loving you, I tried..tried so hard and no one, my beloved, i can love no one like i love you." His lips pressed against the corner of your mouth, your whole body rippling in magnetic waves.

" You're a jerk." You told him, pulling him by his tie as a smile aroused him, soon it crashed against you, like lightening bolts set free as you tasted his sweetness, his tongue warm as you parted for him, let him take the lead.

A soft moan escaped and you shivered because you loved this boy, for so long you have, and only he could set you on fire and make you ablaze, only he could reduce you to ashes and breath you back in the air.

" Oh baby." He breathed against you, ever so handsy he grabbed for everything he could get, pulling you closer till there was nothing left you and him, his knees pressing between you legs as he relished in the sounds you could make, only for him.

" Matt..." Your voice was dazed with the pit in your stomach that lurched with the way he touched you, kissed you, had you.

" So long...so..my baby." He whispered against you lips, dipping to nib at your flushed swollen beaming lips.

" Oh my god." Your lids drooped back when his hands roughly slipped inside you shirt, kneading and squeezing your flesh, he was so needy and wild, like you always made him.

He downed your shirt, flushed as he pulled away when the bell rang and crowd started to emerge from classes.

"Go on a date with me." He pecked your cheeks, glancing to make sure your shirt wasn't riding up.

" Can't." You said, his nose scrunched up, " afraid my boyfriend might beat you up."

Mattheo's grin was splitting his whole face, his cheeks rushing with color and heat.

" Sounds like a jerk to me." He breathed, eyeing your lips and leaning in.

" Oh, he is." You winked, " always for me."

Don't blame me

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chuuyrr · 8 months

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⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐒 .ᐟ

feat. dazai, chuuya, fyodor

ꨄ˙ SYNOPSIS: bsd men as girl dads to their daughters

ꨄ˙ CW(s): f! mom! reader, established relationship (married to your lover ofc), fluff, short scenarios, not proofread

DAZAI was humming the quiet melody of his 'certain' song as he cradles his little one. the baby in his arms was sniffling, crying softly and practically looking at him with tearful brown eyes that resembles his. he gently hushes and cradles baby sonoko in his arms, his soothing hums a lullaby in the quiet room.

sonoko was a captivating blend of both you and dazai. with her dark hair that mirrored dazai's locks and the bright twinkle in her [color] eyes reminiscent of your own, she was practically a living canvas of your shared features.

dazai gently rocks baby sonoko in his arms, whispering soothing words to calm her cries. the soft glow of the nightlight illuminated the room, creating a serene atmosphere. he cradles her close, the warmth of his embrace a comforting haven.

"hush, my little one," he murmurs, his voice a gentle melody. "there, there, sonoko. daddy is here." dazai presses a tender kiss to her forehead, his heart swelling with paternal affection, "no need for tears, little darling."

he softly sang a lullaby, the words weaving through the air like a protective cocoon. as the room embraced a peaceful stillness, sonoko's cries transformed into quiet sniffles.

dazai continued to sway gently, cherishing the precious moment of connection with his baby girl. he places her head against his chest, manipulating his heart beat into a calming rate to ground her with its sound.

you lay in bed, exhausted, but you find yourself smiling in the calmness of the night as you see your husband and daughter share a quiet bond, the world outside fading away. dazai's love for sonoko radiated in every soothing touch, a promise to always be there, hushing away any fears or tears that may come.

"you're doing that thing with your heart again, aren't you?" you whisper softly to dazai, quietly giggling.

dazai glances at you, still cradling the fruit of your love to his chest, he gently strides to your side and presses a lingering kiss on your forehead, "yeah, i am."

"i still don't get how you do that though, but it works, doesn't it?" you say softly as you see how your baby girl is all calm now.

you extend your arms to reach for sonoko but dazai gently refuses to do so, and he shakes his head as he insists, "shh, let me look after her. you go get some rest, darling."

"are you sure, osamu? sonoko can get a bit fussy," you ask softly as dazai uses his free hand that wasn't carrying sonoko to gently push you to lie back down in bed and pull the blanket over your chest.

"i'm certain. please, my love. you're exhausted from feeding her and looking after. it's daddy's turn to take over, okay?" dazai chuckles softly as sonoko began to coo and pat her tiny hands against her daddy, "we're ok."

"okay," you giggle quietly as you look at your husband and daughter, "try not to give your daddy a bad time, okay sonoko?"

sonoko merely coo and giggle at the sound of your voice before they intensified in volunme when dazai started to tickle her sides and pepper her cute round face in kisses, the rain of affection from her father making her happy.

CHUUYA sighs, holding baby saika in his arms as her cries echoed through the room. he paced around, trying to replicate the comfort saika found in her mother's presence—your presence.

although your child resembled very much like you, she got her traits and personality mostly from chuuya. she even throws quite the fuss when she was upset, and chuuya only realizes it now that you're away for a while.

"shh, saika, it's okay. come on, now." he whispers softly, his voice a mixture of reassurance and longing.

despite his best efforts to spoil her with affection, saika's cries persisted and he feels a pang of helplessness, "mommy will be back soon, little one. until then, it's just you and me, okay?" chuuya continued to sway, his touch tender and caring.

but saika's cries merely intensified, and chuuya's frustration grew. he couldn't replace the warmth and comfort that only her mother seemed to provide.

chuuya's heart sank as he looked down at his precious little one, her tear-filled eyes gazing up at him with a mix of sadness and yearning. he felt a wave of helplessness wash over him, an ache in his chest as he desperately wished he could ease her distress.

"come on, saika," chuuya whispers softly, his voice a blend of sorrow and affection. he cradles her even closer, tracing gentle circles on her back. "what's making you so upset, huh? don't you want toys? food? sweetheart, please."

saika's tiny lips quivered, and her cries persisted. chuuya's usual fiery determination waned in the face of his daughter's tears. money and gifts meant nothing in this moment. though he had her spoiled with everything and anything, she didn't seem to want any of those things as she would only squirm, kick and throw those things away in a tantrum.

in a moment of realization, chuuya gently sets aside the lavish toys and the carefully prepared food. he holds saika to his face and he looks into her teary eyes and finally, he understood the true source of her distress.

"it's not about the toys or the treats, is it, saika?" he muses softly, a smile forming on his face. cradling her up in his arms, he held her close, focusing on the simple act of giving her his undivided attention.

as he spoke soothingly to her, chuuya sensed the shift in saika's mood. her cries slowly gave way to sniffles, and she looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes. realizing that what she craved was the connection with her daddy, chuuya embraced the simplicity of the moment.

"dada's right here, baby," he whispers to saika, pressing a tender kiss on her cheek, "i got you."

in that instant, the room was filled not with the extravagant gifts he could provide, but with the warmth of a father's love that proved to be the most comforting of all.

he bounced her tenderly as he swayed around the room, the rhythm calming her sniffles. chuuya presses another soft kiss on her forehead, and saika's tiny hands clung to his shirt, finding solace in the familiar embrace.

as you entered the room later on, a tired yet content smile adorned chuuya's face. his hair was tied in a low ponytail with stickers and traces of food decorated his face. in his arms, little saika peacefully slept, nestled against his chest, her [color] hair braided with small butterfly clips.

chuuya looked up, and his eyes softened at the sight of you, "hey there, love," he greets you quietly, careful not to wake saika, "we had a little adventure, but someone decided it was time for a nap."

you couldn't help but giggle fondly at the adorable scene before you. the stickers and food smudges on your husband seemed like badges of a day well spent. saika, oblivious to your arrival, continued to sleep soundly in her father's arms.

quietly, chuuya rose from his spot, carefully transferring saika to her crib. as he joined you, he sighs happily and captures your lips in a tender kiss, "looks like our little one just wanted some dada time today." the exhaustion in his eyes was overshadowed by the joy of the shared moments.

"seems like it," you say softly as you wrap your arms around his neck as you kiss once again, "but hey, you did good. thanks for looking after saika."

"don't mention it, we're in this together. i can't have my darling wife do everything. you deserved a well-rested break today," chuuya whispers against your lips as nuzzles his nose against yours lovingly.

FYODOR cradled his precious lyubov on his lap, her wide eyes filled with curiosity. with a tender smile, he began to read from a novel, his deep yet gentle voice resonating through the quiet space.

"once upon a time, in the turbulent depths of the human soul, there lived a complex character named raskolnikov. he grappled with existential questions, much like the profound mysteries we face in our own lives," fyodor narrates, his gaze shifting between the words on the page and the wide-eyed innocence in lyubov's eyes.

as he continued reading, the intricate plot and philosophical undertones of the novel intertwined with the gentle rhythm of lyubov's breathing. fyodor couldn't help but adapt the narrative, transforming it into a bedtime story that echoed the complexities of morality and human nature.

lyubov, oblivious to the weighty themes, giggled in delight at her father's animated expressions. fyodor, in turn, savored the precious moments, cherishing the bond he was cultivating with his daughter.

as lyubov listened to her father's storytelling, a contagious giggle bubbled up from within her. with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, she pointed at the novel in fyodor's hands.

giggling at the sight of her father's earnest storytelling, little lyubov couldn't contain her innocence as she pointed at the pages in amusement.

lyubov, with her jet-black hair cascading in waves down her shoulders, bore a striking resemblance to her father, fyodor. the deep purple hue of her eyes mirrored his own, reflecting a shared intensity that seemed to peer into the depths of the human soul.

yet, amidst these echoes of her father's traits, her features held a delicate familiarity, capturing the essence of her other parent—you. the gentle curve of her nose and the subtle arch of her eyebrows were reminiscent of your own distinct features too.

in a moment of quiet amusement, you turned to fyodor, your husband, a playful glint in your eyes, "isn't she a tad too young for stories like that, darling?" you ask, your laughter blending with the warmth of the dimly lit room as you enter your baby's room.

fyodor, with a gentle smile, glanced at lyubov, who had now nestled herself comfortably against his chest, before looking at you, "perhaps, my love," he replies, his voice carrying a touch of self-awareness, "but the beauty of storytelling is that it grows with the listener. however, if you insist, then i suppose i'll find tales more suited to her age, tales that will weave the magic of childhood without delving too deep into the complexities of the human psyche."

as lyubov cooed and giggled in response to your shared laughter, fyodor couldn't help but join in the merriment.

with a twinkle in his eye, he gently teases, "my, my. look at this, darling. it seems our little one has a taste for the profound, even if the words are a bit too deep for her tender age. perhaps we have a budding philosopher in our midst."

"perhaps, fedya," you say with a playful glint in your eyes, your lips curving into a smile.

you and fyodor share a tender kiss, the laughter lingering in the air as a sweet reminder that, in the midst of literature's complexities and parenting's challenges, there's always room for joy and lighthearted moments in the embrace of family love as lyubov was still nestled in fyodor's embrace, she continued to babble and gurgle, her infectious laughter filling the room.

ꨄ˙ A.N.: sonoko's name came from one of the dazai osamu's actual children. saika translates to fortune with its kanji meaning happiness and the moon. it was inspired by the poems of upon the tainted sorrow and the moon of the actual nakahara chuuya, but i purposely alluded the name to happiness instead. lyubov means love, and it is also the name of one of the actual children of fyodor dostoevsky. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

ꨄ˙ TAGGING.: @chuunai @aureatchi (っ'ヮ'c) ₊˚⊹♡ !

this is a queued post by the way . . .

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silver-blooded-synthetics · 1 year

Text

@mere-lullaby sent in a starter:

From her tank she observed the boy standing in the lab . The Siren felt something familiar about him every time he visited, she felt calm. Right now there was no one else in the lab, so Sirena put a hand on the glass of the tank and began to sing her siren song. Her voice echoed and reverberated in the room, creating a sense of peacefulness. The sirens were only capable to sing under the presence of a human, and they all felt the same deep, profound sadness that flowed through their bodies like water, every time they did so. (Mini starter for Alma)

At first, Alma had only come to the lab out of curiosity. He'd heard what his mother was working on there and wanted to see for himself. But then his mother and the other scientists had invited him back, saying they noticed a change in the siren's behavior when he was there. So, Alma stood outside of her tank, waiting to see this behavior.

As she swam closer to him, until she reached the edge of her tank, Alma watched and quietly took a few steps closer. She pressed her hand to the glass, and Alma tilted his head to the side curiously. He placed his own hand against hers, the thick glass pane between them, and then he listened as she began to sing. It was a peaceful but sorrowful sound that tugged at his heart strings. Alma closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the glass, hand still pressed against the tank as well.

#mere lullaby #oc sirena #oc alma #human au

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nihilityuniverse · 2 months

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𝟎𝐭𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐱 𝐅𝐄𝐌! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ 𝗦𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁 𝗖𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗼𝗿 ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇʏᴠᴀᴛ 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗕𝗼𝘀𝘀.

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MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

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Story inspired by Acheron's Lore, Power, and Personality...

ENG is not my First language

I do not own Genshin Impact or any of the pictures used.

Do NOT Repost

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Chapter 0 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

𝐀 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭'𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐨

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Eight members of the Harbingers had gathered in the palace-like church. Inside, the air was so frigid that the nation's flags began to freeze, crackling under the intense cold. No candles lit the space; only the ethereal glow of the polar lights streaming through the stained-glass windows provided illumination.

A petite woman with long hair, her eyes concealed behind a delicate white lace mask, hums a familiar lullaby from her deceased friend as she leans against a casket. Her voice echoes softly in the frozen stillness.

The eight other Harbingers watched her from a distance, each wearing a similar coat of identical design. By order of Her Royal Highness Tsaritsa, all Harbingers were required to attend the funeral, even the elusive 0th Harbinger.

The 0th Harbinger, code name: Innamorati — The Lovers;

A figure shrouded in mystery and danger, Innamorati remained an enigma even to her fellow Harbingers.

Known only by whispers and rumors, she was a being crafted by the Cryo Archon herself, a weapon designed to challenge the Celestial Gods. Hidden away for years, her existence was the subject of much speculation.

Some Harbingers were indifferent, focusing solely on the success of their plans, while others were intensely curious. Pierro, the Director of the Fatui, claimed to know nothing about her, adding to her mystique.

Rumors abounded: some said Innamorati would annihilate anyone who crossed her path; others believed she had perished decades ago, her legend merely a shadow from the past.

What they all knew for certain was that Innamorati had a notorious reputation for forgetting critical missions assigned by Tsaritsa herself. This unreliability made her both feared and ridiculed within their ranks.

"We are gathered here today to remember our dear comrade," an old dwarf with a long nose and mustache solemnly broke the deafening silence. "In honor of her sacrifice, all work shall halt for half a day as the nation mourns her passing."

"Hehe, merely half a day...?" Pantalone laughed coldly, crossing his hands in front of his chest with a mocking smile. "People say the Northland Bank's true currencies are blood and tears... But mayor, even speaking as a banker, that sounds a little unconscionable."

"Rosalyne died in a foreign land," Arlecchino stepped forward, her crimson red X-cross pupils glowing dangerously bright with annoyance. "But you heartless businessmen and dignitaries always find a convenient excuse to remain in the comfort of your homeland..." She frowned. "You couldn't hope to understand, so why don't you keep your mouth shut?! We don't want to make the children cry."

"Hey, c'mon now, even I don't think this is the right time or place for a fight," Childe chipped in, lazily sitting on one of the wooden benches.

"Utterly risible!" Sandrone mocked, and the machine behind her emitted an audible angry sound.

"Though her methods tarnished her honor, Lohefalter's sacrifice is a great pity. Her loss shall not hinder our progress," Capitano's deep voice resonated through the entire palace, catching everyone's attention.

He turned towards the Doctor, his face hidden behind a dark veil. "But Dottore... What of Scaramouche and the Gnosis from Inazuma?"

Dottore smiled, twirling a tube filled with blue liquid between his fingers. "Conventional wisdom holds that Divine Knowledge cannot be rationally comprehended. After conquering the Divine Gaze, he will make his next move."

The heavy, frozen church door creaked open, allowing the bitter winter air to sweep inside. Everyone turned their gaze towards it, even Columbina, who had paused her humming.

A woman, clad in a coat of the same design as theirs, stepped into the church, holding a red paper umbrella. The door closed behind her with a resounding bang. The click of her heels on the marble floor echoed through the hall, a stark contrast to the silence that had filled the room.

Her face remained obscured by shadows, yet every person in the room knew instinctively that she was not someone to be trifled with.

The sense of her power and presence was palpable, a mutual understanding among them all. To cross her would be to invite disaster.

This was Innamorati, the 0th Harbinger, a figure shrouded in mystery and danger, whose very presence commanded respect and fear.

As she advanced, the air seemed to grow even colder, the weight of her presence adding to the already frigid atmosphere. Each step she took resonated with authority, and the silence in the room deepened, a silent acknowledgment of her status among them.

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Finally, you found your way to the place where the funeral was to be held. You hadn't thought you would make it in time, given the ferocity of the snowstorm that had nearly obscured your path and made the journey treacherous.

Your heels clicked sharply with each step as you approached the group of people gathered at the center, where the casket lay. You set your red paper umbrella on one of the wooden benches, the action deliberate and unhurried.

As the shadow over your face disappeared, the polar light from the stained-glass windows illuminated your features.

With the shadow gone, the collective breath of the eight Harbingers halted involuntarily.

Your beauty was striking: peach-colored, plump lips; long, dark eyelashes framing eyes that seemed to hold the very essence of winter. Your skin was pale and flawless, with a cold radiance that mirrored the icy surroundings. Your presence was both ethereal and commanding, a juxtaposition of delicate grace and chilling power.

You stopped a few steps before the group of Harbingers—your comrades—and looked up at them.

"0th Harbinger, Innamorati... That is what they call me. You may call me whatever you wish," you introduced yourself, your voice ethereal and soft, yet so cold and lifeless it sent shivers down their spines. "This must be the first time we meet."

"You are quite late, Lord Innamorati," Pulcinella, the old dwarf, addressed you with a mix of respect and caution.

After all, The top-ranked Harbingers, from rank 1 to No. 3, possess powers that can rival the gods. So what about No. 0? Could she surpass the powers of the gods? Or even be greater?

You let out an annoyed sigh. "All the snow-covered streets look the same, and the blizzard did not make navigating to this gathering any easier."

Pantalone chuckled, turning towards you with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"If I had known, I would have taken you with me in my carriage, Lady Innamorati. Alas, I am left to wonder why there were no escorts ready for you. I thought I had ordered the highest-ranked Skirmishers for your protection." His voice was dangerously smooth, laden with speculation, hinting at the rumors of you annihilating anyone who crossed your path.

Before you could respond, Childe interjected from the side. "Huh? The oh-so-feared Innamorati getting lost in a mere snowstorm? This is truly a sight to behold." His tone dripped with mockery.

"Were you also getting lost on the way to your missions?" His voice carried an angry undertone, bitterness seeping through his words.

He had often been the one to hurriedly take on your missions at the last minute, running from one nation to another like a lackey. The mission to obtain the Geo Archon's Gnosis had been assigned to you, not him, nor the now-deceased Signora. In the end, he had faced severe repercussions after the Northland Bank had to pay heavy reparations.

If gazes could kill, Childe would have been long dead under Pantalone's icy stare. Though his slight smile remained, his eyes closed behind his glasses, he radiated a murderous aura. He longed to hear your voice again and to capture your attention. Such a rare opportunity shouldn't be wasted.

"Insolent child! How dare you—!" Sandrone hissed at Childe, her anger palpable. She, too, feared inciting your wrath. If Childe weren't a fellow Harbinger, Sandrone would have killed him long ago for destroying her ruin guard factory.

"It's time to end tonight's foolish theatrics."

A deep, husky voice resonated through the church, cutting through the cold silence like a blade.

The man stepped forward from the shadows, his right side concealed by a dark mask. It was Pierro, the Director of the Fatui, and his presence commanded instant respect.

His voice, cold and demanding, echoed with authority as he advanced towards the casket.

"Right now, you have no captive audience," he said, his gaze sweeping over the assembled Harbingers and guests, silently commanding them to gather and pay heed.

You stood on the opposite side of Pierro, your own presence a stark contrast to his imposing figure.

"Let every worthy sacrifice be carved in ice, and let this nation endure for all time," Pierro intoned, his voice carrying the weight of solemn duty.

The assembly lowered their heads in reverence, eyes closing as he delivered the farewell speech. Your hand drifted absently towards your Divine Key, a subconscious gesture.

"In the name of Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa," Pierro continued, his voice imbued with a steely resolve, "we will seize authority from the gods."

After several minutes of mournful meditation, Pierro broke the silence and left the building, his movements purposeful and commanding.

The others followed in silent procession, a testament to their respect and shared grief. You took your red paper umbrella, closing your eyes briefly before stepping into the freezing, snow-covered landscape.

"Absolute peace."

As you all departed, the church behind you began to freeze over, layers of crystal ice encasing it under the unyielding winter sky, which shimmered with the ethereal glow of the aurora.

"Such is the gift from the Tsaritsa, such is Her Majesty's benevolence," Pierro declared, his voice carrying a chilling reverence as he halted and gazed up at the celestial lights.

"Now you rest in this coffin, encased in layer upon layer of ice. But, Rosalyne, I promise you..."

"Your final resting place will be the entirety of the Old World," Pierro's voice echoed through the night sky, his farewell imbued with a cold resolve that matched the frozen land around you.

As you watched the polar light dancing across the vast darkness of the sky, a thought surfaced in your mind. You had never known this person, but you had made a promise to someone...

You halted in your steps and glanced back at the frozen church.

Some tasks have to be done, even if they seem pointless.

Amidst the snow, you caught a glimpse of shadowy hands emerging from the icy landscape, reaching out towards the sky one by one, as if seeking transcendence. As you blinked, everything returned to normal.

"Another Memory..."

"Lady Innamorati, is something the matter?" Pierro's voice broke through your reverie as he noticed you staring back at the frozen church.

"...meaningless," you whispered to yourself, yet the faint wind carried your words to Pierro.

"Pardon?" Pierro asked again, this time capturing the attention of some of the other Harbingers, especially Dottore. The Doctor, ever curious, considered whether you might make an intriguing subject for his experiments.

"It's nothing. Continue without me. I wish to be alone," you ordered, your voice light as silk yet cold as ice. Pierro nodded, casting one last glance at you before leaving.

Dottore lingered a moment longer, watching you with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. As he did, the falling snow seemed to halt and move backward, defying the natural order.

"Existence is fleeting as the dawn's dew," your voice echoed in a dimension separate from the real world, where time had ceased.

Dottore's breath caught as he watched you, disbelief etched across his features. His analytical mind struggled to comprehend the anomaly unfolding before him.

"Yet, I guide the wandering souls on the still waters of oblivion..."

The dimension around you cracked like glass, shattering as you began to walk towards the church.

"...and weep for the departed."

A powerful gust of wind struck Dottore, and in that moment, he perceived everything yet nothing. The world seemed meaningless and empty. He felt his body ascending, his soul slipping away...

"Don't look back..." Your ethereal voice called to him, a beacon of light in the encroaching darkness.

He felt a pull from behind, "Move forward," you whispered. In the next instant, he stood where Pierro had asked if you were alright moments before.

Dottore's breath hitched, his cold heart pounding faster than ever. This was neither a dream nor an illusion. He knew this with certainty. What had just happened? The question echoed in his mind, a mystery as deep as the winter night itself.

One thing was certain: he had unmistakably felt the presence of the Almighty One—the Divine Creator.

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wntrswolf · 3 months

Text

an arsonist's lullaby

✧ pair: benjicot "davos" blackwood (fancast) x freader!targaryen

✧ theme/warning(s): dark, heavy angst turned fluff — tw: mentions of hallucinations, anxiety / progressive panic attack(s). + all characters are of age! (18+) | contains hotd spoilers!

✧ word count: 2.7k

✧ a/n: this one-shot is a gift for @ithilwen-blackwood! firstly, thank you for tagging me on your request! it sparked a drive in me that i thought had left years ago, i had a great pleasure writing this one. secondly, given the prompt, i hope you, and the other pretty readers, enjoy reading my version. c: thank you!!!

✧ summary: to dream is to escape, granting a momentary nirvana as one falls into the refuge of imagination. yet, for the princess, a night in the supposedly cursed fortress of the riverlands, dreams became not mere fantasies but glimpses of destiny that would seal unwritten fate.

Daemon’s voice roars in the vastness of the dining hall. “We shall make camp before night falls. Come the morrow’s light, we resume our travels. See to it you are rested, we have yet a journey ahead of us.” Your father meets your gaze and nods solemnly, signalling his dismissal. You return the gesture with a faint smile, acknowledging his silent command to depart.

The murmurs of the troop swelled, each hastening to claim their place within the grim walls of Harrenhal. You remained steadfast, observing the weariness that were etched on the faces of the scrambling men around you. Gradually, the ache in your body began to throb, a reminder that the arduous journey had also taken its toll on your body. Despite the envy others held with their perceptions, it was not an easy task being a dragon rider—for an adult dragon, it was a feat far from simple.

Celestrya, much like her namesake, is a magnificent dragon. Her iridescent scales of aquamarine and amethyst create a mesmerising display of colours as she glides through the heavens. Yet, behind the deceptive beauty of your winged serpent lies a stubborn and formidable nature. Beneath her elegant appearance lies a fierce determination and commanding presence that demands respect from all who crossed her path.

Your gaze swept the hall a final time, assuring all was in order before you sought your own repose. However, capturing your attention was the distorted shadow that stood by the hearth. The wavering figure you always came to see ensnared you yet again with its haunting presence, engulfing you in its deafening whispers. As was your custom, you sought to evade the encroaching darkness, only to collide with another in your haste escape. Unaware you had been holding your breath, you gasped heavily, abruptly jolting back to reality.

“Princess,” the young man spoke, “my apologies.” The firm grasp on your arms steadied you, preventing any falter, while your palms pressed against his chest. Slightly breathless, your eyes scanned for the shadow that had mysteriously disappeared.

“Princess?”

You hummed in response, your voice barely above a whisper, “Oh, my apologies.” You steadied your breathing, glancing up at the young man to realise the close proximity between you. In a moment of fluster, you withdrew from his grasp.

“No,” he says as he scratched behind his head, “the fault lies with me. I failed to watch my path.” his cheeks tinged with embarrassment. As you regain your composure, you recognise the young man before you as belonging to House Blackwood, evident from his attire and the sigil pin securing his burgundy-black cape.

“Should my father and I be concerned, then?” you quipped with a nervous chuckle escaping your throat, eager to lighten the mood of the exchange and conceal your own tension. Playing with the thread on your dress—a familiar nervous tic—you continued, "I mean, a lapse in attention seems trivial, but in these times of impending war, every misstep carries weight.” a subtle smile gracing your lips.

He responds with a nervous chuckle, striving to maintain his composure. "Forgive me, my lady, but I assure you, House Blackwood stands ready for whatever battles may come—and I have seen to it myself.” He spoke his words earnestly, eyes reassuring you that he indeed spoke truth—a revelation of his confidence in both his army and himself.

You chuckle.

“It was but a jest,” you offered him a warm smile, "Nonetheless, I am heartened to hear of your preparations. I believe our houses make a strong alliance, Sir…”

“Benjicot Blackwood, my lady.”

“Ah, the Lord of Raventree.” you acknowledged respectfully. “I extend my deepest sympathies, and I thank you for standing as a stalwart ally in our cause. It means much to us.”

“Thank you, my lady. If anything, it is an honor.”

“Daenyra,” you replied softly, setting aside formalities in the presence of the young Lord.

What had prompted this departure from convention? You did not know. Could it be that despite his fierce demeanour, you saw a glimpse of vulnerability? his vulnerability. Perhaps you saw in him a fledgling lord who had witnessed the brutal toll of conflict—on his kin, his men, and even those he had been compelled to confront in his duties. A fledgling thrusted into authority unexpectedly—an experience you both share.

“It has been a long day,” you continued with a chuckle, “I believe I have had my fill of the formalities for now," feeling your nerves starting to settle.

“Of course, my la–” he began, but stopped short under your playful glare, “Ahem, Daenyra… Daenyra.” His voice softened, the repetition of your name becoming more natural on his tongue. The young man had uttered your name many a time, yet with your insistence that he address you by your name, simply your name, made him feel acknowledged.

You both chuckled.

“Although, pardon the intrusion, I hope it does not mean to offend,” he continued cautiously, “but were you alright? When I bumped into you, you—”

He had.

He had noticed.

“Princess Daenyra,” a slender, raven-haired woman called out, interrupting your exchange with the Blackwood Lord. You thanked her mentally; wondering if it was deliberate or mere happenstance, but chose not to dwell on it. Turning towards the woman who commanded your attention, you were immediately captivated by her mystical aura and hauntingly beautiful features. “The camp is set. We shall have you escorted to your quarters.” she announced, her sharp blue eyes locking intensely with yours, leaving an impression that lingered in your mind.

“Yes, of course,” you breathed, turning to the young Lord, prepared to bid him goodnight. “I apologise, Lord Benjicot–”

“Benji,” he corrected in haste. You were slightly taken aback, finding the informality endearing—as it reflected your own.

“I apologise, Benji. It has indeed been quite a journey, and we are weary and in need of rest,” you replied, your nervous tic making a subtle appearance again. Glancing around, you realise that it was just you, Benji, and a few other swordsmen left in the dining hall. With a slight huff, you added, “I shall see you in the morn, then?”

“Y-yes… my lady– D-Daenyra…” he stuttered, inwardly chagrined at his stumble. Despite his embarrassment, you bestowed one last smile and nod before pivoting on your heel, the echoes of your departing footsteps fading gradually into the distance.

In your absence, he chastised himself that his worry might have gotten the best of him; it was ridiculous, really.

After all, you were a Targaryen Princess, the sole daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen, with the pure blood of the dragon coursing your veins. You inherited the ruthless and intense nature of your father, feared in combat where no man ever survived your blade. Needless to mention of the adult dragon under your command, the beast could devour him and his entire retinue, and would still be insatiable.

But amid the thoughts, he saw something in you that he could not quite describe—perhaps the sight of your gentle hands fidgeting, a stark contrast to the image of a warrior who must have slain a thousand men by now, he reckoned.

Reflecting on the moment of your collision, he realised that you, too, were simply a young woman—a lady of his own age—navigating a world fraught with responsibilities imposed by the realm. And now, on the march, leading an army of men to fight against the usurpers, and reclaim the justice that your mother, the Queen, had lost.

A familiar whistle—a melody only his dear aunt used—pierced through his thoughts, instantly capturing his attention, “Let us retire for the night, yea?” Her thumb gesture over her shoulder as she looked at him expectantly.

"Yeah... yeah," the young man nodded, shaking his head to clear his thoughts as weariness settled in.

Perhaps he was simply tired, allowing himself to dwell on thoughts that were not his to ponder. The princess was more than capable of defending herself, even from a lord she had met that night.

And still, he did.

It was still the dead of night, you surmised. The clamouring assembly that would rouse you from slumber had yet to commence, awaiting for the break of morn. Pain gnawed through every fibres of your being; the harsh, cold surroundings of Harrenhal offered no respite from your discomfort. Your gaze fixed on the patterns of the canopy you lie beneath, the soft patter of rain acting as your lullaby. You closed your eyes as you sought after slumber once more.

Without success, you shifted uncomfortably in the makeshift mattress, propping yourself up on the firm pillows that offered little comfort.

You sigh.

To your confusion, a sudden breeze rustled the entrance flaps of your tent, the fabric dancing along the gentle gusts. Goosebumps prickled your skin as you hear the familiar whispering—voices that haunted you time and time again; yet, it would be the first time you heard it spoke your name,

“Daenyra…”

You sucked in a breath, the thump in your chest increasing its tempo. The phantom’s whispers are heard beyond the refuge of your tent. Your palm dampens with cold sweat, as terror etched itself onto your features.

Despite the urge of pursuit, fear had kept you in its confines, afraid of probing what had lurked in the darkness—in fear that the spectre that observed you would swallow you with its frightening taunts.

Or could it be an ambush? A ploy orchestrated by the Greens. A sorceress used to alter the perceptions of the formidable princess of the realm—a plausible explanation, is it not?

The vendetta within your family: Retaliation.

An eye for an eye.

A son for a son.

They would just simply have to seize the moment, right when you are in your defenceless trance.

‘Ambush the Blacks, slay the princess and prince consort while abed, and we make the Blackwoods bend the knee to the rightful heir,' you reckon they thought.

An absurd, petty measure, but an irrefutable one closer to a checkmate.

Nevertheless, a ruse as such would never come to pass—existing only in the realm of imagination.

You were torn between fears: a haunting apparition or mortal hands that could lead to your demise.

Your conscience came to a ground that despite the fear residing in your bones, an audacious drive took over you to follow the bewitching voice.

The ominous sight of the empty hall sent a chill in your spine, dim candles and occasional flashes of lightning provided sparse light amid the storm. You held the lantern, a guiding luminance, close to your body to warding off the encroaching darkness and hoped that the flame would not cease; and your other hand grips tightly by the hilt, wielding your sword.

Guided by the mystic call once more, you prudently tread your way within the ruin.

“Daenyra…” The voice growing clearer and louder with each step.

“Daenyra…” Again.

“Daenyra…” Your breath grew ragged and shallow. Panic gripping your chest like a vise, squeezing air out of your lungs.

It was not until you reached the grand iron doors that you realised where it led you—the dining hall. Thrusting open the heavy door, it creaked loudly. Once again, you were confronted with the shadow by the fire—the sight intensifying your fear, quickening your heart.

“Daenyra…” The once-unrecognisable voice now rang clear, luring you towards the flame.

You approached the hearth cautiously, a sense of foreboding thickening the air as the shadow dissipated. The crackling of the fire seemed to roar in your ears, the blaze casting its orange hue upon you and its warmth seeping into your body. Entranced, your brow furrowed as you stared into the flickering flames.

The voice spoke yet again, shifting to that of your weeping mother, calling out your name.

Your body tensed, skin tingling as if touched by flames.

"Mother?" you breathed out.

Suddenly, within the flames you hear wails of anguish as a hand emerges from the flames. With a sense of charmed urgency, you cried out and reached for the hand, the flare enveloping yours with a searing kiss.

Agh!

Recoiling, overwhelmed by the blinding flash of pain, you collapsed to your knees. Your sword dropping with a clatter as the haunting echoes of voices reverberated louder than ever in your mind:

That of the cries of babes, blood-curdling screams, galloping horses, agonising shouts of a thousand men, clashes of metal, thunderous roars of dragons and fire, and in the haze, unintelligible murmurings.

“No… no… no,” you whispered, each heartbeat echoing like thunder in your ears,

THUMP

The dining hall began to close in around you, the heat becoming overbearing.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trembling hands covering your ears in a desperate attempt to silence the chaos consuming you.

“Daenyra…” It cried.

“Make it stop…” you pleaded, rocking back and forth. The sword lay forgotten on the stone floor, and the lantern burnt out, its presence unnoticed in the turmoil.

“Daenyra…” It cried out again.

“Please…”

“Daenyra?” A male voice softly whispered to you, gently shaking you from repose. “Dae–”

You woke with a sharp breath, a sob escaping your throat.

The dark figure hovering over you prompted a renewed wave of anxiety as you sat up abruptly, causing the figure to topple back. Your eyes darted around in fear, spotting a dagger that sits on the foot of the mattress, you still as dread overcame your body—unable to muster a shout or a scream.

It was not until the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the dishevelled form of the Blackwood male that you realised you had emerged from sleep. You watch the young man in confusion as he had been hovering over you while you were abed, his blade just within reach.

“B-Benji?” you croaked out as your chest heaved with staggered breaths. Your hair stuck to your tear-stained face, glistening beads of sweat lining your neck and chest. Trembling hands grasped onto his arm.

“Princess,” his velvet voice replied gently, “Forgive me, my tent neighbours yours,” his eyes locked onto yours, “I could not find rest. I-I remained awake, but I heard sobs and…”

You release a breath of relief that had been caught in anxiety.

“T-Thank you,” you uttered, meeting his gaze gratefully. For a moment, the tension in the air begins to ease. “For waking me up.” you added with a slight nod, your breath steadying in his reassuring presence.

Benji's expression softened, his gaze tender and unwavering as he, hesitant at first, gently wiped a stray tear from your cheek. "'Tis nothing," he murmured softly.

You offered him a faint smile, your hands working to compose yourself from your unsettled state.

Just a night’s terror.

Sighing softly, you wiped your palms over your face, hoping to dispel the lingering fatigue that still weighed upon your body.

At that moment, Benjicot hesitated, unsure whether to depart now that you had acknowledged his role in rousing you from the terror. Despite this, he remained seated with you in the hushed confines of your tent. His concern, which had grown since your exchange late last night and continued into the early hours of the dark morn, stirred his curiosity about your well-being before your unexpected encounter.

The fragility in your voice shattered the pregnant silence, “I…” you chuckled softly, airily. “I– I don’t know what I saw,” you admitted softly, voice slightly trembling.

“All I know is that it felt… real." you said pensively, unconsciously playing with a loose thread on the quilt that covered you. "It sounded so real.” your voice barely above a whisper.

Noting your nervous tic, “Dreams can be cruel,” Benji spoke. You watch as his hands gently took hold of yours, his thumb brushing soothingly over the backs of your hands—the gesture fluttering your heart. “But they are also just dreams, m’ lady.” he reassured with a smile.

He continued ever so delicately, "I too face the same darkness. You are not alone.” he whispered, his eyes locked with yours.

His words enveloped you in comfort, as did his mere presence—offering solace with each reassuring word and gentle touch.

You found yourself instinctively seeking if he would become a comforting constant in your moment of vulnerability. You long for his warmth, a feeling you had already sensed from the young man, since the previous night's encounter.

“Stay… will you?” you whispered, your hands nestled in his, a self-conscious gaze falling to your lap.

He tightened his grip slightly, offering you a comforting squeeze. "As my princess commands," he replied softly, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

a/n: soooo how was it? i feel like i rambled a bit too much in my writing. my brain went haywire since i wanted to add everything i thought of (ideas were popping up left n right up n down) but i added what i could: character cameos, witch's hallucination vs dragon dream??? hihihihi anyways! do not hesitate to comment ur thoughts, i appreciate reading them! ♡

#heavy angst #fluff #hotd #benjicot blackwood #davos blackwood #house of the dragon #please read tw!#happy ending???#house targaryen #x reader #x reader fanfiction #benjicot blackwood x reader #hotd fanfic #davos blackwood x reader

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wandasaura · 7 months

Text

BURNING BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN

summary — the annual maximoff memorial day barbecue has finally come, but so has a softer side of your dominants

warning(s) — established relationship, married wandanat, mentions of dom/sub dynamics, this is 90% fluff, shower sex, quickie, fingering, oral, nipple stimulation, hickies, its relatively tame in comparison to what lives in this au, domestic fluff, mentions of pietro being dead as fuck, men/minors dni

authors note — remember when i said i was taking a little break? yeah i lied and im not sorry about it!

you are in love universe

♥️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰💌꒱ ♡ ･ mommy maximoff

The warmth and promise of sunshine had quickly taken hold of Westview, days of long darkness and snow storms came to be just a memory, thawed out by butterflies and the occasional white dove that pecked at the birdfeeder on the back porch of the Maximoff residence. You couldn’t understand how the sky was so much brighter in warmer weather, but as you sat beside Natasha on the cusp of solid Earth, you thought it looked bluer than usual. The crashing waves before you licked at your feet and dampened the shorts you wore when the tide dared to try and swallow you whole, but like changing seasons, it never stayed quick.

Sunrise had barely hit its peak and already the traces of pink and orange were just another mental memory for the big scrapbook of moments you never wanted to forget. The sand was coarse beneath the fingers that hours earlier had been dug into soft blankets, but refreshing and welcomed despite how small granules crept beneath your nails when you picked it up the wrong way. Natasha hummed an old lullaby beneath her breath, eyes closed and face tilted toward the sun like a lonely flower that had managed to grow in an abandoned field. You knew much about the woman's past, but not enough to understand her connection to the star that brought you light each new day. Now wasn’t the time to ask, but you knew that eventually you’d come to know the reason for her methods of relief in hard times.

The first weekend of break had come on quick, and the barbeque that Wanda and Natasha had frantically tried to tidy the house for before your attitude interrupted them was merely hours away. Despite the plans and the people coming over, time had been taken out of the day to devote just to you. In this moment, sitting on the edge of solid ground beneath rays of sun that attempted to burn you, you couldn’t even explain how truly loved you felt.

The beach was empty, void of the presence of others and quiet for your enjoyment, save for the seagulls who squawked over scraps and the waves that crashed against man made piers and naturally jagged rocks. Your toes were coated in sand, your fingers in the same state, but you didn’t care to think about the messy things at that moment, you only wanted to focus on the good. The good was Natasha’s arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close like a stray wave might succeed in carrying you out to sea. The good was Wanda’s perfume that lingered around the collar of your stolen shirt like the scent was woven into the cotton. The good was being here, being free and alive. The good was knowing Natasha. The good was having Wanda. The good was knowing love and having love.

You laid your head down on the woman’s shoulder, noting how her hair seemed to glow beneath the sunlight. In this moment, it wasn’t auburn with scuffs of brown thrown in at the roots, it was orange like fire made by those long before lights and lanterns existed. She was ethereal, sat out beneath the early daylight, bearing her freckles for the sky to adore. You’d attempted to count them earlier, your gaze stuck on her naked face with blemishes and beauty marks sporadically thrown into the mix, but somewhere after thirty they all blended together and you settled for simply looking at them, admiring how you were somehow allowed to see them.

You were happier in spring, happiest in summer, but recently, you have found those seasons in people. Wanda was like the early days of May, where weather was warm but also cold, and sunlight was soft but somehow harsh. Natasha was like summer, late July if you thought about a specific moment. Like the air she was sweet, but like the people she was calm, and like the night she was chaos wrapped up in laughter and loved company. They weren’t perfect, you would never call them such, but they were as close to it as people could get.

A soft smile graced your features, and though you squinted to lessen the sting of sunlight, Natasha thought you looked stunning. When her eyes reopened and her head tilted downward to look at you, there was only affection smeared across her face. Her eyes that were so meticulously different shades of green had a spark within them that could only speak of the happiness she felt. How words had existed for so long and still there wasn’t one to describe the intense feelings that rushed through the both of you, you didn’t know, but you were content enough to rest against her with the knowledge that even if you couldn’t say it, you were both feeling it.

“We’ve gotta head back soon.” Your beautiful moment was ripped into tiny pieces of paper that got caught in the breeze before they made it into the recycling can, and the smile that had turned your lips upward quickly worked in the opposite direction. You shook your head, digging your heels into the sand like the simple action might change her mind and make her forget about the barbeque that was starting at noon. “Not now. I need a couple more minutes of this.”

You giggled softly when she nuzzled into your head, her wild curls tickling your nose because she hadn’t bothered to straighten them yesterday. You reached up, taking one of her curls between your fingers and pulling it taught, letting go to watch it bounce back into place and laid against her forehead with frizzy edges. You sighed in content, running your fingers through her wild hair that couldn’t be tamed in this state. “I like your natural hair.”

Natasha crinkled her nose at your genuine admission. She puckered her lips and let them rest against your finger that was still in front of her face as you softly brushed strands of hair away from her eyes. “My natural hair is blonde.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” You rolled your eyes fondly, snuggling even further into her side despite how hot you felt beneath the sun. No matter the weather you wanted to be pressed up into her, and it was clear that she wanted the same, her arm around your waist squeezed you tight, almost daring you to try and pull away prematurely. “When you met Wanda did she have red hair?”

“No, the red is pretty new. It was brown, a little bit longer than she keeps it now. She was really leaning into the whole emo phase. We could never go out together if she didn’t have red lipstick and eyeliner, she always said it completed her look.” Natasha smiled fondly at the memories that came to mind when she thought about the beginning stages of their relationship, and you felt your own heart warm in your chest as you thought about the young couple they had been. You wondered what kind of odds had been stacked against them, but you didn’t question it, happy to just live in this happy moment.

You let your hand fall back into the sand, rubbing circles that slowly became hearts into the malleable surface. The beach would always be one of your favorite places, but sitting beside Natasha made it better, sweeter. “How long have you been together now?”

“Fourteen years.” Natasha laughed, her own hand reaching out to collect handfuls of sand that she let run between her fingers until only a few granules were left in her palm, and then you watched her repeat the process over again. “Sometimes it feels like it was only a couple of weeks ago, and other times it feels like I’ve never lived without her.”

“I never hated her.” You admitted, though you had the slightest inkling that Natasha already knew that. She just had a way of knowing things before you did. There was no possible way anyone could hate Wanda Maximoff, and if you somehow stumbled upon the only person in the world who did, you didn’t doubt they’d meet a quick and painful demise.

“I know, moya kroshka.” Natasha laughs softly, so softly the sounds of the waves almost drown her out completely, but you still heard her. You’d always hear her. “It’s coming up on a full year since we started this whole thing, have any ideas about what you want to do?”

You shrugged your shoulders, reaching for Natasha’s hand when she lost interest in the sand. She’d taken her rings off last night and with the early wake-up call hadn’t put them back on. The slightest tan kissed her features around where they usually sat, and gently you brushed the pads of your fingers against the pale skin. “I just want to spend it with you both.”

“We can definitely make that happen.” Natasha hummed softly, laying a gentle kiss on the top of your head where sunlight had kissed your hair. Your roots were warm, hot against her lips, but Natasha didn’t flinch away. You knew this moment was coming to an end, but you could appreciate it for the few seconds longer that it lasted. “Wanda probably has breakfast ready, milaya. We’ve gotta start heading back now.”

“Can we come back?” You questioned softly, not wanting to speak too loud as if it could ruin the quiet atmosphere around you. As you stood, dusting sand off the back of your legs, you winced at the ache in your back when you finally found your feet and steadied yourself on them. Natasha did the same, a quiet groan slipping past her lips when she reached down to collect your abandoned sets of flip flops. With one hand occupied, she reached the other out to you.

“We’ll find a day.” She promised with a nod of affirmation. Your hand fits easily in the palm of hers, your fingers curl around her scarred knuckles while hers lay flat against your unbroken ones. Together you’re a perfect balance. Delicate definitely, but not entirely harmless.

Westview sits on the edge of New Jersey, the air tinged with the permanent lingrance of salt and sand. The farther you walk, the less prominent it becomes, but if you know what you’re looking for, the scent of the shore still remains. Houses closest to the water are painted soft colors that linger in the summer sunrises, vacation homes that are only occupied for a handful of months throughout the year, but the deeper you walk the more mundane it becomes. The town is a muted palette of browns and beiges, fences of white and cars of greyscale. It’s perfectly coherent, acceptably mature, but the Maximoff residence remains the outlier. In the blandness of tans and creams, the two-story house is a soft green color with vibrant red shutters. The cars are normal, though elaborate. Unlike the Hondas and Toyotas that occupy driveways and road space, Natasha’s sleek Corvette Stingray sits beside Wanda’s Audi R8 in the driveway, the only flex of their wealth that’s apparent. You like it though, like how they’re so different from everyone else.

You make sure to kick the sand still clinging to your heels off before you step into the house, and immediately you’re met with the aroma of sweet sugar and maple. Natasha hums at the change of scent, leaving behind the traces of salt that had tickled her nose the entire walk back to the house in favor of discovering what Wanda had prepared for breakfast. She drags her hand across your back as she passes you, seeking out the presence of her wife.

You're slower to follow, taking your time to meticulously stack your flip flops with the rest of the shoes in the entryway. They don’t match the aesthetic of Valentino loafers and Prada heels, but you smile at the sight anyways. Your favorite pair of white converse sit beside the shoes Wanda wears into the office every work day, and your balled up pink socks are tucked into Natasha’s running shoes for some reason, but the little traces of your place here makes you feel at home. You’re not so different from the shore that lingers through Westview in the winter, but unlike the water that’s abandoned when snow falls, they’ll never forget about you when the seasons inevitably change.

“Where did you leave the stray?” You just barely catch the end of whatever conversation has led to that question when you finally appear in the kitchen. The sunlight is golden now, no longer soft with pink and orange, but it falls over Wanda like the perfect blanket anyways. She’s wrapped up in Natasha’s arms, pinned to the stovetop where bacon rests in a hot pan. The only indication that this moment is less than perfect is the hot grease that pops and splatters every other second when Wanda neglects it for too long.

“You know, you should really be nice to me before I start biting your ankles like a real stray.” You hum, your voice carrying through the kitchen like it’s always belonged there, though it’s not a response derived from annoyance like it would have been only weeks ago. Rather, your words are layered with fond exasperation that Wanda finds herself laughing at.

Natasha kisses the lawyer's shoulder, squeezes her waist tightly, whispers something in Russian that’s not entirely audible from how far away you stand, before she pulls away entirely and walks toward the refrigerator. You pout when she pulls out the near empty pitcher of orange juice, setting it down on the island to be poured into glasses when breakfast is ready. It seems you could’ve spent a few more minutes beneath the sun, but you don’t complain. This is just as nice, just different.

“That’s my job.” You sulk, letting your naked feet slap against the hardwood floors as you approach with sadness written across your expression. “Wanda, your wife took my job.”

Natasha only narrows her eyes at you, the faintest ghost of a smile on her lips that she doesn’t even attempt to school. “It was my job first.”

“Well it’s my job now!” You stuck your tongue out at her, sulking your way over to Wanda who lets you wrap your body around hers like a baby koala. With your front pressed up against hers, you have to crane your head backward to catch a glimpse of her face, but you're pleased to know she’s already looking down at you. You pout your lips up at her, grinning in victory when she kisses your frown away with a sigh of faux exasperation. “Can I have a new job?”

Wanda laughs at your question, her fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts to sit on the skin of your ass that’s still marked from days prior. You sighed in relief at the contact, leaning heavily into her chest when she rubs away the lingering ache that truthfully doesn’t bother you much anymore. It doesn’t last long, there’s still much to be done before noon rolls around, but you soak up every ounce of domesticity this morning has offered. “Sit on the counter and look pretty for me while I finish up with the bacon.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” You giggle after saluting her, wiggling out of her arms and sliding your way up onto the countertop that’s practically become your designated spot since she stopped reprimanding you about sitting up here. Natasha crosses the little space between the edge of the island to where you’re perched watching Wanda cook, and you hum in pleasure when she leans forward to connect your lips.

Your hands wrap around her shoulders and fingers tangle into the baby hairs at the nape of her neck. You smile into the kiss, beyond content with the little bubble that’s existed around you since being roused from sleep at five in the morning. A shriek of surprised laughter fills the kitchen when Natasha pulls away from your lips and buries her face in the crock of your neck, a raspberry tickling the sensitive skin as she blows against it. You squirm away from the sensation, but your arms still keep her locked in place.

“Hi, Natty.” You giggle, tugging gently at the loose curls that your fingers are twisted between. She smiles at your happiness, pecking your lips a handful of times before she pulls away and whispers back the same greeting. “You smell like the beach.” You point out, giggling at Natasha’s extravagant eye roll.

“You both smell like the beach and will be taking a shower after breakfast.” Wanda chimed into the conversation, tapping your thigh in warning as she opened the cabinet just beside your head. It had become routine at this point for her to simply work around you, so the clattering of plates beside your ear didn’t bother you much.

When she turned around to grab the serving plate of belgian waffles on the island, your hand shot out to slap her ass, all thoughts of controlling your limbs forgotten. But really, who could blame you when she was wearing the shortest cotton shorts that had ever been sold in stores? Natasha had to bury her face in your neck to muffle her laughter, and you could feel her wide grin against your skin as you smirked innocently back at Wanda who set a firm glare in your direction.

“Behave yourself.” She warned half-heartedly, absolutely no bite to her warning as you’d all just accepted the natural occurrence of the day, your roles as dominant and submissive forgotten about. You liked this exchange, not because you felt any less their equal when they bossed you around and set expectations upon your shoulders, but because it was the faintest glimpse at what life could be if they weren’t married and you were really their girlfriend. “Don’t even think about it, Natalia.” Wanda warned, already knowing Natasha was about to do the same thing you had been bold enough to accomplish.

The redhead merely smirked and shrugged her shoulders, feigning innocence as she pulled away from your embrace and brought the drink glasses and pitcher into the dining room. You hopped off the counter the same as you always do, mimicking Natasha’s shrug when Wanda winced at the action. You grabbed the platter of bacon from her hands and followed after the lawyer who had already exited, eager to see where the day ended up, surrounded by the Maximoff’s closest friends and family members.

The shower water was hot enough to create a thick fog on the glass doors and surrounding mirrors in the en-suite master bathroom, but still it felt cold as you joined Natasha beneath the heavy and unrelenting spray. You shivered despite the heat, reaching for the handle and turning it up even hotter, ignoring the Russian’s protests that her skin was actively melting off her bones. You liked hot showers, but you hated hot baths, and somehow you had yet to find a happy medium that worked for the both of you. Typically you’d compromise and switch off between who melted and who froze, and although it was admittedly your turn to freeze, today was not a day where you were willing to sacrifice feeling in your appendages.

You silenced her whines with a desperate kiss, not even attempting to hide your need for her as you backed her up against the cold tile walls and pinned her hands to her sides. Your tongue was unrelenting as it licked and sucked at hers, tasting the minty toothpaste that she had rinsed from her mouth only minutes before you’d sought out her presence. When your teeth bit down on her tongue, just hard enough to send a shock of excitement down to her core, Natasha decided that being pliant in your hold wasn’t working for her.

You shrieked in surprise when your position switched easily, the hands that had been firmly holding her wrists against the wall now pinned at your sides in the same way. You arched away from the cold tiles, effectively smashing your chests and eager nipples together as you attempted to run away from the cold wall.

“Fuck!” You shivered, your lips ghosting over hers. “You have a fucking Stingray and you still haven’t discovered heated walls?! What’s the point of having money if you don’t use it for good things!” Your words were quickly replaced by breathy moans as Natasha attached her mouth to your chest and greedily sucked a mark into your untouched skin; a mark that wouldn’t be easily hidden, especially not with the swimsuit you had been intending on wearing for the party. “Fuck, Nat–” You pushed her head away, hoping you’d acted quick enough for the damage to be only minimal. The smirk on her lips told you that you hadn’t succeeded, and you slapped at her shoulder in exasperation. “Your sister is literally going to be here in two hours, can you contain your vampire impulses until she leaves?!”

“My sister has fucked her girlfriend in my guest bedroom. A hickey should be the least of her worries.” Natasha threw back at you, attacking her mouth to your nipple with purpose. You had ten minutes to sort yourselves out before Wanda came stomping up the stairs and pulling you out of the shower, orgasms or not. You did not want to spend the entire afternoon and evening hot and bothered because you got pussy blocked by a scary Sokovian.

Natasha’s teeth pulled at your nipple, allowing the skin to sting for only a second before she soothed the pain with quick flicks of her tongue. Your other nipple was not privy to the same treatment, but her stumbling fingers attempted to make up for the neglect as she rolled and pinched at the pebbled bud. You shoved her head away from your chest, forcing her down onto her knees and in the direction of where you needed her most. It occurred to you briefly that you should wash her hair as she ate you out, kill two birds with one stone or whatever the saying was, but you quickly backtracked on that idea when her tongue sought out your clit with no lack of drive. Your knees wobbled, your breath got caught in your throat, and desperately your fingers tangled into her hair and pulled her closer. Your hips grinded against her face as she licked and sucked at your nerve with a passion, and you're certain that had the droplets of liquid fire not been falling over her face in a manner that was less than pretty, her chin would’ve glistened with your arousal.

You arched into her touch as your orgasm approached, and Natasha had used the new position of your body as the perfect moment to bury two fingers knuckles deep in your cunt. You gasped in pleasure at the brief sting that came from her actions, crying out her name in pure bliss as she worked you over the edge so quickly you deserved an award for fastest achieved orgasm.

She pulled away with dilated pupils, her own lust not forgotten about. You sank to your knees before her, pushing at her shoulders until she complied with your silent request and was laid out on the shower floor. Unlike you, she didn’t attempt to wiggle away from the flush of cold against her back, and unlike her, you didn’t waste time toying with her nipples. You dove straight into her cunt, lifting one of her legs until it was high enough to drop onto your shoulder. She tasted like she always did, but something about this situation made her more addictive. The spray of the water fell onto her belly, harsh droplets of water tinting the skin pink from not only the temperature but the pressure. One of these days, you’re going to get around to finding out the true pleasure of the detachable shower head, but today was not that day. You didn’t tease, much more intent at working her up and pushing her over before Wanda came to interrupt. Her clit throbbed beneath your tongue as you licked at her, and her walls clenched around your fingers as she pleaded for more.

“Faster.” She moaned, her head thrown back against the white shower floors. The messy sprawl of her red hair was perfectly angelic, but you had no time to dwell on the sight of her as the minutes ticked down to none. Your fingers set into her at a punishing pace, curling into the sweet spot she loved so much until it was just a symphony of your name that rolled off her tongue in breathy whines and moans. You eased her off of the cliff with a practiced ease, giggling softly when she pushed your head away and subsequently caused water to spray in all directions as it bounced off her wrist. “N-Never letting you talk me into a shower quickie again. I think there’s an entire lake in my ears.” She panted, splaying a hand across her belly until she had managed to catch her breath.

“I mean, technically I didn’t talk you into anything. I mouthed you into this.” You giggled, helping her stand and replacing your rough touch with something tender and sweet. You reached for Wanda’s shampoo, not caring that Natasha had her own right beside it. Wanda’s smelled sweeter, and if you were going to be the one to wash the woman’s hair, it would be you who picked the scene she bore for the rest of the day.

You rubbed at her scalp, lathered until it bubbled, and eased your fingers through the knotted locks when it was time to wash it out. Wanda’s conditioner sat in her hair when the process was repeated on your head, and you sighed in relief when Natasha scratched her nails against the nape of your neck before trailing her hands down to your shoulders. Her thumbs worked on the soft muscles between your shoulder blades, and you melted into the firm attention.

“How long can we stay in here before she breaks down the door?” You questioned, your eyes fluttering closed as you let yourself relax completely. Even if you hadn’t said it, you were beyond nervous to be meeting their family and friends. Some of the people attending their barbeque were big names in the security world, namely Kate Bishop, and you intended on making the best first impression if you were to ever have a career in the same field.

“Three minutes.” Natasha chuckled gently, guiding you under the stream of water so she could rinse the soap from your hair. She conditioned you right after, twisting the strands of your hair between her fingers as she worked out the knots and kinks toward the ends. You rinsed her hair when she was done, dragged a loofa across her skin afterward, and then were rewarded with the same loving treatment. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Everyone coming knows how much you mean to us. They’re all excited to meet you.” Natasha kissed your shoulder before she turned the water off and squeegeed the door clean of droplets and steam, stepping out into the cold first before she offered you a towel.

“I know.” You sighed, drying your body as you tried to force your feelings into words. “I just want to make a good impression. These are your friends. It’s your sister. They matter to you and Wanda.”

“And you matter to me and Wanda just as much. If you’re worried about Yelena, there’s no reason to be. She’s going to act like she hates you because she thinks it's her duty as my little sister to vet whoever I choose to spend my time with, but by the end of the night she’s going to have you trapped by the firepit showing you pictures of her dog. When she met Wanda for the first time, she insulted her in Russian because she thought she wouldn’t understand.” Natasha snorted at the memory, and you couldn’t help but grin bashfully at the admission. “You’re going to get along fine, and honestly that worries me. I can barely handle you by yourself.”

“Hey!” You slapped at her side, but couldn’t help the wide smile that threatened to split your lips in half as you stared up at her. “I’ll be on my best behavior, promise.”

“I don’t doubt that, утенок.” Natasha leaned forward to kiss your lips, and you returned the gesture though a crinkle of confusion settled across your brows.

You asked once she pulled away, wrapping the towel tightly around your torso so that you could make a break for the guest bedroom where your outfit for the day remained. “What does that one mean?”

“Duckling.” She laughed, and you groaned knowing that it was going to stick around, at least for a little while. You’d been quite privy to Wanda in recent days, call it making up for lost time if you really had to explain your reasonings, and both the Russian and Sokovian had chalked up your clinginess as acts of a duckling blindly following its mother. If Wanda was anywhere in the house, you were right behind her. Yesterday you had genuinely pouted at the bathroom door when she forbade you from coming in with her when she needed to pee, and unluckily enough for you, Natasha had come into the bedroom at just the right time to watch the scene unfold. “Go get dressed. Yelena said she’s arriving at twelve which really means she’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

You nodded quickly, bolting out of the master bathroom and into your claimed bedroom without a moment of hesitance, not wanting Yelena to arrive before you were dressed. The door wasn’t even fully closed before you were dropping your towel and scrambling to find your bathing suit bottoms in the pile of messy clothes stacked on the dresser.

Droplets of chlorinated water lingered on touches of skin that had yet to be dried by the slowly slipping Spring sun; still a ripple of motion in the pool that hadn’t yet gone completely still with the fresh absence of bodies in the water. The crack of wood submitting to controlled flames accompanied the music of laughter and conversation that happened around you. The evening was long ahead of you, eternal more hours of company promised, but you didn’t feel any obligation to join in on jokes and memories as you fell into Wanda’s lap and snuggled in close, seeking her warmth and comfort as a chill set overtop of you. You’d been drinking all afternoon, being handed hard seltzers and beers whenever anyone noticed your hands were empty. You’d finished a handful of Wanda and Natasha’s chosen drinks, taking it upon yourself to try at least one of every flavor they had laying around the backyard. The flush on your cheeks was near permanent at this point, and though the heat in your ears would be gone by morning and replaced with a headache only Advil and sleep could soothe, the kiss on your cheeks would last days before it settled into darkened skin.

As promised, Yelena had kept you pinned to the edge of the pool when the sun was still at its highest peak in the sky, showing you pictures and videos of the two dogs she took great pride in caring for. Kate had watched for a while, draped across her girlfriend's shoulder as the three of you laughed at a particular video of Fanny and Lucky dressed up in bowties zooming around their daylight drenched kitchen, but she had excused herself to the bathroom before the end was in sight. Maria Hill had been your savior, though you were content with Yelena’s easy presence not to mind your trapped position much while it had lasted. The early hours of the afternoon had been filled with conversation and the act of acquainting, but the later hours had told a different story; a wild one. It was the story of how you had come to find this state of mind, far past the point of being tipsy and well on your way to true drunkness.

You hummed when Wanda laid her palm flat over your belly, keeping you close and safe in her lap. The soft pad of her thumb tickled your belly button as she adjusted slowly, sinking further down into the lounge chair she sprawled across. The sloppy smile on your face was the truest indication of your contentment, and Wanda, though she wondered who had been the one to feed you so much alcohol without her realizing, returned the grin.

Natasha and Yelena were noticeably missing from the circle, but the silhouettes of their wild hair and toned shoulders were figures or darkness in the kitchen that promised a quick return. Natasha, though only an inch or so taller than her sister, wore her curls in a messy bun that slipped lower and lower down her head as the hours carried on. She was easiest to spot from a distance, the shadow of her presence known perfectly to you. Wanda didn’t pay you much attention other than the firm hand on your belly, but you were content to just be with her as she laughed and caught up with the blonde woman sat beside her; Carol Danvers.

“They put up a new plaque for Pietro today.” Carol laughed at the inkling of information she had forgotten to share earlier in the afternoon, and Wanda craned her head in hopeful willingness that Carol would share more. “He would’ve loved it. He’s the only bastard on the squad that was dumb enough to have a catch phrase.”

As if that mentioned catch phrase had been sitting on the lips of every person gathered around the fire, it fell from soft tongues without a moment of hesitation. Messy, not at all in tune, but seemingly perfect to Wanda who smiled when horrible Sokovian accents caught up to her ears and the words her brother had made his slogan lived on when even he didn’t, “You didn’t see that coming.”

Memorial day has never held much significance to you. It had been just another holiday that sat on the start of summer, sometimes warm enough for gatherings like these, and sometimes not. Until you realized that the American flag folded in militant perfection in the master bedroom was a symbol of remembrance, you hadn’t thought it held much significance to the CEO’s either. Even though you hadn’t known Pietro, his life ending years before your path had crossed with the Maximoff’s, you smiled. His name had lingered in conversations throughout the day, and you didn’t question how loved he still was after years of absence.

Wanda’s lips were heavy on the crown of your head when she leaned down to kiss you. You leaned into the touch, your eyes fluttering closed for the briefest second before they opened and found Natasha admiring the sight of you. Two beers retrieved from the cooler near the pool sat in her hands, one cracked open and extended in your direction.

“She doesn’t need anymore.” Wanda rolled her eyes, but didn’t stop you from grabbing the long necked bottle Natasha offered and adjusting yourself in her lap so that you could sip on it easily, having already spilled one drink down the front of you. With your back against her chest, and your legs situated between hers, you had to crane your neck to catch even the slightest glimpse of her face, but her arms around your torso were the physical assurance of her presence. She rubbed at the skin of your belly that had grown pink and warm beneath the sun, not yet tan, but it would come soon. The hickey on your chest had long since been forgotten, though Yelena had posed many questions of its origin before Kate slapped her shoulder and changed the topic. You’d been accepted without question, and you found that while some of their friends were painfully intimidating, Maria and Carol, they were truly sweethearts who had the same tendencies of protection as your dominants.

When your beer had grown warm, and your cheeks had grown flusher, having been in no hurry to finish it off and replenish it like Yelena was doing, you passed the near empty bottle off to Natasha who had taken it not without an exasperated roll of her eyes and a mumbled sentence along the lines of being nothing but your servant. You had giggled, shrugged your shoulders, and curled further into Wanda who didn’t seem to even flinch at your elbow digging into her ribs.

Despite your determination to remain awake, sleep won over you just as quickly as drunkenness had. Wanda merely rubbed your back in encouragement, being the single factor that had forced you into soft unconsciousness when conversations still buzzed around you. With your eyes closed and your breathing even, no chance of being woken even by the harshest storm, conversation had naturally flowed away from Pietro and onto you, but both Wanda and Natasha welcomed the new topic if it meant having the welcomed opportunity to boast about just how truly sweet you are.

“I see you played the long game, Maximoff.” Maria winked at the Sokovian, her icy blue eyes admiring your innocent form as you attempted to wiggle closer to the auburn haired women who held you tightly. If you could find a way to burrow yourself beneath her skin, she knew that you would’ve done so already.

“Patience rewards those who have it.” Wanda merely smirked in response, running her pruney fingers from hours of holding sweating cans and bottles through your chlorine stiff hair. “She just needed a little encouragement.”

“She wasn’t the only one.” Natasha rolled her eyes, sipping slowly on her beer that despite the warmth, still brought a piece of home over her longing heart. Russians may drink vodka, but Melina Vostokoff had always preferred a beer.

Wanda shrugged, knowing that despite her persistently cold demeanor, she had never truly doubted how her heart yearned for you. “It’s not my fault you brought home a brat.”

“If I remember correctly, you said the same thing when you met Natasha.” Carol smirked over the lip of her can, her eyes burning holes into the side of Natasha’s face, though the Russian pointedly ignored her stare.

“Watch it, Danvers.” She warned, but surrendered to the teasing she had missed in recent months. Life was busy, but they’d always find a reason to come back together.

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lolita-lollipop · 3 months

Text

Red

You, a mere farm girl, has found herself living a nightmare after hearing countless town rumors of a barbarian society moving west. A quiet girl in a quiet town is faced with many shocking discoveries in a matter of two days.

the day was hot, miserably so. the sun beating down on your bare back with an unrelenting warmth, making your work twenty times harder. The sun even warmed up the dirt and stone lying underneath your bare feet, working the fields barefoot was already hard enough, the burning sensation under your feet made it no easier.

You couldn't remember the last time you had water, or any form of nutrition. They didn't bother feeding the "low class" likes of you anymore, field and cattle workers, endlessly working for the sake of producing cash crops and cattle for the village. It wasn't slavery, they couldn't call it slavery as it had been outlawed for years now in this kingdom. Even so, you were paid dirt and were treated as slaves always had been.

you worked and worked and worked night and day, in every season of the year for the "sake of the village" they would say, you among a small group of farm workers lived in a small barn out back, with no insulation or form of bathroom. you shared one room between sixteen workers a small space not fit for even two.

Every day, all day, you would find yourself in a similar situation to this one, in a small sack of a dress covered in dirt, knees on the ground with your hands enveloped completely in dirt either pulling weeds from the ground or planting small seeds for potatoes or carrots or the occasional beet, with the hot sun beating down on your back, heaving and panting. just like you always did, you dug through the soil, pulling out weeds, your bare feet digging into the dirt behind you, burning with the heat of the sun. you were humming an old lullaby your mother used to sing before she died, peacefully doing your work no matter how hot and miserable you should be.

your humming came to a halt when you heard a burst of girly young giggles echo through the field off in the distance, the village girls. They would sometimes come out here for fun, either to make fun of the workers or to run around the fields, the owners didn't care so neither did you, if the rich kids liked the farm than so did their parents, meaning more money for everybody but you. You found yourself envious of their freedom in life. They didn't have to work, not like you did. You were about the same age, yet they were dressed in pretty sundresses with bows in their hair, while you were reduced to something akin to a potato sack, hair tied back in plain looking ponytail, they were plump and round and beautiful while you stayed frail and skinny and sickly looking.

You found yourself staring at them, hidden among the plants and crops, unseen by their unfocused eyes, it was easy to just drift off, to imagine yourself giggling with them, being part of their group, gossiping about the town rumors. It was a nice thought. unachievable, but nice.

"Did you hear about that foreighn kingdom conquering west?" they giggled to each other, clearly not noticing you tucked behind the corn rows. You had yet to hear anything about any foreign kingdom, then again you were fairly uninformed, your only news coming from your colleagues or your boss, who spoke to you once or twice a month. The two other girls let out false-sounding gasps, intrigued.

"I know right? My father speaks about the towns they've conquered. Apparently, it's brutal, they leave no survivors and burn the fields and town. " The girl's giggles became hushed and quiet as she went on, listening intently with wide eyes, you sat behind the plants. They were smiling as she said all of this, wasn't this supposed to be sad, be awful? how could they laugh at the destruction of so many towns? So many lives?

"My mother has been talking about the same things! Apparently, a couple survivors tried to come into town, and the guards sent them packing though. Good thing too, they looked dirty. dirt belongs in the field, not in a home." she brought her hand to her lips and let out a giggle, the rest followed suit while you stared. You couldn't tell if they were being serious, they lived ina different world, that much was obvious.

"Ive heard stories! How they kill the women and children in front of their families, burn down homes and villages, apparently their leader is the worst of them. The biggest and strongest and meanest" she snickered in a disgusting, prissy rich way.

"We dont have to worry of course, they would spare us, father would pay them all the money in the world. Its the low levels who should be worried." They all erupted in giggles at that one, and all looked towards your fellow workers, pointing at their clothes and matted hair and dirty hands. You were apart of the "low levels" as they had said, you hated that. And you hated these girls for making you feel less than them just for not being born with a roof over your head.

You scowled at them, now hating them with all of your energy. Maybe it was best that you stayed away from them, it makes sense why you aren't part of their clique, why you never would be part of their clique. Fuck them, and their high-class prissy fathers. You let out a sigh and tried to back up, wanting to disappear among the plants, accidentally cracking a stick with your bare foot and letting a hiss. All of their heads snapped towards your hidden spot.

"Who's there?" The snooty one with the high pitched nasally voice screeched out. You slapped your hand over your mouth, inching back as fast as you could without making noise, the owners of the farm would beat you if they knew you were eavesdropping on the high class girls.

"Its probably one of those workers" the other hissed, poison laced in her tone.

"Come out freak! you like listening on our conversation?" You ran as they yelled for you, abandoning your seeds and work. Their taunts followed you, however eventually their voices quieted and you were left with the shocking information that a foreign barbarian kingdom was migrating west. You were west, and so was your village. They were moving towards you, especially if the survivors from a raid were close enough to walk on foot to your village, they had to be close.

By the time the sun went down and all the workers were in the servants quarters you were able to ask your questions, the younger workers knew nothing, but the elderly and middle aged were willing to tell the stories from their younger times of the war. You had never taken a history class, or any class at all for that matter so you had no clue about anything they would say, you hadn't even known that there was a war.

They were foreigners who lived among the trees and the mountains, known for brutal manslaughter, they weren't human, that much a clear. They were giant apparently, after and stronger and larger,ith predatory instincts and habits, they were like animals. . They even lived longer. The eldest of the women here had been in one of the village raids all those years ago, they killed her entire family while she was hiding in the closet, then burned her house down, leaving her with burn scars all over her body. They told stories of torture and theft and assault, and the worst part about it was that they had no motive other than bloodlust, they looted homes, but they never demanded money or women or crops. Nobody knew what they wanted, they never told the towns their demands, they would just come and go, leaving fire and death in their dust.

The fact that they were approaching closer and closer as the days ticked by, left you shaking.

Mentions of their brutal leader left you even more fearful, as he preyed on the weak. Tearing out the throats of innocents and ignoring pleas or cries for help. You were weak. Like all those he has killed.

You went to sleep that night hoping that it was all just rumors, silly townsfolk gossip that the girls made up to fill the boredom and free time.

needless to say, you didn't sleep much that night.

---

When you woke up,the quarters were empty, you shared a bed with four other people, so waking up without the company of another was quite jarring. At first, you jolted out of bed, terrified of missing the morning work, knowing it would surely receive you a beating. However the others would wake you up if you had not arisen with the rest, and it was still quite dark outside, so that simply hadn't made any sense. looking around, the room was in a state of disarray, the beds oddly moved around, the thin blankets strewn about, and the little belongings that all of you had were either gone or thrown around the room. What had happened while you were asleep, and more importantly, how had you slept through it?

then, the smell of smoke hit you.

Thick and heavy it brought bile to your throat, this wasn't a forest fire or campfire, this wasn't something where empty air was burning, this smelled like meat, like flesh and bone being burned. you gagged, covering your mouth and nose with the thin fabric of the blanket. you stumbled out the creaky door of your quarters, coughing and trying to block the smell out, but were halted in your tracks.

Fire. Fire everywhere. The farm, the house, even the forest around. The only thing left untouched was the animal barn, thank god. Your eyes widened as you took in the sight of acres of land ablaze, weeks and weeks of work lit with slivers of red and yellow light. The warmth radiating off of it burned your face. were you dreaming? this must be some form of a dream.

dream or not, you were in danger.

Once you were able to get over the initial shock of your home being literally lit on fire, you tried to tune into any other noises than the crackling sound of flames. Anything to hint where you should go, where you should run. You had never left this farm, your mother was a slave here before it was outlawed, and you were born into the work, forbidden to leave. Not once had you stepped foot into town, and you certainly have never left the town. You didn't know where to go.

Then you heard it, the screams. people, so many people screaming, you didn't know where to go, but it would be in the opposite direction of wherever that was, whatever was making that noise. So, with a very impulsive decision you ran away from the screams, into the direction of an empty winding dirt road, you tried to think logically, if you could find someone then you could follow them and figure out where to go.

The quiet running was harsh on your bare feet, sprinting down the empty dirt road as quietly as you could was not easy for somebody medically unwell and malnourished. However, there would be much time later to sulk over achy bones and pained feet. Was there anybody even here? you could still smell the stench, although it was getting softer. However, you still clutched the cotton blanket in your hand. Your pace slowed as exhaustion kicked in, and to your luck, you heard voices. Not quiet and soft like the ones you were used to, loud and boisterous. men.

you found yourself frozen on the trail, listening in on the conversation as best as you could you inched to the side of the road, trying to hide among the trees. They looked strange, not dressed all properly like the owner of the farm or the village girls you had seen. Their clothes were woven in a precise ay you had never seen before, jewels and beads hung from their hair and necks, chests bare and blood splattered.The more you stared, the weirder and weirder they looked, too large, too muscular, their voices too harsh. inhuman sounding.

"The towns already a fucking gonor, chief said to wait to set the forest on fire till he was done in the homes" One of the Men laughed out with a menacing cackle, his shoulders shaking, the others seemed too happy, too excited to be starting fires. They were up to this.

"Those guards were a riot though. All tough until they realized we weren't going down "Please spare me!" and "We'll let you in we swear!"" the other mocked in a high-pitched voice. They laughed along as they mocked the guards of your town. As they walked down the road, getting closer and closer to you by the second, you were now able to see blood all over them, splattered on their strange clothing. Your breath hitched as they passed you, still hiding in the bushes by the side of the road.

Thank god they hadn't seen you, whoever they were, they clearly would not do you well. Two giant men conversing about arson and the death of the town guards were not anybody you wanted to mess with.

wait.

The realization hit you like a brick. These were the foreign raiders from the east. How were you so stupid, how had you let yourself forget in the span of a couple hours? They were tearing your town apart just like the others before. That's why your farm was ablaze. Thats why your Coworkers were gone. Thats why you heard screaming.

Your breath hitched as a couple tears left your eyes, you clutched the blanket in your hand, oh god, your town was going to be one of many trampled and raided beyond repair. your knees began to quiver along with your hands, you were a gonor. you had to run. now.

Stumbling back from the shock of the realization, you turned to quietly make your way further down the road, away from the town, away from those men. They were far enough that they wouldn't hear your quiet footsteps, you were sure of it. So you held your breath and pulled away from the tree, staying in the dark.

However, while your footsteps were quiet as a mouse, the same white blanket that had brought you comfort just moments ago had doomed you, when you had maneuvered away so focused on the quietness of your footsteps, you had failed to notice that delicate cotton blanket had gotten snagged on a tree branch. pulling away from you and causing a loud snap in the branches. Your breath hitched as you stared at the tree with wide eyes, stumbling back and letting the blanket free from your hand. You sent a glance at the two men who had been meters away, praying for their hearing to be weaker than their muscles.

They were instead, standing feet away from you, staring directly at you.

A whimper escaped your lips as you backed away in fear, turning on your heel and making a move to run directly backwards. Not before the taller of the two could reach out and grab the collar of the sack you called a dress, yanking you back and knocking the wind out of you. before you knew it you were lifted off the ground with one arm by the collar of your dress, staring in terror as the eight foot tall man in front of you looked down with excited eyes. He flashed a smile with all too sharp teeth, sending you sprialing into endless fear.

The other said something in what sounded like a foreign language, not something you would ever understand. Before you could move, the larger of the two bendy down and smelled the air right next to you, with that his smile dropped and the two locked eyes. Some kind of realization hit them as well, while you remained unknowing and absolutely terrified.

"well, looks like we missed one, didnt we?" he questioned with a deep voice, the fear alone sent your heart into a free fall, beating out of control. you couldn't breathe, your lungs pulsing in and out against your will as panic flooded them. spots clouded yourision as the man continued to say something, and with one breath you felt your consciousness slip out from under your feet.

---

you woke up lying on the hard feeling of cement stones, the stench from the fire before worse than you had ever smelled it, sending you into a fit of coughs. Squinting your eyes open, you were able to see small cottage-like buildings, you were in the village, weren't you? You were in the square judging by the large open space of square stones. with heavy eyelids you tried to unblur your vision, and as you did, you found that cold sense of panic enveloping your bloodstream yet again. red, red everywhere. you were sitting in a puddle of it.

Silently freaking out, you pushed yourself up with weak limbs, trying your best to stand, you couldn't remember what had happened, but you were still alive, that's what was important. looking around none of those men were near, but the fires were. should you even bother running? would they come back and catch you. there was blood soaked through your dress, your head ached, and you found your bare feet wet with the blood of the townsfolk.

you found yourself dry heaving due to the stench, tears escaping your eyes, all while stumbling around the square in the meantime. your attention was immediately drawn to the high pitched screaming of what sounded to be a girl. finding the sound with your eyes, it was one of the girls from the farm, white bow still tied in her hair. She was lying on the ground, a pool of blood lying at where her head had met the stone just moments ago, her hands were up above her head in a shield-like motion.

"Please! Please! I can pay you anything you want! Money and jewels or crops I swear I am no commoner! I just need my father! Please!" she screamed up, your eyes panned up from the girl lying on the ground to a man. not just a man, a giant. at least ten feet tall with arms a width larger than your head, he had icy hair that seemed to stick out in every direction like an explosion, and eyes. oh god. his eyes were red as the blood surrounding him, piercing and raging more so than anything you had ever seen. He was looking down at her like she was a bug ready to be squashed, with such hatred that you could swear he had a personal vendetta.

This was him, this was the infamous leader that was ever-so talked about. and he exceeded expectations, this man was a walking nightmare, fear itself packed into ten feet of muscle and blonde hair. You hadn't even realized his plans until his foot came down on her head, and with a crunch, the screaming came to an abrupt halt.

For the third time in two days, you found yourself frozen, staring at somebody you would never dare to talk to. And for the third time,they were staring right back at you.

The giant man flicked his boot as red splattered on the ground next to him, all while still staring at you, he let the girl's wrist go, and dropped her body to the ground with a thump. he made slow strides to a frozen little you, each step sending shivers down your spine, as you stumbled back, finally able to move, he was already inches in front of you, leaning over to be face to face.

You didn't bother running, learning from your mistakes that running results in nothing and you still get caught. Instead, you met his eyes for a moment, finding something else deep down. He was leaned over, bent down on one knee, inches away from your face. this was it, you give up. you're dead.

you squinted your eyes closed, deciding it would be best not to look as you met your inevitable death, face to face with the grim reaper himself, you chose not to stare him in the eye. peacefully accepting your fate. You waited for impact, waited to feel something hit you over the head or knock your kneecaps out. You waited for something, anything to end your miserable existence.

but it never came.

your hands quivering, your heart pittering in your chest at five hundred beats per minute. tears running freely down your cheeks, catching dirt and blood on the way down. A hand gently met your face, cupping your cheek, You peeled your eyes open to meet his own piercing crimson globes.

And to your surprise, the man smiled. not like the smile the others gave you, not like a predator bearing its teeth, but a genuine smile, one that you had only ever seen worn by your mother.

"Pretty" he grumbled out, an accent hanging over his voice. it was deep and gravelly and powerful. his giant hand came up to touch your cheek and wipe your tears away, wiping dirt and blood off with his fingertips. This hands could crush your neck with ease if he wanted to, but he wont. Why wont he?

"Why are you doing this?" you sobbed out, finding every last ounce of fight left in you to pull back from his touch and defiantly meeting his crimson gaze once more. your breathing shallow, you felt at risk of feinting once more. He tilted his head with a questioning grunt, and you decided to play your luck once more.

"Why do you raid my village, what have you to gain? You sobbed in his face and his smile shifted and morphed slowly into a frown, he cocked his head even further, his face twisting up into confusion.

"This is not a raid, we do not raid. were not cruel. " His gruff voice continued to send shivers down your spine, yet his words let rage flow through your bones. hundreds dead, maybe thousands, all of your friends, and family even, probably also dead. and this "wasn't a raid" according to him. you couldn't find it in yourself to care that he was twice your height, and quadruple your strength, you wanted to hit him so hard that he would feel it for days, even if it meant breaking your wrist.

"Theyre all dead, why? We have done nothing." You couldn't believe you were talking to one of them right now, you could barely believe that you had the courage to even muster a word, let alone a whole conversation. His hand found your waist, the other touching your face once more. What the hell was happening? surrounded by blood and death and this man, no, this thing was touching youso lovingly. the shivering of your hands threatened to come back again as you held his gaze.

"We look for our mates, and we prove that we are strong enough to be worth your time." The second the words left his mouth youwere once again reminded that he was anything but a human, they were creatures of nature, you'd seen squirells and horses and cows find mates, never humans. but you were stupid to think he was even remotely close to a human. the words had your face twisting in distress, and you stumbling back, your consciousness threatening to slip from under you once more.

"mates?" you questioned, voice wavering with uncertainty. this could not be happening, you could not be talking about love surrounded by bodies on top of bodies in a burning town with a man who wasn't really a man and instead a foreign alien like giant creature.

"mates,

you."

and with those words your eyes rolled back into your skull and your consciousness slipped through the cracks of the stone, you fell forward and the man was glad to catch you. standing up with you in his arms was a triumphant moment for him, finding his mate as a real, as a king was a monumentous occasion. you were his, undeniably his. he had finally found you.

katsuki bakugou had finally found his mate.

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