#this song is as cruel as some children can be | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

comfortless · 9 months ago

Text

Only Other

chapter one of three.

Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of gore, groping, dubcon sword/knifeplay. additional warnings will be added to the next two chapters.

notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^

wc: 11k.

The barbarians are here.

The dream of river water lapping over your knees and songbirds in swaying trees fades out into a hazy fog as you begin to rise, dropping your legs from the mattress to spur yourself to move across the small room as quietly as your feet can carry you.

Heavy footfalls and staggering hoof beats from their horses weighed down by heavy sacks of supplies is what has pulled you from sleep.

The flames of their torches crackle, accompanied by the shrieks of clanging, well-polished metals singing out as if in the throes of war becomes a dull song; weapons, wicked and crudely crafted unlike the spears of the soldiers donned in red you were so accustomed to by now.

You had heard the whispers on the wind of the untamed beasts from Germania filtering in, settling down here; their arms and their blood for just a sliver of land to claim, soil to birth farmland, a semblance of peace from within the walls of the great empire.

Never, in these small words from gossiping tongues, did you suspect that these rugged men would be taking to camp so very close to your city. Not only that… they’ve been accepted into the walls, the door flung open for them with their gnashing teeth and thick, ugly weapons. These men of myth were usually set further out into the countryside, far from view of polite people to sow seed in soft fields, build the little shacks that seemed far too fragile for their rugged forms that could never compare to the villas built here.

Peering over the sill of the open window, stretching your upper half out into crisp night air to catch a glimpse of torches sailing along the breeze, flames just as ever-shifting as their darkened silhouettes, your breath seems to halt entirely. They look the trueness of harbingers like this: each somehow more imposing than the one they follow behind. You count only two horses split between the eight men of this small band.

Could any of them even speak in your tongue?

What stories could they tell?

Had any of them ventured as far as the sea or had they only bathed in waves of warm blood?

With eyes wide, you even dare to perch there to watch on, never bothering to conceal your underclothes with the faith that the darkness would hide away anything more than a illusory view of your shape.

Through the faint glow of the yellow-red flickering flames, your gaze drifts to something large, hulking and brutish, darker still against the backdrop of a sable horizon.

The shadow walks in line with the others, their proud and raucous foreign voices feathering through the otherwise quieted air… only he does not speak, does not make a single utterance of mirth or glee. He stares only forward as his feet tread on just paces behind the rest of the group.

Nine, then.

Like the tales you’ve heard of the Goths, you’ve also listened in on the children spinning wild stories of monsters, the legends of heroes of old slaying cruel beasts told by their elders. You had always believed them, even without the evidence currently striding through the sleeping streets, dark like a crypt, like the underworld itself. A true titan.

Just as your eyes track the brooding, silent form, he abruptly turns his head in your direction.

The glow of a nearby torch paints the shrouded face in the color of a dying sun, casts a glint on the thick seax strapped to his hip.

In that moment, it isn’t wonderment curling through your blood, but surprise, maybe even a tinge of fear.

Your heart hammers as you pull yourself from the window to whisper hurried, hushed prayers to Juno, protectress of women, as you reject your curious nature and climb back into your bed. You’ll bring your offerings to her altar just as any devout: incense and a sweet pastry so long as she keeps you safe, chaste.

Buried beneath cushions stuffed with straw and thin fabric sheets to tuck yourself away, you wish only to return to dreaming of the river’s silt beneath your feet and colorful birds parading past in the open air that smells only of violets and honey.

Instead, you dream of fire.

You dream of the city bathed in gold, molten and angry as the walls come down around you.

You watch as your neighbors, friends, all begin to writhe and shriek as their skin begins to blister, boil beneath until it melts layer by precious layer to puddle like oil where feet once stood until the mighty, wraithful scorch takes even that away too. What once was human becomes smoke: women, men, children, it made no difference. It all becomes a mighty roaring flame as the structures wail and crumble around you.

Yet, you remain untouched.

Dawn breaks with the puppets sewn in shadow all but entirely forgotten, washed away in the fearsome tides of your own dreaming.

You startle and bolt upright as you wipe cold sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

You’re no oracle: it’s just a dream… Vulcan would never turn his fiery gaze to your people after you’ve all honored him so, the offerings paid at his altar had been plentiful this past year with the steady expansion of the empire and the need for well-smithed weapons.

There were no volcanoes here to sweep away your life with magma and sulfur… only the lemures that haunted old shacks with their wailing had paid a visit to you last night. You let them in with your fears, and you would ward them away next with your courage.

The sun’s warmth creeps its way in, sweeps up from your blanketed legs until it curls and caresses at your cheek. From its positioning, proud and impossibly high in the sky it’s almost as though Sol himself were staring down at you, radiant yet scolding.

You’ve overslept.

Hurriedly, you ready yourself for the day, cinching your waist, clasping the shoulder of the stola, and dutifully washing your face with still water held in a clay pot. There was little else to do than bide your time with tedium: the animals loitering about needed tending to, a neglected sewing project lay strewn across the floor that had long-awaited its completion, and as the questions began to stir in your mind again… perhaps, gods willing, you would safely be gifted the opportunity to peek at the barbarian camp. To see that peculiar titan that they kept tethered at their sides.

It was dangerous and unheard of for a maiden, of course, but with little else to do than work and practice stitching threads for a betrothed you held no true affection for, this was a significant reprieve from the humdrum of what was scrawled out into the stars.

You weren’t given the luxury of further studies and communing with the aristocrats at their hearty banquets, sipping wine and prattling onwards about politics and how to further Rome as a whole. A part of you preferred this simple life of taking to the street, to peruse the market with what little money you held clutched in your palm, to pet the horses and watch as bulls sparred out in the fields beyond. Returning home to an empty house was a comfort, too.

As always, the market is a lively place, full to bursting with people exchanging anything under the sun, either beneath painted wooden stalls or from the first floor of their very homes, all with very little regard for you.

The city was simply too full to take in every name and face, and only their chatter seemed to intrigue you anyhow. You didn’t need a scroll or a song about each individual, your people were easy enough to read: war, pride, and duty all embedded into their very blood. The only ones that drew your attention were the poets and bards, entertainers who spun their stories of lives vastly different from your own… but there were none awaiting coin on the streets today.

A man passes with his wife at his side, loudly bolstering onward about his progress on some expedition.

Women with flowers woven into the braids of their hair laugh softly behind their palms as they exchange their secrets in singsong whispers.

The children play and pocket with eager palms when salesmen are unaware, likely to be caught later on and have their hands whipped raw.

There’s no talk of the Goths.

With these foreign men, most of your people seemed unbothered, taking solace in the knowledge that the empire’s cavalry would ride to strike down any opposition. A tentative, arrogant sort of comfort that you knew very well not to trust entirely. Most were simply not as educated on the potential of what could be, hadn’t snuck around on quiet feet to listen in on the men discussing failed treaties and negotiations.

The Goths could find their own food, their own women and shelters after fighting for the empire for a time: likely what they were here to do… give up their lives in exchange for a sliver of a Roman dream. A band as small as the one you witnessed could never quite hope to topple an empire, anyhow.

That sense of safety brought forth disinterest and smug little grins with little else to say, whereas your mind only took to further conjuring curiosity.

The more you wander the more you question whether you saw them at all, or if they were mere specters, already slain and silenced on some field far off from here, long dead and forgotten by all but the sleep-addled mind of a maiden.

You’ve never felt so disheartened. Though the city remained constantly bustling and full of intrigue when you knew where to look, these days the ease of it all only seemed to further the boredom. If nothing were to come, it would be no surprise to find that Juno would serve her purpose, looking after all with her blessings. You almost regret calling for her safety last night.

If the barbarians were indeed real, had some plot to overthrow an empire with their small numbers, perhaps only a vulture would be pleased with your thoughts now: teetering on the cusp of anticipation and wonder. You would never think yourself treasonous, but to learn, to see more… Your appetite for something further than a life spent sewing and child-rearing after marrying a man that made your skin prickle with distaste in the coming winter was rational.

Maybe not to most, but to you.

The fruit stall pulls you from thought with its sappy, honey-sweet scent and brilliant colors littered in crates: reds, greens, even some soft and blue… You only then notice you’ve been standing entirely still here, lost in thought, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to split the world in two.

Two apricots were purchased, one for you and the other for the gray mare in the stable you had grown fond of. You give the merchant a smile and a few bronze coins and carry on your way, nibbling at one of the fruits on your walk.

There were usually servants tending to the horses just beyond the city's paved streets, but it seemed today they were busy with other affairs: Quinquatria would be upon the city soon, and there was much to prepare for such an important festival. The place was empty all apart from yourself and the horses, some off in the fields to gallop to their heart’s content, while others like your mare, secured by wooden gates and paddocks.

You feed her, cooing gently as she takes the pitted fruit from your hand and between her blunt teeth; then, allows you to lead her into the grass with your honeyed words and languid steps.

One day, you hoped to have the opportunity to ride her, perhaps far away to touch the waters of the ocean, to see the foreign trees in some great adventure that would leave you more fulfilled. Ideally, without being weighed down heavy with child.

Your hand strokes at her nose before she begins to tense, eyes wandering from your form to something just beyond, far off and nestled in tall, fluttering grass and small bushes. You track her gaze for a moment, finally turning to look over your shoulder.

The wind has the tops of the trees swaying along the hills, grass pushed down to kiss the earth with each flutter of air. It all smells and feels so gentle, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the soil and salt of the earth itself. Ceres would have found herself prideful at the sight; everything rich and lush with the spring… Harvests would be bountiful this year, and everyone would be well-fed and contented. It’s no surprise that after pilfering through old calendars and running his tests upon the soil, Gaius had declared that this was the year he would take you to be his wife.

Past the expanse of soft blossoms and a cavalcade of greenery, all sweeping and rolling, a beauty that would stifle anyone should they think to look hard enough… but amidst all of this sits a man that you recognize immediately. Though he remains utterly faceless, his stature is somehow enough to make a gladiator blush and turn tail in shame.

There, just where the hill dips down and gives way to the soft rush of the stream, sits your warrior. His head is lowered as he crouches by the water, hands tucked to his front as he busies himself with something in his lap. The bare expanse of his back presented to you is unfathomable even from such a distance.

The men from Germania were said to be huge, dwarfing those that you were accustomed to by lengths, tall and thick like the weapons that they carry. They were said to be handsome, too… and like some hazy dream you were already certain that he was, somehow, beneath the pelt tied round his waist to keep him warmed at night, the sable shroud hanging over his head as he works away at sharpening the blade laying over his lap.

Your legs feel weak like a freshly birthed lamb’s as you watch him; the muscles of his bare arms bulging and quivering, his nude back tensing with effort. The soft rays of the sun beaming down only seem to paint him golden, untouchable except by higherborn women and men who could pay well to have him dirty his blade or his cock. Radiant, cruel, maybe even a bastard son of Mars himself, because what better a place for a man so vast and laden with scar tissue to be than in the midst of some great war.

Someone like this, you know with a certainty, would have no time for fickle maidens with their heads filled with the fluff of fantasies, and in a way that only seems to solidify a plume of possessiveness stirred up within your head.

You wonder even, if he calls to Vulcan as he pauses to hold his blade up to the sun to marvel at his work, the sharpened silver glinting in the light. The weapon casts its rays to only further illuminate the paleness of his flesh, coupled with the gleam of the flowing water ebbing past it only serves to make him look the very picture of those old stories and myths. The older women in the city would have tapestries embroidered of this scene, no doubt, if they could see through your eyes now.

Your horse trots off, satisfied that there is no true threat here, and you feel yourself begin to creep forward.

The gods and goddesses must play their tricks, because you are no fool. The pull only feels undeniable, something that you could not fight with a stern will alone. You pacify your impromptu decision with the thought that you could turn away at any point in the meters it would take to reach him. Surely, if he turned to face you before then that same fear from the night before would come to surface and you would sprint, startled and wary.

Perhaps he would even give chase…

There’s no excitement to be held on him, either acutely unaware or ignoring your presence entirely as you draw ever-closer. The grass softens your footsteps, the breeze blanketing any sound from each shift of your legs beneath the linen stola. You’re near silent in your approach, only halting where the hill crests over the bank several paces away from where he remains seated.

Only then does he turn to look your way.

There’s no greeting, no display of friendliness. His body language remains closed off, distant, like that of a wolf in cautious preparation; deciding whether or not it would be necessary to bare his teeth, to snap and growl until your flesh rends beneath him.

So it’s left up to you and to Juno who remains harbored in your heart. The goddess would protect you most assuredly, you’ve left her offerings for as long as you could remember, prayed at her altars and devoted yourself entirely— perhaps not in the same way of the temple maidens, but certainly more so than most.

You take a breath, watching him with kind eyes and an air of unease about you that only seems sweet by comparison to the very danger that his presence proposes. He only returns your stare with something colder, detached and unamused beneath that ugly veil he wears: two holes for the eyes, dyed beneath with the red rimming yellow like the tissue a butcher may find in a plump calf.

“Can you understand me?”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows your frail question. The titan stares, looks you over from the crown of your head, briefly pauses midway- at your hips- then further. It’s both heated and cold, coaxing yet analytical.

Finally, the barbarian gives a curt nod in response, seeming no less frigid and closed off even as your voice feathers over the breeze. But he understands, can decipher your language, that’s a start.

“You are… one of the barbarians, yes?” Is that even what they preferred to be called? The word certainly sounded prettier on your tongue than the brutish pronunciation of ‘Goths’. There would certainly be some price to be paid if your blood was spilled over a mere insult…

Graciously, he only seems to overlook it as he sheaths his blade and rises to his full height, tall like the mountains you had only heard stories of, where gods and goddesses sit in council not meant for mortal ears.

Freed of any covering upon his upper body, you find yourself reluctantly mesmerized by the trail of light hair that runs from chest to abdomen and down further… until a little tuft peeks from the hem of the pelt tied around his narrow hips. The layer of fat over his midsection paves a way upward to reveal the muscles of his chest, wider and more prominent somehow than most breasts you’ve seen.

Unruly thoughts clutter that would have others questioning your status and devotion to your Gaius if they could hear them. It couldn’t be helped, you reason; you had never seen a man quite so vast, so meant for battle and breeding.

“That is what your people call me,” he huffs, bull preparing to charge. His words come out with a thick accent, northern. The trees and mountains would sound similar if they could speak at all.

He drinks you in with his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as though itching to touch your most sensitive parts. Though he doesn’t move yet, you get the sense that all it would take is one false move, a skitter in your step that leaves you tumbling to the earth, and he would be upon you like the downpours of spring. You even wonder if he would roar like the thunder delivered from Jupiter’s weighty palms if he were to mount you.

Of course, what he sees before him is not a maiden of Rome. His people didn’t care for purity, for your religions and ideals: you’re a fertile little doe, wandering straight to a buck in his prime.

You swallow hard, a little bob from your fragile throat, to force those treasonous thoughts from your mind. Even talking to this man was a risk to your reputation… Your poor betrothed, nearing thrice your age and horribly delicate by comparison to this beast, would be up in arms if he were to find you here. More concerning, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

“What do you call yourself, then?” Your voice comes almost breathless, thighs pressed together beneath your stola as your own body sends its signs and omens to tell you that you’re precariously close to the underworld just by gracing him with your presence. Perhaps it would be that dark, too, if this giant decided to push you to the soil, hover over you as he plucked you apart like petals from a flower.

His eyes track that subtle shift of your legs, crinkling at the outer corners when they roam back upward to your face. The beast grins beneath his hood, you’re certain of it, and those eyes of pale blue seem to glitter like the sun's rays on the stream to your side. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his hips just slightly forward, some strange display undoubtedly meant to tempt and charm you.

You don’t budge from your perch, despite your body’s persistent singing for him. Enticing scents and views of flesh could do that… this man wasn’t special, you were just curious. That’s all that it was.

“König.” He answers things plainly in that lilted voice, as though he’s trying to seem more of a man to spite that boyish way of speaking. And gods help you- it’s cute.

“Does it have meaning?,” you settle to ask when he does not request your name in turn. A bit rude, though you do wonder if perhaps the bullish men in his settlements see delicate things like you more like pets anyhow. The thought of this warrior whisking you away and naming you one day… You swallow that lump in your throat again, teetering back on your heels as if to place more distance between you two.

“What do you think it means?”

That simple non-answer does finally allow your pulse to settle, only to rise immediately to find it insulting— as if this wild man with no proper education had the right to insult you at all.

He only smiles again beneath that veil when your face sours. Awful, wretched, gorgeous creature… You’re no threat to him and he knows it. He’s only playing with you, dodging your pretension with a bit of his own, and unfortunately… This is the most pleasant conversation that you’ve had with any man.

Your betrothed was only arrogant and dull, there’s no light in his eyes when he smiles at you- everything is duty. Not here. Not with König, and surely the goddess of marriage and love is frowning down at you from her lofty throne, because you’re almost certain you’re infatuated with the brute by now.

“You’re a bit rude.”

“King.” He grins, a grin that you can see when he frees the leather flask from his belt and shoves his mask upward to take a heavy gulp of what is undoubtedly Roman wine. The glimpse alone makes you weak again, honey drips from your thoughts to your cunt, and you know now that you were never simply curious.

No, this brute would be the end of your engagement and even you if you allowed it.

You watch him take his fill, catch the bitter scent in the air as a bit trickles down from his rough jaw to his throat, all covered in scars. He’s been in battle for a long time, likely why he wears the hood at all. The rest of that handsome face is undoubtedly a wreck just as what could be seen of his body, all covered in memories of where he’s had scrapes and dances with daggers only to fell his foes one by one with that long seax dangling from his hip.

After the hood and the flask are in their proper places once more, he gives you a nod, then speaks, “How many coins?”

It takes a moment for the question to register in full; he isn’t asking what you have on your person, but how much you’re worth. How much it would cost for you to spend a night in his bed, tolerating this giant between your legs…

Your attractions billow up in smoke immediately, just as you expression sours and your hands curl to fists at your side, crushing the half-eaten apricot in the process. You toss the ruined fruit to the ground, allowing the sweet juice to coat your fingers as it flows downward.

You wring your hand as you very nearly shout, “You are an animal. I’m not here to sell myself.”

Your voice falters to a meek, little whisper with your final words, the breath a weak gust through the first tiny blossoms of spring.

Of course he catches onto your body language, to the way your thighs rub and tense beneath your skirt, the way your nipples peak at the mere sight of him and all of the infatuation and curiosity in your eyes. Men knew things like this, offhandedly, it seemed; if the others were correct then this beast could surely smell you, too.

The bastard only stares, eyes narrowing as his brow pulls together beneath the hood in some strange confusion. The whores wore their togas, not the stolas of maidens and married women, even a barbarian should have known that: his men were certainly no strangers to the sweet women with their faces chalked in lead.

Then, his shoulders pull up to fall in a shrug.

“Run, then, little one.”

It’s almost as though he knows your thoughts in and out, a lemure himself as he presents the bulk of him that would strike fear into any man, taunts and goads. You don’t want another fire dream. You force your courage and mirror his stance: chin up, back straightened as you look down upon him like a goddess sent to deliver her fury with… a pitted apricot at your feet rather than bolts of famine and misfortunes.

His eyes become stars, twinkling in earnest when he sees you then. You’re no aristocrat, no empress, but you certainly feel the part when the giant’s gaze finally relaxes its pilferage and settles upon your face instead.

Your act is all for naught, because you realize that his men are approaching, opposite the stream. One of them was enough, but a hoard of others… You were not even certain that he could understand you properly, and the others could be even less patient. Your gaze travels over their forms, smaller than this ‘König’, but each equipped with their own weapons and their own scars from battle.

They look from their leader to you, eyes grazing over the plush flesh that your stola dutifully conceals like starved dogs. One of them mutters something in a foreign tongue, harsh and guttural, his eyes never leaving your shape in a display of brazen appraisal.

König responds in turn, voice taking on a lower octave as he all but barks his response: harsh, unyielding language that you couldn’t hope to interpret… but if you had to guess, you were nearly certain that his men were asking who would lift your skirts and have their way with you first.

You depart from them with tentative yet hurried feet, and you don’t look back as you cross across the lush field. There’s no stopping at the stable, not a thought in your head except that you would most assuredly not be returning. The barbarians could have the field, the stream, whatever the city’s officials had allowed them.

Just not you.

It’s Gaius that greets you when you arrive home, to the little villa he had secured for you; to the place that would become less of a home and more of a prison once the two of you were wed. You’re barely a foot in the door when the man’s gaunt face turns to you, his lips set in a stern line.

“Where were you?”

You knew that look, it’s the very same that he gives to his slaves when he’s about to bleat out his orders like an enraged goat, shove them or grab at them to feel less small than he truly is.

Your brow pinches, a shaky breath leaving your mouth as you try in earnest to look the part of an innocent lady who had not just crossed a field and fantasized endlessly of some rude, barbaric oaf.

“In the field. With the horses,” you deliver your half-truth with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time you’ve lied to him, and it certainly would not be the last. If the protectress of Rome could overlook your stunts and recognize your discomfort in this wretch’s presence… then she might even side with you; save you from a future of sharing this man’s bed.

Gaius relents then— as much as a stoic, old man could. He reaches out to cup your face with one weathered hand and you have to force back to urge to shudder.

It’s not that you mean to be cold, not after all that he’s done to care for you… it just comes as naturally as the seasons and the wills of the gods. Something about him always made you feel ill.

You eventually, tentatively jut your chin forward just a bit to force yourself into leaning toward the touch of his cold hand.

His lips curl into an unsightly grin; then, he pats your cheek and draws away enough to bless you with fresher air to breathe without his withering presence alone contaminating it.

“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”

“Oh…” Your words come in a little hiss, your heart stuttering in your chest as you teeter back on the heels of your sandals. The straps along your calves feel tighter now, your stola too… maybe even the room itself: everything seems to close in, and you could only silently hope he doesn’t request your affections for doing such. “… you didn’t have to-“

“Nonsense.” Gaius raises both of his hands, arcs them before stepping out of your path to reveal a new dress lying on the wooden table just beyond him, dyed a light blue.

It’s pretty, well-spun and soft-looking… yet you still hesitate a bit when you step closer to run your fingertips over the fabric. It yields beneath your touch, bunches when you move each digit along the pliant linen, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched, maybe even softer than the lambs and kittens you’ve played with in the streets.

“I thought that you might like something nicer to wear during Quinquatria,” he adds from just behind you. You feel his hands trace along your arms, further, until they reach your shoulders and give a gentle, but almost demanding squeeze.

It’s meant to be affectionate and he is your husband-to-be… but he still manages to make you feel ill. It’s only a blessing that he’s never requested more from you than a peck for his offerings to you.

What a man in his late stage of life could see in you, you couldn’t hope to imagine. A fertile womb, likely, and you could only hope that that isn’t also what he saw in the women he kept as slaves in his own home further toward the city’s center. Nosy, dull man that he was, of course he needed to be closer to the housings of banquets and discussions to feel some level of importance while he kept you locked away toward the wall and the slums like some filthy little mystery.

“I’m tired, my love,” you manage, voice thin as you slowly pull yourself away, from both Gaius and the delicate blue thing you would be forced into wearing for the coming festival.

The man balks, but doesn’t push. A few seasons and he would have what he’s awaited for years, the confident gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s certain of it.

It’s difficult to believe that someone you had once considered a hero and a friend could make you feel so much disgust now. You were naïve, then, and now you only feel how those poor horses locked away in the stables must feel, burdened with a constant yearning for your own freedom.

“Then rest.”

When the door shuts behind him, you’re only then able to expel your relief. The weight of what you must do settles upon you, heavy and unyielding, the boulder of Terminus.

You can not marry Gaius. You can not continue to breathe in the stink of the city from its miasmic aqueducts, perfumed only by the crowded marketplace full of mortals so contented with their own tedium. The unknown calls and calls, howling like a mother wolf to guide you. Even with the stories told of what fiends and horrors lie outside of the city you could almost feel with a certainty that you were destined for it.

You light your incense with a lump of coal in the burner of a clay pot. Just cinnamon would have to do for now. You make your peace with that promising Juno whichever sweet, flaking pastry that appeals most during the festival of Minerva.

Though you were more than content with your wish for nothing more to do with the barbarians after meeting with König earlier… he comes rushing back into your mind, rolling and lapping like waves as you begin to prepare yourself for sleep. The polished tin of your hand mirror reflects your face as you twirl the handle in a curled palm and you stare. Did he see beauty or simply a womb…? Had you taken offense to nothing? The questions stir up remorse as you strip away your gown and take to the bed.

Just one more meeting with the foreigner, maybe. Just to say your farewells, wish him luck in future battles, bless his seax and his shield with a touch and a prayer (if he even had the sight to keep any form of defense on his person).

When Quinquatria comes, when the people are busy and satisfied with their food, fortune telling and the gladiator games, you will take your mare and ride off into a sea of stars. Each light will be a point of guidance until you reach the riverbed you’ve only ever dreamt of, until you scale the mountains that sang so sweetly from the goth’s tongue…

And perhaps he will chase you.

— — —

Quinquatria used to be one of your favorite festivals. The fortune tellers were your favorites, always seeming to know so very much with so little insight into your life. Then there were the revelers donning their colorful masks, barking out song with bitter wine painting their tongues.

You try to listen in on them as a woman traces over the patterns in your palm, the curved lines and straight, fine indentations. Palmistry, rather than any proper reading with sacrifices and proper seers stood before a temple. You reason that this is for fun, just like the wine-drinking and the gladiators fighting for their lives and the horrible stink of the city’s streets: natural, reasonable, and dreadfully normal.

The fortune teller hums as she reads you through your hand, laughs a bit when she seems to note a secret or… something. You were not entirely sure. The woman was young, her belly likely as full of fermented fruit as everyone else’s as they dance and crowd the street where you two are stood.

“You’re unhappy, girl,” the woman muses, giving you a sympathetic look before another laugh pulls from her lips.

You give her a nod but don’t say a word as she continues to stroke at your palm. Of course you were, anyone could tell just by the frail look upon your face, as if you were indeed bereft and ready to cry at any moment in this horrible, dainty dress with your betrothed fondling some lady mere paces from you.

“Yet, so lovely,” she continues, nimbly running her fingers to your wrist. She curls them around you, turns your hand over and gives it a soft pat to signify that your reading is done.

“You’re destined for a summer wedding.” Winter, you want to correct. “And your husband… strong and brave like the sacred wolf.” Weak and old, you force back with a clenched jaw.

She releases your wrist with one last assessment, “Juno favors you, sweet girl.”

You want to call her a fraud, but instead you merely part with the bronze you had promised to her. With Gaius preoccupied, his wrinkled hands already tucked beneath the skirt of the other woman’s stola, now would be the best time to wrench the door of your little cage wide open… not make a scene.

Your chest feels tight, and for the first time it isn’t from some unknown fear, it’s excitement. Your heart hammers as the blood stirs within your veins, belly tense and breathing shallow, taking a stiff pace to walk along the shadow untouched by silver paths of moonlight.

There’s a bellow, a wail as the gladiators fight some distance off. Soft words and whispers filtering past like eerie words from something ghastly, moans from a brothel, bells on the wind, the stink of rot and perfume all from all that you’ve known for so long as you leave it all behind.

Your mare is pacing restlessly in the field, her ears flicking and tail swaying behind her. You’ve no saddle, you hadn’t even thought to procure food or any supplies. You’re not even certain that she’s been ridden by anyone, but you coax her over to the wooden fence that your body rests over; hands find the velvety fur of her gray snout, fingers moving to gently caress her mane and ears.

“We are going to be free,” you whisper as your hands curl over her neck. The mare makes her displeasure known immediately, huffing and tensing immediately… and you realize that this isn’t going to work, not without her bucking you off and leaving you injured or dead. You’re not stupid or brazen enough to break a horse or anything, really. Not Gaius. Not…

You would find König. Perhaps you could even trade the Goth for a horse already accustomed to being ridden… he had already revealed his intentions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to entertain the thought.

You give the mare a kiss farewell, right on the softness of her cheek and detach yourself from the fence to wander past the silver field, the gently flowing stream. The water dampens your dress, embeds it’s cold into your very bone where the sandals fail to protect. Spring or not, it’s hardly warm at night, and there are only so many rocks lying in the water to keep you from sinking in.

The clothes are drenched by the time you crawl to the other side. On the opposite bank, it’s only then that you turn back to look over at the city, one final glimpse of a place bathed in gold; cinder and ash from torchlight, flowers and the creeping scent of decay carry on the breeze. Even from the distance you can hear the music, chimes of steel on steel, the laughter and cries of mirth and pleasure.

Begrudgingly, you feel the first seeds of regret plucking at your heartstrings. You’ve nothing to your name apart from a few coins in a pouch strapped to your hip, no weapons, no food. You could die, you verily would if you went at this alone. And still, you force your face forward and continue your steady waltz to look the unknown straight in its bloody maw.

You won’t panic, won’t fear. Whatever awaits would be better— it had to be.

The barbarian camp comes into view some time later. You couldn’t be certain how long you’ve been walking, as though some spirit had plucked the chords of your mind and left you in some confused daze. It couldn’t have been your own desperation. Something greater had to be at play, a proper destiny: one much better than the life of Gaius’s wife, owned like a hound, imprisoned and uninspired.

Though their torches burn, their tents stitched together amalgamations of old pelts and cloth, the air is fresher here. You expected the reek of death, heavy on their skin, bathed in blood and the rot like visions of Mors herself. Instead, you smell smoked meat and wine on the air: a boar and fermented grape, fruit from the surrounding orchards, the heavy scent of men. There’s no celebration here, a few men talking quietly as their eyes wander over what you can only assume to be some sort of map— tactical discussion for their next bloodbath.

You puff your chest and steel your gaze as you walk towards them, expression set not unlike the stern looks your betrothed would give.

Your attempt at intimidation only earns a flicker of hunger in the gazes of these men, and then a bout of grating laughter. They glance at one another, discussing you in hushed voices in their mother tongue before one finally looks to you and asks a simple, “Was?”

“König,” you answer simply. “Where might I find him?”

The question undoubtedly goes uninterpreted, but the name does spark a wave of interest that passes between their faces. Finally, one points toward the tent at the far side of the camp: ugly thing, vast and layered in dark tones of gray and maroon, the very structure is a bleeding animal.

You hear the laughter behind you, the lewd whispers and jeers and only a simpleton wouldn’t be able to interpret the meaning; the titan that heads their little group has a lovely woman seeking him out like a wayward dream, and with adrenaline already coursing through you the thought of spending your night here doesn’t even seem an insulting prospect.

The flap serving as the door of the tent parts as your hands move to lift it, and sure enough… the beast lies in wait in his den, seated on a mattress made up entirely of fur. His hood remains over his head as he traces the carvings on the handle of the seax, under flickering flame and the shadow of the tent König seems further unearthly, god walking amongst men as he toys with his weapon in some strange sort of ritual.

The ritual only seems to be one of boredom, because his eyes light up when they rest over you, standing like a dream as your dress billows with the breeze creeping in. You’re drenched and dirty and pitiful in his presence, but he only seems to soften when he beckons you toward him with a curl of his fingers meeting his palm.

You obey with tentative steps, stopping next to him as he waits on the bed. If it were possible for your heart to seize and halt entirely without you collapsing to sink beneath the earth, it surely would now, so close to him.

“I need a favor,” you explain in whispers. “A horse.”

“A horse,” he repeats as his weapon is set aside, “Warum?”

You don’t want to explain a thing. He’s working with the very men that could drag you back to the city after being paid heavily by Gaius… your trust is blind and foolish and you almost want to break apart right here. How stupid to believe that you could find some solace here, with a giant that walks along the cusp between men and beasts. Your shaking hands reach out to drag along his vast shoulders, lingering on the healed wounds that dent and give rise to his flesh.

“I’ll do what you want,” you offer quietly, earning a pleased rumble from his chest.

Though after a moment, he only sieges your wrists, pulls you down to the mattress at his side. He touches you no further, only stares down at you in a twist of amusement, reverence and confusion.

“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”

You wind over onto your side, staring up at him with a desperation that you’ve never known until this night, clawing down from your throat to bed it’s way into your roaring pulse, frightened and pleading. Just give in, ask no more, you want to wail to him as your vision begins to blur with tears.

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. König lies at your side, mimicking the way you curl onto your side and again… he smiles, though this one is unlike the way he looked upon you by the stream. It lacks that boyish twinkle, the intensity of the lines forming beneath his eyes: it’s more of a pleasantry than anything genuine.

“You are married?”

“What? No…” You swallow hard, toying with a thread that’s begun to pull free from your hip, twirling it between your fingers. “…not yet.”

“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”

You want to howl out your frustrations up to every god and goddess above, burn through the Elysian with your misery alone. You wish, yearn for the courage to cast off that mask and lure him in with a kiss, erase any memory of Gaius with the kindling of a truer passion.

Your voice doesn’t come, and your fingers steadily pluck at that thread, feeling more unsure of yourself with each passing second.

Again, your bastard god grants his mercy as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, the warmth of him singing away the memory of the weathered hand that had touched you there before. His hand is so much larger, strong and riddled with calluses; you swear that you can feel his own fluttering pulse through his fingertips when they press against your bottom lip.

“Not after tonight,” he hums.

When the shroud is tugged up and his mouth meets your own, König’s kiss is exactly what you had expected: a sloppy, eager clash of teeth and tongue. He steadies you with a hand pressed to the back of your neck as his grunts filter past your own lips. Your eyelids flutter, then close as you allow your mind to finally relax, coaxed into the ethereal with each swipe of his tongue and pleasured sound drawn up from the well of his throat.

He pulls away with a gentle peck to the corner of your mouth, gazing down at you as though he’s been deprived of light for the entirety of his being and had only now met the sacred flame. It’s incomparable to how easily your betrothed would cast his scrutiny; though the hunger is similar, there’s something far more enticing here.

“Do you trust me?”

König’s voice holds no apprehension as he speaks; the question is just as blunt as each bulge of muscle and peek of teeth through the grin on his face, only set aglow by dim candlelight in the tent. You don’t nod, don’t even reply immediately as you stare at him a little dumbly, still intoxicated by the ferocity of his affections.

“… I don’t know.”

He moves a hand over your eyes then, gently presses his palm over you until you’re bathed in such darkness that you shudder. It’s a disconcerting feeling— not because you fear him so much anymore, but because if this were Gaius you would have already been squirming away, rushing to hide. You want to kiss his palm, revel in whatever piece of him he gives to you.

“Sehr schön,” König coos to you in a whisper. You settle further, allowing the tension to leave you almost entirely as you fall into the velvety embrace of all of this darkness and the pelts beneath your back.

He shifts at your side, and almost immediately there’s a cold chill at your collar, something sharp that he rakes over the softness of your flesh, then down, down to snag at the top of your dress. Your gasp is quieted by a kiss as you feel his weight shift over you, and just as you begin to melt into it… the fabric begins to tear, shreds as he guides his blade further, past your breasts and along your sternum, your belly, further.

“Don’t..,” you manage to hiss against his mouth, immediately taken over by the feeling of his tongue lapping at your teeth. Your nipples peak at the sudden chill as your dress lies ruined to either side of your body, thighs trembling as the blade hooks along the linen concealing your maidenhood.

One more generous, gentle cut and that comes away too.

You’re entirely bare when he retreats to your side again, one hand still clutching the blade as he moves his head to lay over your breast and… never, never had you heard of a man lapping and suckling at a woman like a pup, but that’s what he begins to do; his tongue circles over the bud, tugging it between his teeth until you feel the wetness between your legs beginning to drip to smear upon the mattress.

It’s caught, quick, as he turns the blade in his hand to slot its grip against your sex. It’s cold, but his mouth is warm, attentive as he licks between the valley of your breasts to capture your other nipple.

The noises that leave your mouth are filthy, rivaled only by the sounds you’ve heard in brothels… König only seems appreciative of them, muttering praises as he grinds the cold metal against your cunt, careful as the ridges of it graze your throbbing bud, gathering your slick to make the glide that much easier.

When he moves to dive for your breasts again, you cradle his jaw in your hands, peering up at those moonlight eyes in silent pleading as you capture him in another burning kiss.

The blade turns again, its sharpness directed down so as to not bring you any harm as you desperately roll your hips against its coldness. He groans into your mouth, panting softly just as you begin to whine.

You’ve never heard of a man making love to a woman with a weapon… or of one suckling at her as though she’s lactating when she is not, but… it has the desired result when your body tenses and all that can escape you is a frail whisper of his name.

The heat sweeps from your foggy head to your middle as your thighs squeeze around the damned thing and König presses his lips to your temple. You climax for him, chasing wave upon crashing wave of intensity with stilted bucks of your hips. He clicks his tongue in approval when you’ve finished, holds up the seax again, smeared wet with your essence and twinkling as though it had been bathed in the stream once more.

You know with a certainty you’ve lost Juno’s favor. If he chose you to carve you open with his come-stained blade the goddess would not make her descent to save you.

“Gut,” he whispers into your hair. To your horror, maybe even fascination, he raises the dirtied silver to his lips and licks your sweetness from it with another low groan.

“Wh… why would you do that..?” Your rapture feels almost shameful as you watch him lap at the weapon, the long tongue meeting silver only warmed by your heat.

He’s mad, certainly, and you only find yourself further infatuated: you reason that you must be too…

König doesn’t answer you as he sets the seax aside again, not in words. Instead, he cups your face and directs your lips to his own where he laps at your tongue, suckling it in the same way he did your tits. It’s slow and sensual, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, smell yourself on him as his hands find your waist and tug you closer until you’re lying almost entirely over him; one leg thrown over his thigh with your hands splayed over his chest.

The titan is hard beneath the pelt he wears, felt against the plushness of your thigh, the brown fur wrapped around his hips is pushed to rise where it’s harboring something akin to a pillar… but he doesn’t force you to settle over it, makes no attempt to tug it free, despite its throbbing against your leg,

“I needed your blessing,” he mutters, a hand settling over your naked hip, tracing small shapes with his thick fingers. The other finds your shoulder to pull you into a cuddle, pulled so tightly against him that you’re hardly able to discern where your warmth ends and his begins.

“A.. a blessing?” Your voice comes as a trembling croak, head pressed into the gap between a broad shoulder and the column of his throat.

“We are leaving in the morning.”

“Oh…”

“I will give you the horse when I return.”

Your head feels like a mess. You’re not even certain of what you’ve just done— did that count as sex? Would he tell the Roman soldiers he works alongside of how he had convinced some pompous aristocrat’s lovely bride to lustrate his blade with her essence? You could hit him, demand the horse now and bolt, but you only melt against him: eyelashes fluttering as exhaustion takes hold and the tension leaves you entirely.

“That’s all?”

König pets you, running a hand along your spine and back up to repeat. He presses his nose to the crown of your head, nuzzling against it until his hand is freed from your form and only then does it coax its way beneath the fur covering his groin.

He laughs at the weak sound of surprise you elicit when that beast is pulled free, another, thicker weapon curled in his hand. The thickness, the length of it that tapers off to a layer of skin, eager and pulled back from the tip, leaking beads of milky white: something that would surely tear you if he were not careful, and the thought brings you to squeeze your thighs together, concealing the leaking, thrumming thing between.

“I will fuck you when I return, too,” he huffs into your scalp, causing you to further bury your face against him, intent not to let him see the effect his derangement seems to have on you. You would let him bury himself into your chest, steal the breath from your very lungs, but you don’t breathe a word of it. Something tells you it’s a mutual thing, perhaps it was all spelled out for you when he asked for your favor rather than from any of his foreign gods.

You count your undeserved blessings. He seems sated only ruining you with his touch for the time being, you’re very comfortable here, and though you dare not speak it… you do find this brute charming. He speaks where you fail to, whispers of your beauty being like that from myths and dreams.

He doesn’t force you to leave, either, only paws at and squishes your breasts until you squeak and whine your protests, already sore from his teeth leaving their marks all over them. When he tires of his fun, you’re pulled into a crushing embrace where he rests his head against your own, blankets you in himself entirely. You were right… the shadow he casts over you blackens out the sun, moon, stars all of it; dulls the haze of carnality with something far more tender.

Your night becomes entirely made up of König: his scent like forest and sweat, the furs from beasts he’s chased down and slain, his soft breathing and gentle snores when he does fall asleep against you.

No dreams come to you, no lemures to haunt you with their wails and flames. Not even Juno descends to punish you. You’re warm and soft and contented like the kittens curled up in clusters along the streets on cold nights.

It’s the first night of peace you’ve had in some time.

When morning comes, the brightness of the sun peeking through the flaps of the tent, you wake to find König already out of bed. He stands at the far side of the tent, strapping on pelts and gear and the leather pouch filled with wine. His seax is held up in utter revelry, and mortifyingly enough… you immediately note that he hadn’t cleaned away the remnants of what occurred last night either.

When you bring yourself to sit upright, the giant only drops to his knees at your feet and curls his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts through the thick fabric of the hood.

And… it almost hurts, to realize then that this is something you’ve longed for. You’re not arrogant enough to believe yourself worthy of some foreign worship, but he seems to liken you of some devout little acolyte, as if your come and kisses could grant him favor while he butchers poor souls all in favor of your empire: the people he had likely been communing and trading with only months before. Traitorous, mad, utterly enthralling man… You’re not certain whether you want to relieve yourself from him or guide him back into bed for more frenzied pleasures.

“You will stay?,” he murmurs into your skin as his kisses trail up to your neck.

You hadn’t even considered what you would do, it never came to mind, but staying in a shoddy tent in wait for him to return with the horse he’s promised was far from favorable. You’re out from the city, still without food or weapons, your dress and underclothes are a torn ruin on the floor, nothing but the wind and the stream and König’s stinking furs… The bathhouse seems to call to you now more than ever. Your lower lip trembles when you think of returning to that stale place, to be questioned endlessly about your affairs from your ‘doting’ husband-to-be…

Your head shakes solemnly. “I’ll wait for you at home.”

König drags you up onto your feet and closer as he savors in another embrace. You’re cloaked in a gray pelt, tied up and over your shoulders like the gaudiest tunic in the world, but you bur your nose into its shoulder, humming in contentment when you find that it smells just like him.

He’s more confident and proud than you’ve ever seen him now. The filthy blade remains strapped to his hip when he gathers you up to sit at his front on the back of his horse— a dark stallion with a pelt the same shade as the night sky. It doesn’t even seem to flinch at your combined weight, just canters along smoothly as König directs it through the sprawling field and past the stream to lead you back towards the city’s gates.

You’re not thinking of Juno or Gaius or traditions when König cinches your waist with a thick arm to draw you in closer; there’s nothing but fluffy warmth pooling in your chest sent by Venus when you feel his hips shift to press himself against your back. His head dips to kiss at your neck, your burning cheeks, shoulder, anyplace that he can.

When the horse comes to a halt with a sharp tug of its makeshift reigns, some length of rope and twine, his hand is at your rear.

Everything’s incensed and floral when you’re lowered to the ground, when he lifts the hood to grin down at you, not only with his eyes this time. It’s a sheepish, gluttonous grin, drunk off your very presence.

“I will come back for you, meine Göttin.”

And you know now, that the palm reading had been true— there’s your wolf in preparation for a hunt, the man who’s unwittingly aiding you in your pursuit of freedom painted with mountains and vast, blue skies. You will convince him to come away too, lay down the blade you’ve blessed with your pleasure. A summer wedding… far from wars of greed and smirking old men.

Your head swims when he bids you farewell, rides off on his massive horse back to his camp to gather his own men to march. You watch him go, breath caught up in your throat, a burning longing in your chest that you can not entirely dismiss.

The walk of shame only comes when you’ve crossed the threshold separating König’s world from your own.

The stink of the streets immediately washes away any lingering scent of him on your skin, on his pelt you now hide away with your arms curled around your waist.

You catch your reflection in stagnant water held in a pot, swaying and ebbing gently as others breeze past you.

You’re in a foreigner’s clothes that just barely crest your thighs, hair a mess and the carmine you had worn to bring a false blush to your cheeks is smeared over an eye and down to your jaw. You look the part of an adulteress, maybe, even as you dip your hand into the water to wash the makeup from your face.

There isn’t much to be done about the marks left over the hints of your chest revealed beneath the fur, but you make your way home without anyone even bothering to ask. If anything, the festivities from the night prior only seemed to subdue the standard bustle. You could only imagine how exhausted the hungover soldiers may have been as they undoubtedly prepare for the expedition König had mentioned.

That overrides your shame, sobers you from that sugary elation somewhat. You’re worried. It’s not just about König himself, not about the threat of fucking you when he returns left unfulfilled— though, those are enough to make your heart begin it’s hammering, rabbit in the throes of a chase. The horse, too. That proud stallion, your hope of a swift escape before winter comes and it’s all lost. If his drunken allies fail him in battle, if some other barbarian’s spear strikes true and fells your titan then the dream is dispelled into smoke, sunken down to river bed to be lashed away by frothing waters.

Whoever decided that the day after revelry would be the time to move was a fool indeed. The deities couldn’t look at you after last night, you know if they saw their noses would be turned up in disgust… perhaps not Jupiter’s, he’s more guilty than you could ever be, but your offerings had never been for him had they?

You fret and hiss below your breath as you wind your way back to the villa with its white walls and terracotta-tiled roof. The sun bears down on you like the flame of your dreaming. You’re afraid again, letting the lemures find their way in through the gaps in your shivering limbs to haunt your dreams.

Gaius is not there to greet you, likely still recovering from his own fevered night. You’re grateful for that.

The little altar to Juno still stands atop a table in your room, the burner still smells of cinnamon, dried flower petals and a dish of honey still sat there entirely untouched. She hasn’t split it in two, abandoned you, but it does feel that way when you peel away the fur.

Your fingers nudge at the bruises laden into your skin, the marks that look like teeth to either side of your breast. You press into them, gently, immediately feel that coil of heat, and you don’t want to sleep. That fire from your dream only seems to have become a part of you: you know it intimately now, it comes with pleasure and bite marks and a heavy weight harbored in your chest.

You cinch your waist and tie your stola at your shoulder, brush your hair out with a comb made of ivory. You rub your bruises with a salve made of honey, bandage up what you can and hide away what you can’t by tugging up your breast band.

The same as any other day, you take to the streets of the city and peruse the marketplace, take to the empty bathhouse to wash away all that’s consumed you over the past day. And you watch the soldiers go as they march through the streets, women and children waving away their fathers and brothers with prayers and sentimental words.

They don themselves in red, clutching their gladiuses, spears and heavy shields as they filter out and away where your very being longs to be. Their faces are giddy, almost: the prospect of pillaging and felling each enemy another delightful treat just like those found in the gladiator pits and amidst rolling with the whores in their brothel beds. You can not hope to understand their mirth, the happiness in any of the civilians either.

You watch them leave wistfully, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers digging into the waist of the stola. You down your fair share of the wine Gaius has left in your cellar. The day merely passes you by, the sewing left undone on the floor, altar bathed in cinnamon and saffron as you make your prayers and beg like any dog.

The mattress feels lonely and sad without the warmth of a body made for war curled against you, without his breath in your hair and his arms wrapped around you. It’s cold, too, and far harder than his, all straw and thin sheets. None of this feels like home.

Your eyes eventually close as the last of the sun’s rays begin to die, blotted out by the dark, untouched by torchlight.

You dream of fire.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other #tw: dubcon

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feyascorner · 11 months ago

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3 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You hate him, you think. You want to hate him, at the very least.

“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” he asks, his expression indecipherable. “I didn’t realize the great savior of the city could be afraid of a mere vampire spawn.”

“You did try to strangle me last time we spoke."

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard, large chunks of italicized texts are flashbacks

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. redemption arc is coming i swear :) this is a whopping 4.7k i got kinda carried away but oh well,, Thank you so much for your comments on these they make my day and i appreciate each one<3

Dance upon the stars tonight

Smile and pain will fade away

“And what might our dear bard be working so passionately on?”

You look up from your notebook, ceasing the messy scribbling of lyrics into its tattered pages. Astarion perches himself beside you, the flames of the campfire flickering in the reflection of his eyes as you stop humming and raise a cautious brow. A vampire spawn. You’d never seen one in person–-only had you heard of them in your childhood tales of the spawn that would sweep away naughty children if they didn’t finish their vegetables. Up close, you can almost see his fangs protruding from the grin he's constantly wearing.

You wonder if it’s a genuine one.

“That bard at the grove today,” you recall. “Alfira? I’m trying to finish the lyrics and write them out for her.”

“Is that so? Surely you’re receiving some sort of payment for these gracious services?”

You train your eyes back onto the pages, shaking your head. “I’m doing this for fun. Her song is beautiful. It just needs—” you squint. “--adjustment.”

He laughs, and you can see the fangs clearly now. They’re sharper than you expected them to be. “I believe that’s a drastic understatement, my dear. My heart felt for those poor squirrels. I’m quite willing to bet that they have an aversion to bards now.”

“And you’re suddenly a musician yourself?”

“It doesn’t take a musician to recognize poor singing, darling Tav,” he returns. “And considering I’ve spent the past few days listening to your music, I’m sure you’ll understand why I considered it such an abomination.”

You narrow your eyes. “I thought you didn’t like me–or my music.”

“You? I'm still deciding,” he shrugs and you roll your eyes. “But I must say that I’m growing rather fond of that lyre of yours. Have you had it for long?”

You give him a sidelong glance before answering slowly. “I’ve had it for ages. Practically when I just started.”

“Explains itself then, I suppose.”

“And you?” you watch as he leans back on his palms. “Do you have any other talents to offer to our companions, or is it just your teeth?”

“Now, don’t be so cruel, dear,” he smiles wider. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re rather fond of them as well. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you staring all the time.”

“I’m on guard,” you clarify.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You’re not sure if you can sleep with one eye open, much less both of them closed. You’re not sure if you trust him at all, either, but as he stares up at the starry sky, simply listening to the crackling of the campfire, you decide you’d rather save yourself the energy for what awaits tomorrow.

“Why did you do that earlier?” you find yourself asking, and he replies by glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Do what?”

“Save Wyll from that goblin arrow,” you mumble. “I thought you didn't care about any of us.”

“And what gives you that impression?”

You deadpan, staring at him with lidded eyes and he laughs out loud. It sounds more genuine than anything else he’s offered so far. It's nice.

“It’s a simple transaction, dear. One where I receive protection in turn for the occasional aid I can give with my own blade.”

You squint at him, but you see no signs of deception. So instead, you simply nod and resume scribbling into your notebook, softly humming to yourself alongside the lyrics. And when you halt, stuck on a particular lyric that you can’t seem to remember, you hear him shift, standing himself back up to retreat to his tent.

“Something about faith and care comes next if my memory serves,” is all he says before striding away. While you watch him in confusion, you click your tongue and try to focus again. And when you look down at your page, you remember the rest of the words.

Somehow, you feel the corners of your lips lift.

“As much as I’d love for this to be a charming, long-awaited reunion, one of the parties imposes a danger to the other.”

You wince at the sarcasm dripping from Gale’s voice. Duke Ravengard’s expression remains solemn, unmoving like a stone, while your companion pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “We can’t harbor a vampire spawn in our home. We’re supposed to be finding them, not keeping them!”

You hate the irony of the statement because the camp you’d spent so many months in with an uninvited guest in your head, had also been your home. One where you spent your nights in a vampire spawn’s tent. It’s not so different, you keep telling yourself. But you’re painfully aware that the Duke only knows a sugar-coated version of the falling out between you and said vampire. He doesn’t know how his son had to tear Astarion away from you and how your voice had been sore for weeks afterward.

“As much as I have my own opinions with allying with a vampire spawn,” the Duke stares at Astarion warningly. “Wyll did say this spawn saved his life while your party ventured together. For that, I'm willing to see reason if he’s cooperative, rather than restrain him with the Fists.”

You never thought much of it until now. With how many life threatening experiences you and your companions had come across, it felt natural to save one another. At first, it had been out of necessity—fear that one person would turn into an illithid. Yet, with time, you'd all grown fond of each other, one way or another.

You think back to when Astarion had saved Wyll and wonder if that part of him is still in there. Maybe it was never there at all. Maybe it had been another one of his manipulation tactics that you're so prone to falling for.

Gods, you're hopeless.

The wizard standing beside you sighs irritably. “But that was before he tried to squeeze the life out of-”

“How long do we need to keep him?”

Gale balks at your words. “You can’t seriously be considering this.”

“Just until we’re able to locate the rest of the spawns spread throughout the city, which you kindly decided not to mention in our last conversation.”

You shoot Gale a glare, silently questioning if he’d been the one to confess the existence of the spawns underground, but he’s too busy scanning over Astarion, who’s mindlessly fidgeting with his knife. The said spawn seems to feel your gaze, because he glances at you, then grins.

The bastard is smiling.

“The man you killed this morning is a spawn himself, yes?” the Duke clarifies. “There have been numerous reports the past few days about strange figures with fangs throughout the city—I’d known they’d existed, but to the numbers that are being reported…”

“You couldn’t have possibly believed myself to be the only spawn around?” Astarion laughs bitterly. “I do not wish to go hungry, Duke, but I don’t need nearly as many bodies that’s been showing up—assuming that I did drink from anyone, of course.”

Ravengard ignores him, speaking as if he’s not there. “I could still have him detained if that is what you wish. We can continue as we have and search for the spawn without his help.”

You know it’s a fruitless effort if last night has told you anything.

“You don’t even have evidence that I drank from a single person in this entire bloody city!” Astarion spits back, rolling his neck in exasperation.

“No,” you purse your lips, finally looking up. “I’ll be responsible for him.”

Gale clears his throat alarmingly. “Now, dear leader, let’s have a private conversation before we make any hasty decisions, yes? Surely, we don’t have to decide right this moment.”

And while you open your mouth to respond that no, you won’t have Astarion rot away in some gross cell, the Duke nods. “Very well.”

Gale pushes you to the corner of the room, with his face clearly paling in disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking. You want someone who nearly strangled you to death sleeping in the room next to yours?”

“Ravengard wants us to find out where the other spawn are hiding, and the only lead we have is sitting right there,” you defend yourself. “Throwing Astarion into a dirty cell won’t do anything to convince him to help us.”

“The Duke doesn’t know what he did to you!”

“He doesn’t need to. Astarion’s made it very clear he’s not going to spill any information if the Duke is the one asking, and we need a lead. I nearly died last night, Gale. I want to avoid that if I can.”

His eyes soften just a bit, but it’s enough. With a loud sigh, he scrunches his nose. “And you’re sure you’re not doing this for more personal reasons?”

At this, you pause. Your eyes waver, and the look Gale gives you is almost soul-crushing if it weren’t for the fact that you feel like you’ve already hit rock bottom. You know this is not a good idea. You know that being so close to him again after so many months is not a good idea, especially when you’ve just finally begun your journey to forget him.

You curse the gods above for your luck.

The silence prompts Gale to speak. “I’ll tell the Duke we can’t involve ourselves in this.”

“Gale,” your voice almost cracks. “Please.”

He doesn’t want to agree, you can tell. Any sane person wouldn’t invite a bloodthirsty vampire spawn who’s willing to use his own hands to kill his so-called lover into their home. You want to think that you’re void of bias, but you know it’s a pathetic attempt to reassure yourself. Still, the expression on your face must be quite the sight because Gale takes one look, glances at Astarion, then slumps his shoulders. You’ve won.

You hadn’t even realized the door had been swung open, where your other companions had been standing, taking one look at Astarion then to you. While Gale wallows in his own defeat, you turn to the others, eyes glimmering with a kind of hope that they haven’t seen in months.

“Your judgment’s gotten us this far,” Shadowheart sighs. “We’d be fools not to trust it now.”

Lae’zel clicks her tongue. “My blade is ready to slit his throat if need be. Just command me, and I shall.”

“We aren’t going to try to kill him," you retort.

“It’s only right to return the favor."

Dinner is awkward. You’re finally getting to try Gale’s stew, but it’s hard to focus on the taste when all you can feel is the searing stare of the person sitting across from you. He only has a goblet of crimson liquid in the same shade as his eyes in front of him, and it remains untouched as he takes in the rest of the house.

“So,” Gale offers. “What have you been up to?”

It’s not much, but it’s better than sitting in complete silence.

“Wandering the streets at night, mostly. Oh, and murdering half the city, apparently,” Astarion lets out his usual high-pitched laugh at the end, and your fingers tighten around your spoon. Shadowheart glares at him through her lashes, and you think she may lunge at him any second. You want to think you wouldn't stop her.

You feel for her, really. Being the group’s cleric comes with its advantages but also with the unspoken burden of watching your companions in pain. She’d been the one to ensure Astarion hadn’t left long-lasting damage to your throat. She’d been the one to soothe your headaches and cast a sleeping spell on you in hopes it’ll allow you to rest longer than just a few hours. She’d also seen you nearly bleed out multiple times, one of which occurred mere hours ago.

The sudden scrape of Lae’zel’s chair being pushed back catches your attention. She stands, lifting her bowl with her. “The air here is suffocating. Sort out your differences before I sort them out for you.”

The rest of you collectively nod. She doesn’t say anything else before leaving the room.

“The room at the end of the hallway upstairs is yours,” Shadowheart says finally. “Don’t bother me if you need anything else.”

She stands up as well, leaving her bowl in the sink before pacing up the stairs to her own quarters.

Somehow, the atmosphere is even worse now. You don’t dare lift your eyes from your stew, and you honestly hope it explodes before you have to sit here and drink all of it in this silence. Gale, thankfully, does not leave. Instead, he sets down his utensil.

“I suggest we have a set of rules in place–for the sake of everyone occupying this home,” he clears his throat. You shoot him a questioning look, which he dusts off.

“Fine,” Astarion leans back in his chair, now swirling the goblet of blood in his hand. “What do you have in mind?”

“No drinking. From anyone here.”

You blink a few times, then hear Astarion hum in acknowledgment. “Shame. Though your blood was vile anyway.”

“And don’t cause any trouble. One of us will go with you when you need to drink, so you can hunt for whatever animal you prefer these days. Otherwise, unless we say so, you’ll remain here.”

“Why, this sounds almost identical to a prison. Looking for a job as a warden, Gale? A midlife crisis, perhaps. Does wizard life not suit you anymore?”

“It suits me plenty, thanks,” Gale snorts. “We’ll be out during the day to rebuild the city, so you’ll have to entertain yourself in your own room. Don’t touch anything—especially my stuff.”

Astarion grins. “That almost sounds like an invitation.”

The wizard then turns to you. “And you? Do you have any other rules you’d like to add?”

You finally lift your head from the stew, looking back and forth between the two before shaking your head while pushing your chair back. For someone who’d imagined aimlessly for months about seeing your former lover again, you can’t seem to look him in the eye for fear of what you might feel. “I’m going out.”

“I’m going to take that as a no.”

Wordlessly, you pace toward the door, refusing to look back to suppress the urge to sprint back into his arms. You don’t know what you were thinking just a few hours ago, but this was not going to end well. If you couldn’t manage a simple dinner sitting across from him, what could you manage?

You’re in such a rush that you forget to bring anything besides your wallet.

By the time you’re on your way back to the house hours later, you have a backpack shoved full of fabrics with nails and a hammer to go along with it. As you pass by the taverns, you hear music playing from inside, alongside a few cheers and what you can only assume to be a crash of chairs as people applaud.

You can’t help but peer through the window as you walk past, where a bard merrily plays on his drum, lightening the mood of the entire tavern—even the bartender smiles along as he plays tunes you’ve heard a million times before. And while your hands itch for a lyre—to feel the string snap against your fingertips—you know no good will come of it. You’ll only sit before the instrument, your hands unable to find the emotions to exert in the form of notes.

As you stare at the bard, you remind yourself you’ve long given up on that kind of life.

So instead, you continue your way to the Highberry’s home. When you knock on the door, a very weary Cora Highberry greets you with bags under her eyes, but a calm smile still stretching on her lips nonetheless. She steps out of the way, inviting you in, and you do so.

“You didn’t have to, dear,” she says as she takes a bag of the city’s finest fruits from your hands. “The neighbors have been oh so gracious to us. They’re helping the children so much, I couldn’t possibly ask for more.”

“I was just passing by, that’s all,” you offer. “I wanted to check on you since I left a bit abruptly last time.”

“Oh, dear, you know how to make a woman feel special. It’s been terrible, really. I haven’t gone so long with my husband in ages…” she laughs, wiping at her swollen eyes. “But we were an old couple anyways…I had some time to prepare my emotions. I just didn’t think he’d go like that.”

You nod as she hands you a mug of hot tea. “But never mind that. I’ve spent the past two weeks talking about nothing but myself, so I’m quite tired. What about you, dear?”

“Me?”

“You look like death themselves,” she frowns. “I’ve lived for quite long…I recognize that heartbroken face anywhere. Has something happened?”

The way she’s staring at you—it’s different than pity. You can’t quite identify it, but she smiles again. It’s not the kind of smile most people give you—not one of anticpation, not one of gratefulness, but just a regular, old smile. And it makes your shoulders untense just the slightest before they tense again. You take a swig of the tea, nearly burning your throat in the process as you set the mug down, splitting a pathetic smile. “No, I’m okay. Just--tired.”

Very, very tired. Not physically, no, but tired of the indecisiveness that is your heart.

Her face falls softly. “How troubling it must be to have the weight of the city on your shoulders."

Before you can answer, there’s a loud thud upstairs. She notices your alarm and shakes her head. “Ah, must be Berry. She’s one of the younger children, and she’s been taking my husband’s death quite hard. Please excuse me, dear. I need to go put her back to sleep.”

And with that, you’re left alone on the first floor of the building again. You contemplate staying to say your farewells but the cries from upstairs convince you otherwise. Taking one last swig from the mug, you gather your things and leave.

When you get back home, it’s well into the night, an hour or two after midnight, you’d think. None of the lights are on, so the first thing you do is light a candle when you step through the door, dropping your backpack onto the dining room table. Dunking all your materials out, you take the hammer and start your work.

There’s something soothing about the darkness outside, with the way nothing seems to exist besides you and your own thoughts in a city that overflows with a sense of community. You try not to think about the man most likely reading in his room just a floor above you and focus on hanging the fabrics in front of all of the windows. The cloths are mismatched in color, and your hammer work is nothing more than sufficient, but it’ll do for now. At least until you can get actual curtains installed.

You worry that some of the fabrics aren’t thick enough to absorb all the sunlight, so you layer another fabric on top of it until you’re sure that even your candlelight cannot be seen from outside. Why you’re going so far for him, you do not know. You prefer to assure yourself that you need him to help stop the spawn from devouring the entire city, but even in your own thoughts, it sounds like a lie.

You wonder if he cares nearly as much as you do. He probably doesn’t.

You hate him, you think for the millionth time today. You want to, at the very least.

You flinch when a splinter in the wooden wall splits your skin open, forming a drop of blood on your index finger. Curse the heavens above, nothing was going right today. You quickly reach for a towel but nearly jump when you hear his voice from the stairs.

“You really need to stop with that habit of yours.”

You spin around, and he’s already at the foot of the stairs, reaching to grab a towel from the kitchen. But you’re faster, snatching it away and pressing it over your hand while he raises both his own, imitating a surrender of getting any closer. You can’t look at him in the eye—you don’t want to either. “What habit?”

“You’re speaking to me now?” he raises a brow, and you turn away again after shooting him a glare. “I’d thought you’d avoid me forever—scurrying off like a squirrel whenever I step into the room.”

You should avoid him forever. But the words don’t reach your tongue, and you choose to ignore him.

He doesn’t budge. “I meant bleeding around me.”

“What?”

“Every time I see you, you always seem to be bleeding.”

You frown at him. “Maybe you just prefer being around me when I’m bleeding.”

“You might be right." You think maybe he’s done with this painfully awkward conversation until you see him staring at the windows covered with random pieces of fabric, and suddenly, you feel embarrassment creep up your skin. You realize how bizarre your actions must appear in someone else’s eyes, staying up to the break of dawn so that he’ll be able to traverse someplace outside the confines of his own room…

It might make him think you care, and the worst part is that a part of you does.

“I hope you don’t expect me to thank you, darling.”

The nickname feels like a stab to your heart, haunting, even, but you do your best to brush it off.

“For what?” you manage to force out through clenched teeth.

“The cell they would’ve thrown me into is nothing different from trapping me in that room, I’m afraid,” he laughs bitterly, and you want to crawl into a hole from how cold his voice sounds. Distant. Like how he’d sounded the day you found him next to his nautiloid pod. “But I suppose I should be grateful for having a bed instead of having to spend my days rotting away on the dirty floor?”

You bite your bottom lip, brows furrowing. “I don't expect anything from you.”

But you do. Not quite an expectation, but a lingering wish that maybe you can heal. It's pathetic, even in your own eyes and surely everyone else's, but you can't be bothered to care.

It pisses you off a bit. How he seems perfectly unfazed while you continue to drown in your own feelings.

“Are you just here to taunt me, or is there a reason for this conversation?” you snap. This is not quite how you wanted your reunion to go.

He raises a brow. “Taunt you? I'm only answering questions you're afraid to ask.”

“I don't need to know anything about you,” you grit through your teeth. “You left my mind the second you abandoned us.”

What a poor, wishful lie.

“Ha!” It doesn't really sound like a laugh—more a scoff of disbelief. It's like he knows what you're thinking, and for a split second, it feels like there's a tadpole in your head again. “Of course you think I'm the villain of your precious heroic tale! Honestly darling, the irony just writes itself.”

You fight the urge to scowl, but you're not sure if you're successful. You find yourself gripping onto the towel harder, teeth clenched as your chest tightens just hearing his words. You truly hate that he seems to care less than you—it’s like he's not even taking you seriously.

And that damned nickname.

It feels like talking to the Astarion you first met��one who’s only intentions were to use you—but this time, you don't think it’s a mask. He doesn't want anything more from you. Only your own suffering from taking the power that would have made him untouchable.

“So tell me, dear, do you wish for me to grovel at your feet?”

Your eyes widen, and the term of endearment that once made your cheeks flush only makes you feel sick. “What?”

“Do you expect me to drop to my knees, begging for your forgiveness?” he says again, eerily composed while you struggle to come up with words. “Perhaps I would have if we were still staying in that camp. Put on a show, even."

You frown, setting your hammer down on the counter. “I’ve never made you grovel. I’ve never made you do anything.”

“Maybe not directly, no, you’re too kind of a soul to do so,” there’s venom lacing the words that feel nothing short of a lie. Somehow, he’s still smiling. “Instead, you made me beg for your help. You accepted—made it feel like I had a choice. Then tore it away just the same, in the cruelest way possible. Impressive, really. I didn't expect such dramatic sins from you.”

The way he looks at you, words dripping with sarcasm, makes you want to melt into the floor, ceasing to exist as a whole. But alas, you continue standing like a deer in headlights, unsure of how to respond. You look down to see the towel stained with your blood and inhale deeply, watching the dark sky lighten with daybreak through the window. “The sun’s rising.”

His smile drops, something foreign flickering in his eyes. He suddenly steps toward you, and as soon as he gets within two feet, you find yourself stepping backward, your fingers tightening around the hammer. You have no idea if you'd even be able to use it, but it's better than digging your nails into your palms.

It doesn't go unnoticed.

“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” he asks, his expression indecipherable. “I didn’t realize the great savior of the city could be afraid of a mere vampire spawn.”

You don't want to think he'd truly kill you. Not really, but your mind flashes back to the look in his eyes when he had his hands wrapped around your lifeline, and you grip the hammer tighter, heartbeat pounding impossibly fast.

“You did try to strangle me last time we spoke,” you mutter.

His lip twitches, and he steps back bitterly. You feel like you can breathe again.“Ah, yes, that.”

You swear your stomach drops to your feet at the mere suggestion he’d forgotten what haunts your nightmares every night, forcing you to lurch from your rest in a cold sweat, hands shaking, and having nobody to turn to for comfort. He couldn't be that cruel…could he? You want to scream at him, punch him, kick him, tell him he’s not being fair. You want to defend yourself, say that all you’ve ever wanted was for him to be safe, but even that feels like too much when he’s giving you so little.

“Very well, I’ll indulge you,” he grins again. You realize your time is running out, the sun beginning to peer out from the horizon. “Why did you assume responsibility for me? I can’t imagine why you’d want such a terrible foe in your life living right next door of your own sanctuary.”

For the city, you tell yourself. For Cora's husband and the poor victims drained off their life, all alone in the darkest corners of Baldur's Gate. “...I didn’t do it for you.”

He searches your face for something, his eyes narrowing. He's waiting for you to continue, but there's no more fuel in the tank, and now you just want to sleep for a very long time. You assume he comes up empty when the corners of his lips fall, and he turns to climb up the stairs. Sunlight hits your back as your eyes trail him in his steps, and it does nothing to warm how cold it feels in the room.

“That much I’m aware,” he stops his steps for a brief moment. You barely catch it, but it's there. “Terribly aware.”

And when he finally leaves, you bury your face into your hands.

"I'm nervous."

"What for?"

"What if the ascension goes wrong? Are you sure we should really be doing this, Astarion?"

He brushes your hair out of your face, cupping both your cheeks in his hands. "We'll be okay, my love. I will still be here, and so will you. I'll just finally have enough power to protect what I care about."

He sees the hesitance in your eyes and leans his forehead against yours. You melt into his touch, placing your hands atop his.

"So please, stand beside me for this," he pleads.

And despite the way your intuition screams at you otherwise, despite the way your very being begs you to pull away, you nod, sealing your fate.

"I'll be right here."

Tags:@ayselluna @littleenglishfangirl @bg3obsessedsideblog @iwillpissyourpants @cyberpr1m3 @ukeia-uchiha @snowlotr @road-riot @spacekidnova @madislayyy @lordfishflakes @nicalysm @djarinsway @tinystarfishgalaxy @brainz00 @hopeful-n-sad @ohdeerieme @madisban @chrismarium @chonkercatto Please let me know if I didn't add you to the list or if you'd like to be added!

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 x reader #fluff #bg3 #angst with a happy ending #angst #gale of waterdeep #shadowheart

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luveline · 11 months ago

Note

jadey would you please mind giving us more of kbd!steve this season? xxxx

kbd dad!steve and mom!reader fight over christmas pyjamas, 1.4k

“I don't know what you want me to say.”

Steve frowns deeply at you. Another haircut, another day more handsome than before, he pulls off everything, but not…

“Say you like them,” he demands, hooking his thumbs in his pyjama top and pulling it outwards to properly show you the front.

Steve is wearing Christmas pyjamas. The Grinch from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas in all his scrooge glory grins at you evilly against a red background. The pants are white, patterned by red and green drawings of the Grinch holding a Christmas present. He looks much happier from your husband's thighs than the long sleeved shirt.

“Babe, they have cuffs. We're gonna be warm all day,” he says.

“They don't match,” you say, pointing to the Grinch on his leg, who holds a pink gift wrapped in yellow ribbon. “Maybe it's the pink and red throwing me off.”

His frown turns to a pout, the almond shape of his warm brown eyes at a downturn as he says, “You really don't like them.”

You crack like a weak walled chestnut over a flame. “I'm kidding! I'm just messing with you, baby, I love them. They're so Christmas-sy. Did you get some for me?”

His relief is palpable. “I got some for everyone.”

Steve got matching pyjamas for himself, you, the kids, and Robin. He shows you them from a bag on the kitchen table, where you ooh and aah reluctantly. You love him, love everything he does, but you're finally on your holidays vacation and you'd wanted to spend as much of it sitting down as possible. Not that sitting down is possible at home, but you digress.

Steve senses your reluctance with a grumble pressed into the back of your neck, his arms grabbing you from behind. “Alright, I get it! You hate me and your kids and you hate Christmas most of all, whatever. I should've married Tammy Thompson.”

You laugh and lean forward over his arms. “Tammy Thompson wouldn't have wanted a thing to do with you, H, on account of you being a cruel, know-it-all narcissist who forces his exhausted wife off of the couch at every opportunity he–”

“Alright, that's enough.”

Steve squeezes you until you're pleading with him to let you go, a riot of giggles forced from your lungs as he digs his hands into your sides, his fingers practically drilled into your ribs. You call for mercy and he ignores it, muttering about narcissism in your ear. He laughs as you laugh, can't keep up the act.

“Beg for me to stop,” he says.

“Stop!” you say, trying to pull his arms off of your stomach. “Steve, stop it!”

“Say you'll wear the pyjamas.”

“Steve! I'll wear them! Would you–”

“Get off of her!” Bethie shouts, barrelling into the room to push at her dad's legs.

It's so unlike Beth to shout that you both immediately stop fighting. For a split second, you think she's worried that Steve was actually hurting you, but then she laughs as she punches him in the thigh and sticks herself between your breathless bodies, two small arms extended to keep you apart.

When she's sure Steve is done, she wraps her arms around you, looking up into your face with a big smile. “Saved you, mom.”

“You saved me,” you agree, bending down to hug her, “thank you, sweetheart, thank you.” You drop tens of kisses into her hair and face, so many that Steve makes a show of huffing.

“Beth, she deserved it,” he says. “She doesn't wanna wear our matching jammies. Don't you wanna do that?”

She looks at him with those big sorry eyes only young children can master. “Yeah, dad, but…”

“But what?”

“But she's my mom.”

You pull one of the kitchen chairs out and sit down, patting your lap for her to climb up and sit with you. “But I'm her mom,” you sing-song, ever so slightly smug.

“And I'm, what? Cat food?”

“Don't listen to him, baby, he's just jealous.”

Steve turns away from you both, showfully miffed. Bethie giggles and turns into your chest. “He's mad,” she laughs.

“So mad.” You drop your nose into the side of her cheek.

“Are we still having a treat tonight?” she asks.

“Of course we are. It's Christmas! Mom's home, daddy's catching up on his sleep, we're all having cake and ice cream and chocolates until we can't eat anymore,” you promise.

“Wish you were home all the time.”

“Me too, baby,” you say, rubbing her cheek with the tip of your nose slowly. “I wish you could come to work with me. That would be so fun. But we have to make the most of our time away, yeah? Let's have lots and lots of fun.”

“I saved you,” she says, “so maybe I can have extra cake.”

“Beth. You can have as much as you want tonight, I promise.”

“I love Christmas,” she decides.

Steve rushes back into the kitchen with a child under each arm. Dove laughs, her eyes practically sparkling, not a care in the world though she's upside down, and Avery clings to Steve's waist, shouting, “Dad, put me down!” through nervous giggles.

“Tell mom what I told you,” he says.

“Dad, I'm slipping!”

“Avery, you're not slipping. I'm frankly insulted that you think I would drop you. Now tell your mother what we said.”

“Daddy's not a nar-pasit!” Dove says joyfully. “He's a sweetheart.”

“He's a huge narcissist,” you correct in a similar tone.

“He's dropping me!” Avery cries.

Steve shakes her until she screams. “I am not! For Christ's sake, I can curl you like two pound weight, you delinquent! Now.” He takes a deep, fake breath, pulling the two girls higher into his armpits. “Like we rehearsed.”

“I did my turn,” Dove says, reaching out for you, her smile hard to miss even if she is upside down..

“Dad didn't even want to marry that lady,” Avery says, her eyes squeezed closed. Steve chuckles and kisses her head, amused by her silly worry. “He's only ever wanted to be in love with you. And to drop me.”

Steve chokes he laughs so hard, leaning forward and depositing the eldest girl onto two steady feet. “Perfect as always, Ave. And you!” He twists into a shape, Dove's head getting closer and closer to the floor. She couldn't be happier, giggling like she's been tickled the whole while. “You did perfect too, honey.”

“I didn't even bring up that lady,” you say.

Steve and Dove return back to the right way round after some careful manoeuvring. “My bad. Babe. Y/N. I'm sorry, okay? I'm a loser and–” He nudges Dove aside gently to take your hands, your knees, ignoring Beth where she's in the way to kneel in front of you. “I just need you to want to wear these pyjamas as bad as I want you to. So pull it together.”

You put your lips to the shell of Beth's ear. “Should we forgive him?”

“Mmm…” Beth points at Avery. “He has to say sorry for almost dropping Avey.”

“Right.” You nod sagely.

Steve turns to Avery with wide eyes, “You're not actually upset, are you?” he asks, putting out his hand to her.

“My brains are like cranberry sauce,” she says.

He raises his eyebrows, delighted. “Yeah? The thick one from the can?”

Dove climbs under his arm. He pulls her in for a cuddle unthinkingly, but just as quickly she's ducking away from him to walk up to Avery, reaching for her face. Avery leans down obligingly.

Dove pokes her forehead.

“I'm not really jelly!” Avery says, giggling.

“Well, I'm sorry if I scared you almost dropping you,” Steve says, holding his hands together, brown eyes like melting sugar in his pleading. “Can you please forgive me, so mommy will forgive me, and we can put on our new jammies?”

Avery isn't stubborn. “Yeh, okay. I'll forgive you.”

He smiles, turning to you now for the final verdict.

“I already said I'd wear them, Steve,” you say with a grin.

“Oh. Good. Alright.” He climbs to his feet, split from cheek to cheek. “I'm gonna go get the baby. Aw, shit, and the camera. Practise your poses until I come back, angels!”

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snailpebbles · 3 months ago

Text

Charles Tries Piano Tiles - CL16

pairing: Charles Leclerc x long-time gf!reader

summary: it's bedtime and Piano Tiles is kicking your ass, so why not spread the gift to your loving boyfriend?

tags: vomit-worthy domesticity, purely fluff, yeah they're just too cute

a/n: this is kinda all over the place and ass but whatever

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - -୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

It's late at night, both of you tucked up into bed all cozy besides one another. Charles is reading some book he found at the local market, glasses you fondly refer to as old man spectacles propped on the end of his nose. Your arms are pressed together just like your legs are tangled beneath the soft blanket, the comfortable silence having been curated over your long term relationship. Charles loved the peace you brought into his life and how everything seemed to soften around you; every moment with you is one engraved in his heart, soul, and mind.

"Fuck!" The explicative comes out of the blue, your boyfriend startling next to you. As he glances over in confusion, his heart melts further. You look absolutely adorable with your little frustrated pout and furrowed brows. A smile tugs at his lips as he peers over your shoulder, only to dim once more to confusion.

"Love.. what are you doing?" He murmurs, watching your fingers tap little black boxes on a scrolling screen. A faint song plays from your phone, one he'd previously tuned out in favor of listening to your breathing; a sound that always soothes him.

"Piano Tiles." You mutter, too focused on correctly playing the Can-Can to look at your darling boyfriend. You've been trying to beat this song for God knows how long, the Can-Can haunting your dreams like Ferrari haunts his. At your response Charles leans closer, his warm breath brushing against your neck and cheek to distract you. From this, you mess up and the Can-Can mocks you from Hell.

"Why are you playing this game? I can teach you piano!" He offers, the idea making him light up in a way that relaxes the wrinkle between your eyebrows. You place your phone down beside you, knowing if you see that losing screen for one more second your phone will end up embedded in the wall. Charles, unaware of your seething rage at the children's game, seems absolutely taken by the thought of teaching you his passion.

"I have many books we can use and I'm sure you will love it.. oh, we can do duets!" He borderline squeals, already halfway out of bed as if it isn't almost twelve. You gently take his hand and pull him back, chuckling quietly.

"It's time for bed, remember?" A grin spreads across your face as a pout takes over his, his body slumping back beside you. Charles sulks, but then again, he sulks at everything. Knowing the perfect remedy to his silly dilemma that is time, you grab your phone and open the cursed app again.

"Would you like to play Cha?" The sickeningly sweet smile on your face should be noticeable, but Charles is too excited to learn something from you to care. Whenever you offer to teach him something, no matter how miniscule or simple, he suddenly becomes the most dutiful student with a slight (extreme) staring problem. He carefully takes your phone and, after a bit of direction, begins playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. He finds it easy, just like how his ego is easily inflated.

"My love, this is so simple. I promise that real piano is much more challenging, you would like it more." Charles exclaims, your earlier frustrations still not clicking with him. A wonderful, potentially cruel idea forms in your brain. That same smile spreads across your face and you rest your head on his shoulder to further lull him into a false sense of security you secretly use any excuse to touch him.

"Here's the one I was playing, maybe you can teach me it?" You click on the dastardly Can-Can, almost feeling pity at the naive confidence he displays. An excited smile glows on his face at the mention of teaching you; He'll take any excuse to spend time with you and getting to be squished beside you on a piano stool is a definite plus. When the song starts though, that confidence drains almost instantly. He manages to play for roughly seven seconds.

You giggle quietly as he tries again, and again, and again... and, you guessed it, again. By this point he's frowning and mumbling curses you don't think he even knows the meanings of, his shoulder tense beneath your cheek. Trying to draw him out of his relentless torture cycle, you gently kiss his stubbled jaw. Charles puts your phone down, all attention instantly on you as he relaxes.

".. Why would you introduce me to this game?" Charles asks, wrapping an arm around you to hold you closer. You cuddle into his side, tracing shapes over his white sleep shirt.

"Everyone needs Piano Tiles trauma, it builds character." You explain, peering up at him from his chest. Unable to resist such a cute sight, he kisses your forehead as his other arm comes around to hold onto your hip. A laugh bubbles in his chest though once he registers your words, only growing when he realizes you're fully serious.

"Really? You do this to me for character development?" Charles gasps as though you've offended every part of him, shaking his head.

"I can never forgive this crime my love." He tuts as you sit up a little. It's obvious what his charade is since he does it at any chance he can whether that be you forgetting a goodbye kiss or just bumping into him. A dramatized sigh escapes your lips as you cup his face, ready to plead for mercy over this horrendous offense.

"How can I make it up to you hm?" You hum, kissing the tip of his nose and giggling when it skews his old man spectacles. His nose scrunches at the peck and he glances up at the ceiling, clearly deep in thought. As he ponders what could give you retribution, you play around with his soft hair, giggling to yourself as you make pigtails and whatnot.

"I will forgive you if.." He dramatically pauses, of course, and you tap the top of his head as a mock drumroll. A goofy grin breaks through his serious facade before he fixes his face.

".. You let me teach you piano tomorrow." He says decisively. Obviously you saw this coming and can only pray he forgets (he won't). Charles can get.. passionate while playing piano and with you struggling to play alongside him.. well, you've fallen off the bench enough that he puts pillows down to catch you.

"Yes, yes alright." You groan, tucking yourself back up under his chin. He laughs quietly, knowing your exact train of thought. As compensation though he holds you extra close, arms tightly wrapped around you and legs hopelessly tangled while he rubs your back. You feel sleep tugging at your eyes, the steady heartbeat of your boyfriend only makes it harder to stay up. Wordlessly you reach a hand up to take his glasses off, the movement second nature from the many times you've had to help out the forgetful man. He murmurs a quiet thank you, followed by an 'i love you' that never fails to warm you right up. At your whispered reciprocation his heartbeat speeds up a tick, one that you can hear and makes the task of tomorrow worth it.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - -୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

#formula 1 #charles leclerc x reader #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfiction #Charles leclerc #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fluff #yaaaay domesticity

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trippinsorrows · 6 months ago

Text

with me + part seven

authors note: i take some creative liberties with medical (mostly hipaa) stuff in this one, so please disregard. also, thank you everyone for (still!!!) being so interested in this story. you guys are making me wanna flesh it out even more like seriously 😭 i wanted to not make it past 10 (3 to 4 initially) parts but the support has been so humbling, and ya'll seem to like/want more sooooo 😭

song inspo: with me by destiny's child

status: in progress // masterlist

warnings: angst, language, suggestive themes

words: 7k

taglist: @pixiedust4000 @southerngirl41 @yolobloggers @msbigredmachine @wanderingreigns

Absolutely every rule of the road is broken in getting Callie to the hospital.

You couldn’t give two shits.

You just continue to try to reassure your crying child that she's going to be okay while fighting your own pending panic attack.

Speeding through the lanes, uncaring if the light is yellow and you should slow down, you’ll take whatever ticket. The only rule you abide by is not going through a red light, understanding how stupid and dangerous that is. However, while the hospital is about a 15 to 20 minute drive from you, you make it there in a solid eight minutes.

And even that is too much.

The emergency room is, expectedly, pretty empty save a couple of people. Emergencies are rare and infrequent in your town. It’s truly a stroke of bad, cruel luck that your sweet little girl is victim to one of the few.

Rushing to the front desk, Callie cradled against you, you blurt to the receptionist, “something’s wrong with her stomach.”

The woman appears uninterested until her eyes land on Calista who’s still crying into your chest, hand on her stomach. She calls out to the back, and you see the double doors open. A few minutes later, if that, a set of doctor and nurses emerge.

“What happened?” The doctor immediately asks, starting to assess Callie, first checking for a fever and then shining a light in both her eyes.

Speaking is suddenly difficult, but you manage, “I–I don’t know. She said her stomach was hurting right before she went to bed, so I gave her some Children’s Tylenol, then she woke up in the middle of the night screaming in pain, and I–I rushed her over here.”

He nods, gently going to press on her stomach as she shouts in pain again. Your own stomach clenches, hating to see her hurt like this.

Something appears to flash in his vision, but whatever it is, he keeps it to himself. “We need to admit her.” He reaches for Callie who suddenly clings tighter to you.

“No!” There’s pure fear and panic in her voice, as she starts to cry harder. “I wanna stay with my mommy!”

Her words kill you, because you also don’t want to let her go, but you know it’s what needs to happen. “Baby, it’s okay, they’re gonna help you, and I’m right here, alright?” You try to reassure her, gently stroking her hair. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

She’s clearly still uncomfortable but allows the doctor to carry her, as he instructs one of the nurses, “page peds.” Her eyes never leave you as he moves quickly to carry her into one of the rooms, carefully placing her down on the bed. You’re immediately by her side, needing her to know you’re right here with her and not going anywhere.

While the doctor gives a variety of commands to some of the nurses, you somehow have the wherewithal to catch the attention of one of the nurses, informing, “her dad is on his way. Can you make sure they let him back? His name is Joe.”

She nods. “Of course.”

“And—” this is both relevant and irrelevant, but as it’s at the forefront of your mind, so you tell her, “I also need a release form. For him. He’s….he’s not on the birth certificate.”

If she’s judging you for this piece of information, you’ll never know because her expression remains unchanged. “I’ll have one brought to you.”

“Thank you.” It hasn’t really crossed your mind until this terrifying moment that Joe has no legal right or say into any medical or legal situations regarding Calista. This scares you in a different way, her own father having no say in decisions that could be life or death. It’s shoved into the back of your mind, but when this is all said and done, you know this it’s something you need to discuss with him.

You need to look into whatever the state requires to have a father’s name added to a birth certificate. But, of course, all of this is secondary to what’s happening before you, your focus returning to Callie who’s still holding onto your arm.

“Alright, what do we have here?”

A new voice enters the room, and you look up, momentarily surprised to see another doctor, but it’s not the fact that it’s a doctor that surprises you. It’s who the doctor is.

You give him a double take, almost not trusting your judgment in this moment. But when he approaches Callie’s side and offers a gentle smile, you see it, the cleft in his chin.

“Kai?”

He lifts his eyes to you, offering a small nod, returning his focus to assessing Callie. And then he looks up again. Like he gave you the standard acknowledgement only to also realize who you are.

“Y/N?”

Yup. Hearing his voice again, you’re certain this is most definitely Kai Sawyer.

Kai Sawyer, former classmate, once friend, brief lover when you were in high school. He was always sweet, almost too sweet for the toxic teenager you were who was too stuck on Amir to realize Kai was a much better option.

Granted, it was never serious. You never had any sort of feelings for him that left you stumped.

Nothing like with Joe.

“It’s good to see you.” He seems just as surprised to see you as you are to see him. The last you heard was that he left for school, pursuing a medical career and planned to move out of state. Kai motions to Callie. “This is your daughter?” Nodding with a small, forced smile, you watch him carefully lean down to be closer to Callie’s eye level. “Hi there, sweetie. I’m Dr. Sawyer. Can you tell me your name?”

She sniffles, seemingly holding you tighter. “Callie.”

“Callie,” he says, precisely, pronouncing each syllable. “What a very pretty name. Well, Callie, is it okay if I feel your belly so we can see what’s going on and help you feel better?”

She doesn’t look at you for approval, instead nodding as Kai starts to evaluate her. Once again, she cries out in pain as he feels the same area you’d unintentionally put too much pressure on.

“It hurts,” she whimpers, and you kiss her forehead. Seeing her in pain is a form of torture you absolutely cannot tolerate.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he apologies, standing upright again. “We’re gonna make you all better though, okay?”

She says nothing, instead tugging you closer to her as she lays her head against your shoulder.

Kai speaks to the nurses in a low voice, where you can only make out intermittent parts. Something about an IV drip and pain meds. Once he’s done, he looks over at you and continues with that low voice, “can I talk to you outside?”

His question doesn’t help with the anxiety you’re already having an extremely difficult time controlling, but Callie’s heightened cries and tightened grasp on you captures your attention the most.

“No, mommy, don’t leave me!"

It’s an impossible decision, even if logically, you know what you have to do. Whatever Kai wants to discuss with you clearly doesn’t need to be in front of Callie, but you also know she’s hurting and just wants her mom.

“You said your name is Callie? That’s such a cute name.” One of the nurses comes over and offers a warm smile. “I have a little girl who’s just about your age too. She likes barbies and playing dress up. What do you like?”

Sniffling, still holding onto you, Callie meets the nurse’s eye contact and answers after a second. “Disney.”

The nurse gasps, “so does my little girl.” She sits on the side of the bed as the other nurse finishes inserting Callie’s IV. “Is it okay if I sit with you and we talk about Disney while mama talks to Dr. Sawyer?”

You’re so thankful for this act of kindness and assure Callie, “I’ll be right back. I’m just outside the door, okay?”

She’s still unsure and highly uncomfortable, but a small nod precedes her releasing her grip on you. You start to climb out of the hospital bed when she grabs you again.

You expect another form of protest, of unease about you leaving her. Instead, in a small, innocent voice, she states, “I want Joe.”

The ball in the back of your throat grows exponentially. You’re already emotional, for obvious reasons, but there’s something about her request, so simple yet so powerfully telling, that brings a new set of tears to your eyes.

“He’s on his way, baby, okay?” As the hospital is in the same direction as his hotel, you expect his arrival in a matter of minutes, hopefully.

She seems comforted by this piece of information, and you’re able to break away to follow Kai outside the room. Once out of a proximity where she could overhear, you ask, urgently, “what’s wrong with her?”

Kai sighs, crossing his arms over his body with a sympathetic expression. “Well, I—”

The sound of heavy, urgent footsteps capture your attention, and you look to your side to see a nurse escorting Joe. His eyes land on you with a curious expression before he asks, “where is she?”

His voice is calm, but you know him well. Too well. Enough to know that he’s worried out of his mind, too.

You gesture to the door a few inches away from you. “With the nurse.” Gesturing to Kai, you inform, “this is the doctor.”

There’s something about Joe’s presence that instantly calms you, allows your emotions to regulate just a little better.

“Holy shit,” Kai breathes, and you look over to see he’s staring at Joe with bewilderment. “You’re–uh—is this her dad?” The question is posed to you, and you run your hand over your face, nodding. Kai clearly recognizes Joe, err, Roman, and is in a brief state of celebrity panic. Any other time, you’d understand it, but right now, you’re on the doorsteps of a nervous breakdown, and the medical professional in charge of Callie’s care being starstruck isn’t the least bit helpful.

“Yes,” Joe answers, his voice not unkind but not friendly either. “What’s wrong with my daughter?”

Kai clears his throat, snapping back into his professional shoes. “It seems like early stages of appendicitis. We call it acute appendicitis, meaning her appendix hasn’t ruptured yet, which is good.” He gazes at you, grateful. “You got her here just in time.”

His words do little to comfort you, because you’re still stuck on the first part.

“Appendicitis?” You repeat, confused . “But–but she’s only four. How—”

“It’s not as uncommon in children as people think. Did you by any chance have one when you were younger?”

You have to think for a second, recognition then dawning. You’d completely forgotten about that borderline traumatic experience that was eerily similar to this. Waking your mom up because you were in a tremendous amount of pain and her calling 911 to rush you to the hospital. God, how could you not remember that until now? “Yes, yes, but I was—I was like 10.”

“So still a kid,” he confirms. Kai turns to Joe. “What about dad?”

“Yeah, I was twelve.”

“Wait a minute.” You don’t know about Joe, but you certainly remember the outcome of your experience. “You—you don’t have to operate on her, right?” Scoffing, your words become difficult to express. “Kai, she’s—she’s too little for that. There’s—there’s another way, right?”

“Surgery is the best treatment—”

“No!” You cut him off, not wanting to hear this shit. “You’re not cutting her open, Kai. I–I won’t—-I won’t allow it.”

Joe finally addresses you, hand on the small of your back as he tries to get you to look at him. “Y/N….”

You jerk away, “I said no!” Turning back to Kai, you plead, eyes starting to burn again, “isn’t there—isn’t there something else you can do? Like medicine or—”

“Her appendix needs to be removed, Y/N. There’s no way around that.” Kai’s tone is full-on professional, borderline pleading, needing you to actually heed to his medical opinion. “The procedure is standard, should take about an hour, and it presents minimal risk. It’s really the best and safest option. If we don’t operate, inflammation could increase and eventually cause her appendix to rupture. Once that happens, because of her age, she becomes at an increasingly high risk for infection. And that could become fatal.”

The word fatal sounds out everything else as you fall back against the wall, covering your mouth, unable to hold back the tears. “Oh my god.”

Joe looks at Kai, directring firmly. “Do it. Do it now.”

“I’ll book an OR.” Kai nods and you hear him say something else, but it’s all so distant and blurry. Fatal and Callie should never be in the same sentence, but right now it’s a reality that you can’t fathom. Your chest hurts, your stomach hollow, and head all over the place.

“I—it’s my fault,” you murmur to yourself or maybe Joe. You’re not entirely sure. “She—she told me her stomach was upset, but I—I didn’t listen. I just—I just gave her medicine and made her go to sleep.” You inhale sharply, eyes burning with salty tears. “She was in pain, and I didn’t listen to her. I didn’t—”

“Baby, look at me.” Before you realize it, Joe is in front of you, cupping your face and forcing your blurry gaze on him. “You did nothing wrong. There was no way for you to know what was happening.”

“I’m her mother, Joe—" you protest, sniffling, hands on his chest. “I’m supposed to know when something’s wrong. I’m–I’m supposed to protect her.”

“And you did,” he assures, pushing back some of your hair. “You heard the doctor. You got her here just in time. It could have been a lot worse.” He wipes away your tears, hating to see you so upset, so hard on yourself over a situation outside of your control. “You’re an amazing mother. Do you know why she’s such a great and happy kid? Because of you. Because you take such good care of her. You’ve raised her on your own, and look at how amazing she is. That’s all you. Why else do you think she’s so attached to you? Because you’re just as much her world as she is yours.” He pulls you into his chest, continuing to gently comfort you, “she’s gonna be fine, okay?”

Being held in that moment, being held by Joe is exactly what you need. It centers you as much as one can be centered in this kind of situation. You find yourself holding onto him, embracing the comfort and support.

Eyes shut, you murmur into his chest, “thank you for being here.”

You feel his hand move gently down your back, his mouth pressed to the top of your head. “Always.”

After a few minutes, maybe more, maybe less, you separate and wipe at your eyes. “Okay.” It’s trying to gather yourself before going back in the room, not wanting to scare her or make anything worse for her than it already is. “We–we need to tell her.”

“You want me to tell her?” He offers, and you’re thankful. He clearly sees how upsetting all of this is and is eager to support you anyway he can.

“No,” you finally answer. “We’ll do it together.”

Joe takes your hand and rubs his thumb across your knuckles, a kind, comforting gesture. Appreciated. You appreciate him so fucking much in this moment that it’s almost impossible to explain. Your calm in this storm, a voice of sound reason. Much needed advocate for your daughter as you fall victim to your emotions.

He looks at you once more, assessing your readiness. A simple nod gives him the answer he needs, as he heads for the door, holding it open so you can enter first.

The same nurse who so kindly recognized a need lifts her head with that same warm smile. Your eyes immediately land on Calista, who looks less pale than she was when you brought her in. She’s also no longer crying. That relieves you the most. A mother seeing her child cry is a kind of pain no one should ever have to experience.

The pain meds must be kicking in. You’re immensely grateful.

But as quick as her eyes were on you, they bounce almost instantly to Joe, a larger smile growing.

“Joe!” Even her voice is stronger, not as weak or weighed down with pain.

“There’s my girl,” Joe greets, instantly at her side, kissing the top of her head. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“A little better, but my tummy still hurts.”

Allowing them their moment, you turn to the nurse who’s subtly backed away, also recognizing this is a moment that shouldn’t be intruded upon. She also subtly reaches you the clipboard with the ROI that you quickly fill out and hand back to her. “Thank you,” you whisper, hoping your eyes reveal just how much you appreciate her thoughtfulness.

“Of course,” she replies, giving a final look to Callie. “I’ll leave you all alone.”

Once the door is shut and it’s just the three of you, you move to the other side of the hospital bed, seeing there’s a possible space to jump in and gently break the news to her. A shared glance with Joe followed by a nod is the answer you need as you take a deep breath.

“Calista….” As soon as she gazes at you, you recognize she knows something is up. You hardly ever use her full first name. “Baby, Joe and I talked to the doctor about what he needs to do to make you all better, and—and he said you’ve gotta have surgery to take the bad stuff out your stomach.”

Her brows cave together, confused. “What’s surgery?”

Joe jumps in, recognizing your initial difficulty with how to explain such a concept to a young child. “It’s when doctors give you medicine to make you go to sleep while they take the bad stuff out of you.”

She looks at him, a little more understanding, still obviously and understandably unsure. “Does it hurt?”

You answer, trying your best to keep your tone as calm as possible. “When you wake up, it may hurt a little but that’s cause it’s gotta heal.”

Joe shares, and you’re so grateful for his partnership at this moment. For his ability to assist and tag team. “You wanna know something? Your mom and I had the same surgery when we were kids.”

She seems intrigued by this. “Really?” Nodding, you study her facial expressions, knowing her well enough to know that she’s struggling with her emotions. She’s not alone.

Finally, after a minute of contemplation, she whispers, “I’m scared.”

“It’s okay to be scared, Callie,” Joe assures. He's so damn good with her, gentle and patient. “Everyone gets scared.”

She looks over at him, asking innocently, “even you?”

“Of course,” he answers, vulnerably sharing, “I was scared when your mom called me and said she was taking you to the hospital.” The both of you were. That’s no call any parent wants to ever receive.

She looks between the two of you. “Can you guys come with me?”

“We can’t go back with you, but we’ll be waiting right here for you as soon as you wake up.” Joe answers for you, thumb brushing over her forehead.

“You promise?”

Lips pressed against her forehead, you vow, “we promise.”

—-------

As soon as Callie is taken back to the OR and the two of you are left alone in the waiting area, Joe begins to lift his hoodie over his head, suddenly reaching it to you. “Put this on.”

You look at him, confused. “What?”

His eyes briefly trail your body, head to toe. “Do you realize what you're wearing?”

Brows furrowed, you look down and gasp. In the midst of adrenaline and flight or flight, your appearance never dawned on you. Your pajama set is short, skimpy, and shows off a slice of your stomach, not that you care too much about that. It’s more the fact that you’re not wearing a bra, and this waiting room is cold as fuck.

You also realize your bonnet is still on your head.

In short, you look a hot ass mess, more like someone waiting for admission to the psych ward instead of an anxious parent awaiting her daughter to get out of surgery.

“Fuck.” The first thing you do is rip your bonnet off, deciding to keep your pineapple. Next is accepting Joe’s hoodie, sliding it over your frame. It’s understandably baggy, grazing just above your knees. “Thank you.”

The two of you move over to the seating area as you sigh loudly, suddenly asking. “What time is it?”

He checks the watch on his wrist. “3:15.”

You scoff, rubbing your eyes but not saying anything, leaning back into the seat, trying to not get too much into your head. It’s a difficult feat when your four-year-old child is under the knife for emergency surgery.

“The doctor…..” Joe starts, and you turn to look at him. “You called him by his first name.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate for you to understand his question. “We went to high school together.” If your intention was to keep your answer as casual and general as possible, you fail miserably because Joe 100% picks up on the unspoken words.

“And?”

Shrugging, you explain, “we didn’t date per se, but we hooked up.” Looking back, you recognize how Kai was absolutely a rebound in between Amir and all his bullshit. And you do regret that, because Kai was always a genuinely nice guy. He didn't deserve to be caught up in your Joker-Harley Quinn ‘love’ story.

“Fucking hell.” Joe looks away, genuinely annoyed, and for some reason, it makes you smile. The first of the night, err, morning. And you’re weirdly thankful for this conversation, for this distraction you wonder if he's intentionally providing you. “Do all your ex’s still live here? Why does nobody ever leave this town?”

You laugh, actually laugh, and it feels nice. A contrast from all of the heaviness you’ve experienced over the past few hours.

Sucking your teeth, you respond, sassily. “I’m tired of you roasting my tiny little no name town.”

He eyes you curiously, clearly surprised by your reference. “You watch?”

“Occasionally,” you answer with a shrug. You don’t want to tell him you’ve found yourself increasingly watching Bloodline clips during the kids' lunchtime at school. Or at night when you don’t know what else to watch. Not when before his return, it was rare and in between you’d find yourself consuming anything WWE related, let alone with Roman Reigns. “Not a lot. Just enough to see how you’re doing exactly what I always knew you could do.”

Joe stares, appreciatively, gently adding, “you always believed in me.”

“Of course, I did.” It’s always been so visible and obvious. From the very beginning, you recognized his potential and knew he would excel once they finally released him from his shackles. You find yourself leaning against his body and grab onto his arm. “I could never have a bum for a baby daddy.”

You don’t have to be looking at him to know he’s rolling his eyes, that expression of his that’s a mixture of a scowl and smile.

He doesn’t say anything after that, not immediately, and that’s okay, because just sitting here, with him, not alone and in your head is a great comfort.

“She has my last name.”

You look up at him, surprised and confused as to why he’s saying this like he didn’t already know it. But it’s in that looking at him, you see it’s because he clearly didn’t already know this.

He was unaware.

Sitting up, you ask, “you didn't know?”

He shakes his head, explaining, “when I got here, I said I was here for Calista, and she said Calista Anoa’i.” That’s it. How he found out. How his daughter, who he hadn’t even known about up until not even two months ago, shared the same last name as him. All of these major life reveals being dropped on him like it’s nothing.

You feel terrible again, just for different reasons.

“I never wanted to erase you from her life. I just—” It’s hard to explain something you’re starting to not even fully understand. In such a short timespan, Joe has done a tremendous job stepping into the role of dad. So much so that it has you deeply regretting depriving him of the almost first five years of her life.

Depriving yourself of having a partner to raise Callie with.

“I just went about it all wrong,” is the best you can land on to describe what you’re thinking and feeling. “And I'm sorry you found out like this. I guess, I just thought it would have come up by now.”

“It’s fine.” It’s not. He’s just trying to be mindful of where you are emotionally right now. Always considerate, despite his own feelings.

Grabbing a hold of his arm, you lean into him again, eventually murmuring, “no, it’s not.” You’re starting to feel more and more like there was never a good enough reason to rob him of this, to have a child walking around this earth with his last name, his blood, and him be in the dark. Him being married was a factor, but it wasn’t a firm reason. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t ha—”

“Yes, I do,” you interrupt him, already knowing he’s going to try to pacify you, to try to convince you that it wasn’t that bad. Bullshit. “You missed out on so much, because of me, and I’m truly sorry, Joe. My own shit got i—”

“Excuse me?”

You sit upright, attention automatically redirected to the Caucasian woman in front of you with a bad bleach job, crows feet that probably contrast her actual age, and a clipboard. It’s the damn clipboard that kills your thought that maybe Callie is out her surgery and you guys can see her.

Wishful thinking.

“Bill it,” is your short, curt reply as you lay back down against Joe’s arm. His eyes are on you, curious.

The woman gives a small, fake laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You’re here to discuss insurance shit, right?” Her silence is the answer you need. “Well, I’m telling you to bill my insurance and then send me a bill.”

She extends a more authentic smile to Joe, and you almost could swear you see the faintest hint of blush on her pale face. “Well, aren’t you three steps ahead?” When you don’t say anything, she awkwardly clears her throat and continues. “I actually wanted to know if you’d like to take advantage of this really great option we have where we give you an estimated cost and accept payment now so that—”

“Lady, my daughter is in surgery right now. I don’t give a scathing fuck about your great option. Bill it, and get the hell away from us.” Your words are blunt, coarse, and very much to the point. You couldn’t give two shits about anything she has to say if it’s not regarding Callie being out, up, and all better.

Joe chuckles above you, still saying nothing, just watching her walk away with her tail between her legs. “You had some restraint. I’m proud of you.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, eyes closing as you try to allow yourself to bask in the comfort he provides. It’s such a different experience. The last time you had to rush Callie to the ER, she was two, your mom was out of town on a women’s retreat, and Mariah was off on her honeymoon. It was just you, by yourself, waiting to find out what the hell was wrong with your toddler.

Having someone with you in this moment, having him with you, means more to you than he could ever imagine.

“How’d you come up with her name?” He asks after a few moments of silence.

This brings a smile to your face, a genuine one that you actually feel in your body. “A book.”

“Like a baby name book?” You should have known better. Joe is many things, a man of specificity being pretty high up there.

You hesitate to respond. “Not exactly.”

He glances down, assessing your expression before tilting his head back. “You didn’t.”

“Hear me out.”

“Did you seriously name our daughter after some character from one of your freaky ass sex books?” You’re grateful for the little laughter this conversation provides you, and it makes you realize how much this man must have missed you to remember that. To remember your guilty pleasure for smutty kindle books. Not so much as you’ve gotten older and just genuinely don’t have the time to read them.

Resting your chin against his massive arm, you defend, “first of all, rude. Secondly, it wasn’t even that freaky. Unfortunately.” He rolls his eyes and you continue, “the character was actually really interesting and not awful. And I’d never heard the name Calista before, so when I looked it up and saw it meant most beautiful….it just fit.” Toward the end of your pregnancy was when you fully allowed yourself to embrace being a mother, regardless of the circumstances. It was a blessing and beautiful experience, and you found yourself counting down the days until your due date. “Her middle name is Manaia.”

He chuckles, softly. “That’s Samoan.”

Chewing on your bottom lip, you rest your cheek against him again. “I know…I told you, she’s just as much you as she is me.”

—-------

Joe approaches the front desk, seeing a brunette woman scrolling on her phone with a bored expression. Understandable, given the room is empty sans a janitor making the rounds. It’s probably the first and last empty emergency room he’ll ever come across.

“Excuse me.”

She looks up, and her mouth parts, an instant smile growing. One he’s used to but wholeheartedly couldn’t care less about.

“Hi.” Her tone is much more breathy than what’s necessary, some attempt at coming off flirtatious would be his guess. Zero shits are still given.

Joe doesn’t waste any time, already wanting to get back to you, even if he knows you went to go call your mom and let her know what happened. Still, he needs to, at the very least, get back before he has to feed you some bullshit excuse about where he was. “I need to add a new card on file for Calista Anoa’i.”

She leans forward, chin in her hand, uneven, needle thin eyebrows wiggling. “Are you dad?”

Obviously. “Yes.”

“Lucky kid.” He’d take a good guess that she doesn’t recognize him, which for that, he’s grateful. She just finds him attractive, which is still irritating and unprofessional as hell. Have an attraction, but don’t be so vocal and desperate. “Mom too.”

Ignoring her comment, he grabs his wallet, pulling out his card and sliding it over.

“Do—”

“Change it to the default payment,” he instructs, not in the mood for whatever else she wants to try. It’s all in vain. He has eyes for one woman only, and it certainly isn’t her. “Is there any way you can set it up for autopay?”

She gives Joe a strange expression, like she questions his ability to consent. Because no one in their right mind would authorize a hospital to have such power with their money. “Umm, we can, but it’s really not recommended because you can never guarantee just how much insurance will and won’t cover. So, if they deny the claim in its entirety, then they’ll charge the entire balance—”

“That’s fine,” he cuts her off. “Just do it, and make sure any future charges go to that card only.” He thinks about it, asking, “matter of fact, can you take mom’s card off file altogether?” Joe knows you’re gonna bite his head off for this, and he doesn’t care. He knows medical bills can get costly, and you’re not making bank on a teacher’s salary. The least he can do is take care of his daughter’s medical costs.

“Uhh, sure, as long as you understand—”

“Money isn’t an issue. At all. Do it.”

She shakes her head but types away eventually reaching Joe his card. “All done. You can call and change it at any—”

“I won’t.” And that’s a fact. “Thank you.”

Joe doesn’t give her a chance to respond or try anything else, turning to head back to the waiting area and is relieved when you return only minutes after he’s sat down.

“Well, as expected, she’s upset I didn’t call her but calmed down a little bit when I told her you’ve been here with me,” you catch him up, sitting down next to him again. “And she’s on her way. She wants us to go back to my place to get some sleep.”

Immediately, he protests. “We can’t leave Callie.”

You open your mouth to mostly agree with him when you hear footsteps and feel your stomach flutter seeing Kai heading in your direction.

He gets straight to the point. “Surgery was successful. She’s gonna be fine.” There are no words to properly describe your relief. The past hour felt like the longest period of your life and to know that it wasn’t in vain is so utterly comforting.

“Thank God,” you breathe, also standing up with Joe. “Thank you, Kai.” You briefly close your eyes, shaking your head and correcting yourself. “I’m sorry, uhh. Dr. Sawyer.”

“Come on, Y/N. I’ll always just be Kai to you.” It’s said so innocently, and it’s also then you notice the wedding band on his left hand. But, Joe must be giving him a look, because he’s suddenly awkwardly clearing his throat. “Because she’s so young, I'd like to keep her a couple more days to monitor her.”

“Of course,” you agree. There’s no protest at your daughter having medical personnel surrounding her at all times following a surgical procedure.

He nods and starts to walk away when you remember something, catching him and moving away from Joe to speak privately.

“Ummm…..” you haven't a clue how to approach nor explain this but try your best. “Joe…..he’s just now in her life. She—she doesn’t even know he’s her dad. It’s….a long, complicated story, but we’re trying to keep everything private—”

He says your name, interrupting you, “ever heard of HIPAA? None of what happened tonight leaves this emergency room.” You nod, slightly assured. “And if it makes you feel any better, I’ll remind the nurses of that too.’

That gives you all of the relief. The last thing you want or need is this becoming fodder for the media. One of the many reasons you love your town is how off the grid it is with a lot of things. Most of them probably wouldn’t even recognize Joe, and the few who do would never dare speak of it outside of this same town, respecting that he’s still a human being.

“Thank you, Kai. Seriously.”

He offers you such a genuine smile and adds, “I’m glad I got to see you, Y/N. The circumstances weren’t the best, but I’m pleased to see you ended up happy.” He starts to walk backwards, adding with a slight smirk. “About time you moved on from the likes of Amir and Mariah.”

That throws you for a loop. You understand the part about Amir, but Mariah?

What did he mean by that?

You don’t really have time to think about it, because Joe is at your side, holding your hand and reminding you that you two need to get back in the room for Callie. That’s enough to put the confusion about what just occurred to the back burner.

Thankfully, when they roll Callie back into her room, she’s still slightly out of it from the anesthesia. But when she comes to, she’s thrilled to see the both of you and announces in a small, proud voice, “I did it.”

It gives you another genuine laugh, and the two of you enjoy her, your brave, sweet little girl.

As you expected, your mom enters the room, immediately going and comforting Callie. She gives you a little slap on your arm for not calling her, still upset about that.

That’s also expected.

What isn’t entirely expected is your mom talking to Callie about why you and Joe need to go home for a little bit to rest because you’re tired too. She’s not entirely wrong, Now that you’re out of the flight of it all, you’re crashing and crashing hard. Even Joe looks tired.

Surprisingly, your mom is able to get Callie to agree with this. It takes more convincing for Joe, but he also eventually relents. And instead of driving all the way to your place, you suggest you two just go to his hotel room which is closer to the hospital.

That’s an easy sell for him.

Reaching the hotel, you convince Joe to shower first, as you have something you need to take care of. It takes some convincing, but he eventually agrees. Once you hear the shower running, you pull out your phone, surprised to see it hasn’t died and has enough, hopefully, for you to shoot out one more message.

One you’ve been putting off, but desperately need, especially as of the last 24 to 48 hours.

Alexis,

Hi. I know it’s been a couple of weeks since my last email, and I’m sorry. I would text you, but I have no idea where in the world you are right now or if you have reception. So, email it is. A lot….a lot has happened. Joe is back in the picture, and he knows about Callie. But, interestingly enough, that’s not an issue at all. He’s so good with her, and she already clearly loves him so much. We haven’t told her he’s her dad, but he plans to do it for Christmas. Callie also had to have emergency surgery last night. Her appendix. That was….a lot. She’s good now, made it out of surgery fine. Thank God. Also, Joe’s divorced. And he more or less told me he wants us to be together, and I don’t know how to feel about that. Sorry, this is all over the place. Joe and I have been up all night with Callie at the hospital, so my brain isn’t working. I just needed to send this now, because I keep forgetting, and I miss you and could really use some advice right now. I need my long distance best friend.

Love,

Your favorite college roomie

You should probably reread your email before sending it, but that requires energy, and you’re literally operating on fumes. When Joe steps out of the bathroom, shirtless, you don’t even bat an eye, which is unlike you. You’ve always been insanely attracted to him, for obvious reasons.

You just accept the shirt he offers, close the bathroom door, strip naked and step into the shower. So exhausted, you don’t even realize until halfway through you forgot to use the shower cap but thankfully only a little bit of your hair gets wet.

Not that it matters. Even washing yourself is such a task.

You’re out of the shower as soon as you feel adequately clean, rid of hospital germs. You don’t even care that the shirt is the only thing covering your otherwise nude body, breast stretching against the cotton.

It is what it is.

Stepping out of the bathroom with your clothes tucked under your side, you settle on placing them on a nearby chair. Or maybe it’s a table. You’re not too sure nor do you care all that much. You just need to sleep.

But, it’s also when you see he’s moving toward the sofa, you know you need something else.

Someone.

“Joe.”

He turns around, and you move over to him, reaching for his hand. The tug is slight but enough to have him follow your guidance toward the bed where you switch positions so he falls on his back. Moving to the side of the mattress, you climb into the bed and turn on your side, back toward him. You don’t need to ask, because his strong arm is suddenly around you, pulling you into his hard chest.

Sighing in content, you allow his mouth to graze your temple as he pulls the blankets over the both of you.

Hand on his thick forearm that’s keeping you close against him, you murmur, “Callie comes first. We get her straight, make sure she’s okay.” You roll on your back, meeting his telling gaze. “Then we figure out us.”

Joe is staring down at you with an affection you hadn’t realized you missed so deeply until this moment. He doesn’t say anything, just nods in acknowledgment and caresses your cheek. Grateful and tired of so much thinking, you push your body against his, shifting with him as moves onto his back and keeps you close against him.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you, because none of that matters in that moment. You don’t need to think about anything, don’t want to think about anything, just want to be close to him, just be with the man you’re almost certain now that you never stopped loving.

And also now wonder if he once felt the same, still feels the same.

If he’s always felt the same way.

#roman reigns x black!reader #roman reigns fic #roman reigns #roman reigns x black!oc #arisnotebook

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honeyxbunny99 · 1 month ago

Text

Sandor Clegane~ The Bitch and The Hound pt. 3

You woke to bird song and smiled contentedly, rolling over to try to catch another glimpse at your husband. You found only an empty bed. You began to stretch up out of bed and reflect on last night, as if it hadn’t been keeping you awake and even seeping into your dreams. ~Stay out of my head~ you had told Sandor in your mind, but whenever you tried to think of puppies or flowers or children, all of your familiar sweet dream things, you would turn back and watch him sleep.

Just as your feet hit the floor, Anna knocked at your chamber door and entered the next second. She rushed over to you with quiet footsteps, scanning you and seeing that you were still in your evening dress.

“Are you hurt, m’lady?” Concern coated every word and she placed gentle hands on your cheeks. You placed your hands atop hers and smiled, finding comfort in how much she cared for you.

“I’m fine, Anna. He didn’t hurt me, and he won’t hurt you.”

“But (y/n) how can you say that when the bruises are still fresh?” She asked and you were reminded of his grip on your throat the night you were supposed to consummate.

”I just… I’m certain.” You assured.

She nodded softly. Perhaps if you were a handmaiden like her she would have argued further, but now you had at least some sense of nobility. You were a part of the Clegane house now, and that meant a lot more than your original name. You admired Anna’s spirit and compassion as she dressed you. You considered her a true friend, and wanted to tell her everything as you would have told your sister. Sandor’s words stopped you though. You wondered as she tightened your corset if it was true; that she would sell you out to improve her circumstances. Perhaps you would if you were in her position.

“Must have been hard to sleep with that on all night… Though if I had to sleep next to the hound I wouldn’t want to undress either. He seemed very angry… Normally he’s all stoic and,” she molded her face to scowl like his and you laughed, “but that’s one of the only times I’ve ever seen him truly angry…. How did you get him to calm down?” She wondered aloud.

You tried to sort through stories in your head as quickly and naturally as possible. “I yelled back.” You finally shrugged, admitting the truth. She laughed in disbelief and brought a hand up to hide her mouth.

“Lady Clegane you ARE a fiery one.”

You blushed at her comment. “Well there were some tears that followed that fire…” you watched her make the bed and your stomach growled. “Would you like to break fast with me?”

She smiled brightly at you. “If you don’t fear it then I don’t either.”

The two of you dined and laughed together that morning and you felt hope for the first time that this prison you’d been damned to could actually make you happy. After your meal, you invited her on a walk through the gardens. You nearly ran into Cersei Lannister as you swiveled around a hedge.

“Your grace, I—“

“Ah, my dear lady Clegane… Leave us.” She looked at Anna as though she were rubbish littering her gardens. Anna looked between the two of you before saying lowly “I won’t go too far.”

You held your breath and curtsied. You had to wonder by her charming expression if the queen mother hated you for what you had to said about her, and how you had disrespected her son.

~Of course she does, why wouldn’t she!~

“And how is that husband of your treating you?” She asked smirking, taking your arm in hers and creating more distance between you and Anna. “I see you’re up and walking, it is a little disappointing.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion before remembering what Anna had told you about the soreness that came after intercourse. “Yes, well—“

“Maester Pycelle showed us the sheets himself. It was a bloody thing, he almost came to check on you but Joffrey forbade it. Sometimes my son can be overly cruel… Were it up to me, I would have just cut your throat and be done with it.” She dropped the threat so casually it made your mouth run dry. “But, here we are. I do hope your marriage to the hound lasts for many years to come..”

“I’m sorry, Queen Cersei… I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Oh don’t be an idiot.” She stopped walking and faced you. “You know you’re not, I know you’re not. Perhaps you are sorry for how you’ve ended up, the horrors you find yourself enduring with that beast on top of you… But you said it, in front of everyone. Own it. And own your punishment.” Her eyes fell to the ground. “Marriage can feel suffocating… I should know. It can feel like the death of yourself, because it is. From now until the end you will always be Lady Clegane. An extension of HIM. Something for him to fuck when he’s drunk or angry or doesn’t want to pay for it… Robert was a great killer in his day. It gave him nobility. Clegane is an even better killer but you know what it’s given him?” She began walking again, trusting you’d follow. “Next to nothing. Because he frightens, because he’s charmless, because of that nasty deformity on his face. People wrote songs about Robert, but they tell scary stories about your husband…” Her gaze grew distant, as if remembering. “Deep down every man wants to kill things because then they are completely his… the hound is different. The pleasure he takes from killing… I’ve heard tales that make even my blood run cold. That’s why I bought him. He will protect my son from all the cruelty the world can spew at him by lashing back horrors only he could come up with.” Now her eyes were daggers and they were pointed at you.

“You will never have love in your life with a man like that so close to you, and that, my dear, is punishment enough.”

She had taken your hand again at some point in her monologue and now she offered it a squeeze and a pat. She released you and turned to walk back into the red keep.

“You grace?” You called. “I’d like to pick some flowers…” you said it casually, to emphasize that you were not afraid of her. “May I do so here or may I be permitted beyond the walls?”

Cersei smiled in her conniving way as she looked you up and down, and nodded. “Take what you need, girl.” Before disappearing behind the protection of two large guards.

You turned swiftly and found Anna’s face peeking out behind one of the hedges. “Help me pick some roses.” You said, covering for the awkwardness of the situation with a smile.

11 roses later and you were back in your chambers. Anna and you plucked each of the petals off casually and gathered them in a cloth. There was a joust or some other horrible display going on today and you could hear the distant music and crowds from your window. You wondered if Sandor and his master were in attendance.

“I actually feel sorry for Sandor.”

“Who?” Anna said absentmindedly, pricking her thumb on a thorn.

You blew a harsh breath through your nose at the realization that even she didn’t know his real name. “The Hound?? My husband??”

“Oh!” She made a face. “I don’t much care for the name. Why would you feel sorry for that dog?” You narrowed your eyes at her insults and she raised her hands up in surrender, causing your stare to break into a soft smile. “He’s stuck with Joffrey all day. He’s been that way for years. Hell, if I had to put up with that little shit’s demands, his nasty attitude, I’d probably have a scowl like that too.”

Anna giggled. “Probably.” She sighed, finishing her roses and walking over to the window to lean out of it and try to see the event. “Still, he got the much nicer end of your bargain. He gets a beautiful virgin to terrorize in whatever ways he sees fit, all because you said what everyone was thinking.”

You looked down and the empty stems in your lap and sighed. “The Hound does not think me beautiful… And he even did not think me a virgin. Have you heard, that people say my father and I—“

“Nonsense. I know it, he knows it, Maester Pycelle sure knows it. When a pretty girl is lowborn, people make up all kinds of awful shit about her.”

You nodded, eyes still down at your lap.

“The Hound—Sandor— would have to be blind if he didn’t think you’re beautiful. And that wouldn’t make him a very good guard dog…” She came over to you and touched your shoulder gently. “Are you okay?”

“Yes… you wish to go to the tournament don’t you?” She nodded biting her lip. “Come with me, I know a guard who will let us out”

“No, I have no desire for it. Could you help draw me a bath though first?”

You enjoyed your time alone that day and tried not to count all the hours that you were waiting for your husband. It felt as though much more time had passed than the previous night and you were growing impatient. You studied your reflection and considered Anna’s words. ‘He would have to be blind if he didn’t think you were beautiful’ she had said. You wished it were true. You had been feeling so ugly lately, and now that the swelling had moved on, you decided to take the day to beautify yourself. You did not need Anna’s help, in fact you preferred to pamper yourself as you always had. Your makeup suited the lowlight of the fire and you brushed your hair a hundred more times. You wore a simple silk dress, one that would be far more comfortable to sleep in, and waited for your man. You hoped one day he could be proud to have you.

The chamber door opened and you couldn’t help but smile as you spun around in your seat. It fell though as your husband came into full view. He was bloodied, and his face mean.

“Sandor, are you hurt?!” You leapt up into action, racing over to him. He flinched away from your touch and growled out

“I’m fine woman. It’s not my blood.” Your eyes widened. “I’m glad.”

His expression read confusion. “Thank you for coming to me again tonight.”

“I’ve got to sleep somewhere don’t I? ‘Sides, I mad you a promise.”

You nodded in agreement and continued looking him over. “Still, you must have slept somewhere else the night before…”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” He answered as if that was the end of the explanation. The way he looked at you, you decided not to pry. For the first time you felt beautiful under his gaze. “You smell good.”

A shiver of joy ran up your spine at the compliment, and like you always do, you jumped right into rambling.

“Thank you! It’s rose water! I bathe in it whenever I can. It’s been said to keep the skin soft and youthful, though truthfully I just enjoy the scent.. Here!” You offered up your wrist to the big man and blushed at the size difference between you. He looked at you like you were crazy before slowly leaning down to your wrist and inhaling the scent. He closed his eyes for a moment before walking past you without a word. He cleared his throat and began to undo his armor once again.

“When’s the last time you had a bath?” “saying I stink, girl?” “Did I say that out loud?” You quipped and he turned to you and snarled.

“I don’t mean to offend, but you look like you’ve had a hard day, and a bath always makes me feel better.”

“It’s too late for that”

“I could help you.”

“I don’t need your help to wash my own ass.”

“I meant bring you the water, fill the tub, clean your armor… please?” He considered you for a moment, eyes roaming over your body.

Finally he nodded. “Fine girl, since you beg so sweetly.” he mocked but you still smiled. You raced over to the string that would ring the bell in Anna’s chamber and the two of you conspired to sneak around gathering hot water for Sandor’s bath.

“I can’t believe he’s making you do this!”

“He’s not.”

“Then why are you—“

“This will go a lot faster if you don’t ask questions, I’ll tell you about it tomorrow!” Sandor stood in the corner and watched as the two of you filled the tub again until Anna was dismissed. Sandor locked the door and then started blowing out candles you had lit. He watched you from the corner of his eye as he passed by the bathroom again to extinguish the largest fire.

You were sitting on the edge of the tub, stirring the water with your hand, dress hugging your hourglass figure, and all of it was illuminated by the glow of the moon pouring through the bathroom window.

He felt nervous. Bathing was something he did very rarely, and never in front of another person. But he couldn’t exactly kick you out into the hall. He didn’t trust the people outside this room. He took a deep breath and entered the bathroom.

“Out.” He commanded, and though you tried to hold back a frown, you obeyed. Sandor removed his shirt and his boots and you scurried back in, causing his heartbeat to quicken. “What are you—“ “I almost forgot!” You said before pouring half a small bottle into the steaming water.

Sandor grabbed your arm to stop you. “Woman what do you think you’re doing?!”

“Well you said you liked the way I smelled—“

“Bitch, you’ve gone and ruined my bath with roses? I’m a man, a man shouldn’t smell like fucking flowers!”

You smiled a little in spite of his grip on you. “Which is why it isn’t oil of rose in this bottle!” You grabbed the bottle with your free hand and brought it to his nose to smell. “It’s from cloves and cinnamon, you brute.” You raised your eyebrows as he inhaled and didn’t completely reject it. He frowned and released your wrist.

“Out.” He said again.

“Fine.” You replied, sneaking a moment as you slowly retreated to admire his chest; big and strong and covered in dark hair. “Do let me know if you desire company.” You say on the edge of the bed, listening and trying to picture yourself in the room with him.

“What I desire,” you heard the shuffle off more clothes and you blushed, covering your mouth to prevent a squeal. ~HES NAKED!!~ your heart sang. “is some peace and fucking quiet…” and the bath water sloshed against the sides of the tub. After a moment, he continued. “Been listening to that fucking brat all day.”

Your hand dropped from your mouth and you called out in surprise, turning to face the wall that hid your man. “You… you don’t like Joffrey?”

“Hate the fucker.”

You were overjoyed and stood up to pace. All you wanted to do was talk to him about everything but you were silent, granting him the quiet he asked for. Meanwhile in the bathroom Sandor was listening intensely to you on the other side of the wall as well. He heard your nervous footsteps pacing back and forth and smiled. He cupped the water in his hands and brought it up to wet his face and sighed in relief. He would never had thought to do this for himself, but he was grateful that you did. He looked down in the water and decided that, since it was so dark in the shadow of the tub, you could enter again. {Only to stop her pacing} he thought.

“Oh for fucks sake, princess, come in and tell me what’s on your mind.”

You peeked your head around the corner, hair falling over your shoulder. “Really?”

Your expression made Sandor want to smile again but he fought it, instead resorting to lay his head back and close his eyes.

You eagerly entered the room and told him of your interaction with Cersei today, choosing to leave out the cruel things she said about him. “I don’t believe she endorses what Joffrey’s doing, the way he’s behaving it’s like he’s out of her control. She said she’d have cut my throat and be done with it, but Joffrey was much crueler.” Sandor’s face hardened but he kept his eyes screwed shut.

“Her other children are said to be kind and beautiful… I suppose there are faces even a mother cannot love and Joffrey has one of them.” It was then that you realized that with his eyes closed, you might be able to approach. You felt almost perverted, but your curiosity got the better of you. You had never seen a naked man before, and you were now so attracted to Sandor that you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted to join him in that bath, be held by him.

Your feet carried you forward slowly as you spoke. “It angers me that you have to live your life for that family, for that boy, especially now knowing you hate him too..”

“Careful, girl.” He said warily, peeking open one eye as he felt your approach. “Why?” You stopped then, but still looked down at him sweetly. “Because you bite?” You recalled. You imagined being bitten by him. You moved forward. “You going to sink your teeth into my other thigh?”

Your husbands eyes snapped open at this and he sat up a bit turning his head to face you, shock and something else plastered across it.

“I’m not afraid of you.” you nearly whispered as you sank down beside him and rested your arms on the edge of the tub.

“You should be.” “Why? You won’t hurt me…”

“Oh yes I would. So you best not get close, princess.” You gasped, putting a hand to your chest and reaching out your other to place a finger on his chest. “Oh no, I’ve done it now.”

He furrowed his brows in confusion at you and felt nervous at your gentle touch.

“Go on, bite.” You offered up your limp wrist jokingly. Surprisingly, Sandors hands shot up out of the water and grabbed your arm, holding it tightly in place.

“I’ll pull you in this water with me, girl.” You blushed and smiled and he was shocked that his threat had that effect on you. Could you truly be excited by the prospect? “Ah yes. To be in such close proximity with a strong handsome man is truly a fate worse than death.” You mocked your punishment.

“Who you callin’ handsome?” His grip loosened and you wiggled your hand out to point to his chest again.

“You, Sandor Clegane. You are handsome.” And you meant every word.

He frowned again and sighed, trying to lay back down into the water. You walked away and he felt a pang of regret. When you returned from the counter, you got back down on your knees beside him and dipped the sponge into the water. He watched as you rang it out. “Will you tell me about your day? Whose blood is that?”

He reflected for a moment, choosing what to say as you brought the sponge to his chest and began to rub. “No one of your concern.”

You nodded; though you weren’t satisfied you had resolved that this was the most details your husband would give willingly. “May I have your arm?” He sat up again and studied your face as you gently washed his arm with care.

“It was just some of my fellow members of the kingsguard.” He said the word with disdain. “Happened off duty in a tavern.” You glanced up at him as he spoke but didn’t want to jinx how freely he was speaking to you so you continued your work on his large arm.

“You’ve nothing more to worry about. They won’t be speaking ill of you or your family anymore.”

You paused and now focused your gaze on his. “You killed them for me?”

“Killed one, bloodied the others. Gossiping like women they were, the fucking rats. Now they know better…” he concluded, eyes locked on yours as he spoke. You surprised him by throwing your arms around his neck in an embrace. He pushed you away, “Fuck was that?!” “A-A hug?” “I know that! Why’d you do it?!” “Because I…” you felt embarrassed and backed away but he grabbed your arm again. “I don’t know, I just wanted to, I’m sorry…”

The top of your dress had gotten wet in the struggle and he could see the way the silk caressed your breasts, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. “I can do the rest myself.” He ordered as he felt the familiar twitch beneath the water.

You stood up embarrassed and ashamed. “Alright.” You offered peace as you left the room. Your eyes welled with tears but you blinked them away. You feared whatever progress you had made with the man was now all worthless. You had crossed his boundaries, been too forward, and it put him off you. You sighed and walked over to pour yourself a small glass of wine. It was a long time before Sandor came out of the bathroom, and without the fire you grew cold and tired. You pulled the cape he had given you the night before from the closet and wrapped it around your body, it perfectly engulfed you. Your eyes began to close before you heard him clear his throat.

“Are you coming to bed.” He asked, standing beside it with a towel wrapped around his lower half. As much shame as you felt about it, the sight of him like that certainly woke you up.

“Do you want me to?” You asked, still all wrapped up in his cape.

He grumbled, “Sleep in the chair for all I care.”

You took it as an instruction, and so you nodded. “Goodnight, Sandor. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.” You turned away from him to your original position, settling back down and closing your eyes. “I was too familiar with you and I forgot my place in your life—“

“Oh shut up.” His gruff voice startled you as it sounded right above you.

Your eyes snapped open and you saw he had extended a hand to you. Hesitantly you took it and he pulled you up quickly, making you gasp. You were right in front of him now, and you were reminded of your wedding night. You looked up at him through your lashes, his hair dripped between your bodies, and he looked down at you, expression soft.

“On the bed.”

Your breath caught in your throat and you felt a jolt of pleasure go right between your thighs. You nodded, eyes not leaving his, and walked to the bed. You laid down against the pillows, knees bent, and watched him rifle through the closet, towel only held up by one hand. Your eyes did their best to see in the dark as he finally selected a new pair of breeches and dropped the towel. He dropped the towel and quickly pulled the bottoms on. You prayed he didn’t put a shirt on. He turned and took a couple of steps toward you, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“You think me handsome?”

You nodded slowly, unsure where this was going. “Yes, ser.”

“Not ser.”

“Yes my lord…”

You could see his face more clearly now in the moonlight, and watched him grin. “You dream of my pretty face?” He stalked toward your side of the bed and you tried not to squirm under his gaze.

“Of your handsome face.. yes..”

He climbed on top of the bed and began to crawl to you on all fours. Another time when you felt incredibly small compared to him. Your heart felt like it was about to beat outside of its cage. “Do you wish I would touch you?” He asked hotly, at last up by your face. “Sink my teeth into your thigh, that’s what you said…”

His face dipped closer to yours and you let out a small, uncontrollable moan at his words. You closed your eyes in embarrassment and slid down the bed a little. “I asked you a question, princess.”

“Yes.” You whispered.

“Aw, cats finally got your tongue.” He held himself up with one arm and brought his opposite hand up to your lip as he ran his thumb across it. Your brain was too frazzled by the moment to think clearly; there was only instinct left.

You boldly stuck your tongue out and licked a small stripe across the tip of his thumb and he inhaled sharply. He opened his eyes again at you, surprised, but did not protest as you moved your mouth to wrap around his thumb and suckle. He even moved it in and out of your mouth and his breathing shuttered. You felt wetness begin to pool between your thighs.

“Do you tease me on purpose?” He asked quietly. You weren’t sure how to answer so you only continued your ministrations on his thumb. He let out a heavy breath and pulled back, taking his hand away from you. He sat up on his knees and you could see the tent forming in his pants.

“How long have you wanted me?”

You blushed and sat up a bit yourself. “Since the first night we spent together…”

“A lie.” He said coldly. “I saw how scared you were when I ripped off your dress.”

“I didn’t know you… I thought you were going to hurt me like Joffrey said to… but later,” you nearly cringed at your admission, “I dreamt about you…”

He only watched you, breathing through his mouth in disbelief. “Do you really think me ugly?” You asked finally.

He narrowed his eyes at you and questioned, “Who told you that?”

“When you didn’t want me, I just—“

“I think you’re the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on…” slowly he leaned down again, hovering above you. You breathed in his clean scent and trembled. He scanned your face and you felt the biggest emotion you’d had this far.

“You know you’ve never kissed me…”

“Aye..” he agreed, eyes darting to your lips. “Sandor.. please?” You begged in a whisper and his lips enveloped yours in a second.

The kiss was hot and crushing, and his scruff felt perfect against your face. You opened your mouth and wrapped your arms around his neck once again to pull him closer, as if that were possible. Your heart beat erratically and you grew breathless from his kisses, airy moans leaving your mouth every time he pulled back for only a second.

“Do you really want me?” His voice was thick, and he seemed breathless as well as he pulled back and hovered a few inches above your face.

You cupped his face as your eyes memorized every line in his face. “I want you, Sandor. I need you!” You said in desperation, and in that moment nothing was more true. You leaned your head up and claimed his lips again with your own, and he returned the passion from before.

TO BE CONTINUED

#sandor clegane #the hound x reader #the hound smut #rory mccann #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones #sandor clegane x reader #the hound fanfic #sandor clegane smut #sandor clegane fanfic

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dyns33 · 18 days ago

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Flufftober 2024 - 24 Dream of the Endless

It was perfectly natural for mortals to dream that they were someone else. That was also the purpose of dreams, to allow beings to escape from the "real" world for a moment, to forget their sorrows, their worries, but also to find the inspiration needed to try to improve their daily lives when they woke up.

This was embodied by great decisions, as well as wonderful creations, novels, films, songs, plays. Once again, men played roles, to entertain others while conveying an important message.

Despite this, Morpheus did not fully understand the principle of Halloween.

He could not make sense of this celebration, which had changed a lot over the centuries.

No one seemed to learn a moral lesson by dressing up as a monster. No one wanted to become a monster. There was nothing fun in comparing yourself to these poor creatures, or in scaring children without the goal of teaching them something.

Next to him, Y/N didn't seem to understand his incomprehension.

"It's just for fun. I know you're very serious and goth, but unlike some of your siblings, I'm sure you know the definition of that word."

"It seems like there are several definitions, otherwise I would laugh at Desire and Despair's pranks."

"That's different, their pranks are cruel. But don't you see what's funny about Halloween at all ?"

"Not really."

Knowing his stubborn side, Y/N didn't insist, simply shrugging her shoulders. She wouldn't have been against celebrating it with him, but it didn't matter if they didn't do anything that night. In any case, the king of dreams was too busy for this kind of thing. It was already a miracle that he found time for her in his schedule.

She should have been wary, because it wasn't normal for Dream to give up on a debate so easily. Not only did he have the right not to understand, but Y/N had to agree with him.

The nightmare didn't last long. Y/N wondered if she had screamed as loudly in her bed as in her dream she found herself facing this huge, dark monster trying to catch her. She had never been so scared in her entire life.

"Happy Halloween." the thing said, grabbing her in its hand.

"… Morpheus ?!"

"Yes. I still don't see the funny side. Can you explain it to me ?"

"… It's not funny ! Put me down and take back your normal form !"

"My 'normal' form as you say cannot be understood by mere mortals, what you see is just…"

"You know very well what I meant !"

Dream put her back on the ground and resumed his usual appearance, with his little pout. He was still waiting for an answer though.

After all, he had dressed up as a monster, and he had made a sort of farce at her, exactly as Halloween tradition required. It was obvious that Y/N had not wanted to laugh.

"There is a huge difference between dressing up and literally turning into a monster. People know that it is fake, that there is no risk, that is why it is funny."

"We are in a dream, and I will never hurt you. There was no risk."

"Dream…" Y/N sighed as she approached to caress his shoulders. "What if you came to the waking world so I could show you ? Hmm ?"

"… As long as I am with you, it will definitely be fun."

Next to Y/N who was wearing her best bunny costume, Morpheus continued to claim that he didn't really understand the point in seeing children running around in the street and adults playing pranks on each other.

But he smiled the whole time, never letting go of her hand, so he must have had a good time. And he seemed to enjoy her costume too, even if he showed it more with his hands than with words later.

#flufftober 2024 #dream of the endless #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus #morpheus x reader

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biggestsimp12 · 2 months ago

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Ticci Toby x Childhood friend genderfluid Reader We'll meet again...Some sunny day..

requested by: no one. I just had a dream last night this scenario and NEEDED to write it down. (the requests in my inbox can wait a little more hehe.)

--–—

(I know this song is about war but the part with the ''We'll meet again, don't know when, don't where. but i know we'll meet again some sunny day..'' matches a part of the story i have in mind-)

--–—

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a warm glow over the playground. Toby, a small figure with unruly hair and a slightly crooked smile, clutched a worn teddy bear. He was five years old, and every day at kindergarten felt like navigating a minefield. The laughter of the other children rang out, but it was a sound that brought him no joy. For Toby, the playground was a stage for his daily struggle, a place where he was both audience and performer in a play he never wanted to star in. The sudden jerks of his body and the strange words that slipped from his mouth when he was upset made him an easy target for their teasing. Yet, amidst the sea of unkindness, Toby remained hopeful, a beacon of innocence in a world that was slowly learning to be cruel.

He sat on the edge of a wooden bench, the paint chipped and faded from countless summers of use. The teacher had placed him there after another failed attempt to integrate him into a game of tag. His eyes darted around the playground, watching as the children squealed and ran, their shadows stretching long on the yellowing grass. Toby's chest tightened as he wished he could join them, but he knew better than to try again. They had made it clear that his peculiarities were not welcome.

As the laughter grew louder, a stray soccer ball sailed through the air, propelled by the clumsy kick of a child too eager to hit their target. It headed straight for Toby, a silent missile of rubber and plastic. His instincts took over, his arms shooting up to catch it before it could smack into his face. The sudden movement sent a spasm through his body, his muscles tightening like a bowstring. He threw the ball back without looking, a reflexive reaction to the fear that had become all too familiar.

The group of kids who had been playing nearby froze. Their giggling ceased, and their eyes locked onto Toby. He knew that look, the one that said he had done something wrong again. They approached him, a pack of hyenas closing in on their prey. The biggest kid, Billy, a towering figure in Toby's eyes, stepped forward. "Why'd you throw it back, weirdo?" he sneered, his teeth glinting in the fading light.

Before Toby could respond, a small, unassuming figure stepped in front of him. It was Y/N, a kid from his class who rarely spoke up. They was the kind that hovered at the edge of groups, never quite fitting in, but always observing with a gentle curiosity. Their eyes were wide and their voice trembled as they faced Billy. "Leave him alone," they whispered, their fists balled at their sides.

Billy, caught off guard, took a step back. He looked from Toby to Y/N and then to his friends, who had also stopped in their tracks. Billy barked a laugh, his eyes glinting with malice. "What are you gonna do about it?" he taunted, his chest puffing out.

But Y/N didn't flinch. They held their ground, their small body a sudden mountain between Toby and the looming threat. "I said, leave him alone," they repeated, voice a little stronger this time. Billy's smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the unexpected challenge. Then, with a snort of disbelief, he turned and stomped away, his pack of followers trailing behind him like a shadow retreating from the light.

Toby stared after them, his heart racing in his chest. He looked down at Y/N, whose hand was still outstretched as if to ward off the bully. "Thanks," he murmured, his voice thick with relief. Y/N nodded, their gaze darting to the ground before looking back up at him with a tentative smile. "Are you okay?" they asked, the words echoing with genuine concern.

Without waiting for a response, Y/N reached into their pocket and pulled out a small bag of Haribo gummy bears. "Here," they said, holding it out to Toby. "My mommy gave them to me. I don't like them much as i like peach gummy rings better, but I thought maybe you would."

Toby took the bag with trembling hands, his eyes wide with astonishment. "Thanks," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a few of the bears and sat back down on the bench, expecting Y/N to leave now that the danger had passed. But to his surprise, they sat down beside him, their legs swinging in unison with his.

"I'm Y/N," they said, their voice soft and unassuming. "What's your name?" Toby looked over at them, the first time he had really seen them up close. They had a smattering of freckles across their nose and a mop of hair that looked like it hadn't seen a brush in days. There was something endearing about their disheveled appearance, something that made him feel less alone.

"Toby," he replied, his voice still shaky. He took a deep breath and popped a gummy bear into his mouth, the sweetness washing over his tongue.

Y/N giggled at the sight. "I'm so happy to meet you, Toby," they said, their eyes lighting up. "You know what happens if you eat too many of these?" They leaned in conspiratorially, their breath smelling faintly of mint. "I heard that if you eat a whole bag of gummy bears, your boogers will turn into gummy worms!"

Toby's eyes went wide with a mix of horror and fascination. He looked down at the bag in his hand as if it contained the secrets of the universe. The idea was ludicrous, but at five years old, reality was still a malleable thing, and Y/N's imagination was as vast as the playground around them. He took another gummy bear, turning it over in his fingers. "Really?" he asked, his voice filled with awe.

Y/N nodded solemnly, their eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah, my cousin did it. She had these huge gummy bears stuck in her nose!" And with that, they proceeded to demonstrate, pushing two of the small, squishy candies up their nostrils. Toby watched, his jaw dropping as the gummy bears disappeared, one after the other.

Then, without warning, Y/N's expression changed. They began to make strange, guttural noises that sounded like a cross between a T-Rex and a choking kazoo. Toby's eyes widened in surprise as they leaned over and started tickling him, their fingers like tiny feathers dancing over his ribs and belly. "It's the Haribo Gummy Boss!" they exclaimed, their voice a mix of laughter and the prehistoric sounds. "They've taken over my mind!"

Toby squealed and squirmed, his body convulsing with giggles. Without thinking, Toby bolted, his legs pumping as he squealed like a little girl, the bag of gummy bears forgotten on the bench. Y/N followed, their dinosaur noises growing louder and more ferocious as they pretended to be the terrifying Gummy Boss in hot pursuit. The chase was on, and it was all in good fun, the kind of fun that didn't care about the stares of the other children or the rules of the games they didn't understand.

As they darted around the playground, dodging swings and sliding to a halt at the bottom of the slide, Toby felt something new, something he hadn't felt in a long time—joy. The kind of joy that didn't come from being the fastest or the strongest, but from the simple act of playing with someone who didn't care about his flaws. Someone who saw him not as the kid who talked to himself and had weird tics, but as a fellow adventurer fighting off imaginary monsters made of sugar and gelatin.

"Why do you have to move out?" His voice was soft, almost lost in the rustling leaves above them.

Now, at sixteen, Toby's tics had become less pronounced, but the whispers and glances from his peers remained. Y/N had grown into a gentle young person, their quiet strength unshaken by the passage of time. They had always been there to protect Toby, their loyalty unwavering. So, the idea of them leaving didn't sit well with him at all.

Y/N sighed, their eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for the right words. "Someone broke into our house," they finally said, their voice laced with a sadness that was palpable. "Mom and Dad have to fix a lot of stuff. We can't stay there right now. At least, I can't stay there now. I have to stay with my grandparents for a while."

Toby's heart sank. He knew what it was like to leave a place because it didn't feel safe anymore. His own father had a temper, one that had often left bruises hidden beneath his clothes. The thought of Y/N being torn from their home, from him, was too much to bear. "But, you can't just go," he protested, his voice cracking. "What about school?"

Y/N looked at him, their eyes filled with a mix of sadness and resignation. "I'm gonna be home-schooled until I can go back," they said softly. "It's only for a little while. Lyra promised me she will take care of your bullies until then." But the way their voice trailed off told Toby that they didn't believe it any more than he did. They had always been the one constant in his life, the one person who didn't treat him like he was made of glass. Now, they were being taken away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"But when?" Toby pressed, desperation creeping into his voice. "When will we meet again?"

Y/N looked at him, their eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored the clouds gathering above. "We'll meet again…don't know when…don't know where," they admitted. "But I promise, Toby, I know we'll meet again.." They reached out and squeezed his hand, a silent promise that no distance could break.

Toby tried to smile, but it was like trying to hold back a storm. "Okay," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "Some sunny day, right?" He tried to cling to the hope in those words, to the idea that no matter how dark the clouds looked now, the sun would always find a way to shine through.

Y/N nodded, a tear slipping down their cheek. "Some sunny day," they echoed, their voice equally as soft. And with that, they turned and walked away, their shoulders slumped as if carrying the weight of the world. Toby watched them go, feeling a part of himself leave with them.

In the months that followed, everything felt even more isolating without Y/N's presence. Billy and his band of bullies grew bolder, their jeers and shoves a constant reminder of Toby's aloneness. His father's alcohol-fueled rages grew more frequent, the house a minefield of shattered glass and slammed doors. Even Lyra, his fiercely protective sister, couldn't shield him from the harsh realities that seemed to close in around him like the shadows of a closing curtain.

Then, one fateful evening, Toby's world shifted on its axis. He and Lyra had decided to escape the tension at home with a rare nighttime drive. The wind whipped through the car windows, carrying the sweet scent of blooming lilacs and the distant hum of the city. The radio played a soft melody that seemed to soothe the chaos within them, a temporary balm for the storms they weathered.

Toby's eyes were glued to the road ahead, lost in thought about Y/N. He barely registered the car's drift onto the gravel shoulder. The sudden jolt snapped him back to reality, just in time to see the tree rushing towards them, a silent sentinel in the dark. The world spun into a blur of metal and glass, the sickening crunch of impact echoing through his mind. The airbag deployed with a violent pop, stealing his breath.

In the weeks that followed, Toby's heart felt as shattered as the glass that had showered him that night. He retreated into himself, the once-vibrant boy now a ghostly shadow. His laughter was replaced by silence, his appetite by a void that no food could fill. His eyes held a faraway look, as if searching for something just beyond the horizon of his vision. The only thing that remained was the pain, a constant reminder of what had been lost.

The days grew shorter, and the nights grew longer, filled with the echoes of machines and the smell of antiseptic. The hospital walls closed in around him, a prison of white and beige, a stark contrast to the colorful world he had once known. Every time he tried to recall Y/N's face, it was like grasping at smoke, slipping through his fingers. The memories grew hazier, as if someone had taken an eraser to the pages of his life.

Then, the hallucinations began. Figments of his imagination playing cruel tricks on his fragile mind. He'd see Y/N standing outside his hospital room window, their hand pressed against the glass, their smile as bright as the day they had met. But when he'd look again, they were gone, replaced by the cold, unfeeling stare of the world beyond. And then there were the nights, when the hospital was at its quietest, and the only sounds were the whispers of the nurses and the beeps of the machines. He'd see Lyra, her spirit lingering in the halls, her eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored his own. Her corpse was a twisted reminder of the night that had changed everything, a specter that haunted his dreams and his waking moments.

The voices grew louder... They spoke of injustice and vengeance, urging him to right the wrongs that had been done. They whispered sweet nothings of release and peace, painting a picture of a world without pain, without fear. Toby's mother, her eyes red-rimmed and desperate, took him to a psychiatrist, hoping that medicine and therapy could mend what was broken. But the doctor's calm demeanor and gentle probing only served to fuel the flames of anger and despair that raged within him.

One night, as he lay in his bed, the vision of Lyra grew clearer than ever before. She stood at the foot of his bed, her eyes filled with a fierce determination that made his heart race. "You have to do it," she whispered, her voice echoing through his mind. "For me. For us. For all the nights we cried together." The room grew cold, the air thick with the weight of her unspoken words.

The voices grew louder, more insistent, weaving a tapestry of anger and grief. They painted a picture of a world where the scales of justice had been tipped by the cruel hand of fate, where the only way to set things right was to take matters into his own hands. The whispers grew into a cacophony, a symphony of vengeance that filled every corner of his being. He knew what he had to do.

With a swiftness that belied his fear, Toby plunged the axe into his father's chest. The man's eyes shot open, his face contorted in shock and pain. A garbled cry was the only sound that escaped his lips before they went slack, his lifeblood staining the bed sheets a deep crimson. Toby stared, unable to comprehend the reality of what he had done. The voices grew louder, screaming in triumph, urging him to complete the purge.

He moved through the house with the precision of a predator, setting fires in each room, watching the flames dance and grow. The heat grew intense, the smoke thick, stinging his eyes and filling his lungs.

He stumbled through the smoke, his eyes burning and his lungs filled with the acrid scent of burning wood. His father's lifeless body lay behind him, a grim testament to his rage. The heat grew unbearable, licking at his skin like the flaming tongue of a dragon. His breath came in ragged gasps, the smoke stealing the oxygen from the air.

But amidst the chaos, he heard it—a voice that cut through the roar of the fire like a knife. "Toby!" It was Y/N, their voice a beacon in the dark. He turned, his vision swimming, and saw them standing outside through the bedroom window, their face contorted with fear and desperation.

Y/N had come to visit, not knowing what they would find. They had felt something was wrong, an instinct that had driven them across town to Toby's house. The sight of the flames had filled them with dread, and they had sprinted through the smoky halls, calling his name. Now, as they watched Toby's silhouette collapse, the world around them seemed to melt away.

Three years had passed since the fire. Toby had survived, but the voices had never truly left him. His eyes darted around, searching for the one that Slenderman had sent him to find.

On the day of the fire, amidst the chaos and the smoke, he had seen a figure—tall, thin, and dressed in black. It had moved with an unnatural grace, the shadows seeming to bend around it. The figure had reached out a long, pale hand and pulled him through the flames, saving him from the inferno he had created, making him his proxy in exchange. In the aftermath, Toby's memory was a jigsaw puzzle with too many missing pieces he wasn't bothering to find anymore.

Now, as the moon cast a silver path along the river, he saw a silhouette. The figure was small, almost delicate, with a gait that seemed familiar. His hand tightened around the handle of the hatchet, the metal cold and unforgiving. As he approached, the silhouette grew clearer, the outline of a person walking with their head bowed, lost in thought. The voices in his head grew louder, urging him to complete his task, to serve Slenderman without question.

But as he stepped into the moonlight, Toby's heart skipped a beat. The figure looked up, their eyes wide and filled with confusion. And then, like a puzzle piece snapping into place, he realized it was Y/N. The years had changed them, but the kindness in their eyes remained the same.

Y/N squinted, trying to make out the person approaching them. "Who's there?" they called out, their voice trembling. "What do you want?"

Toby froze, the hatchet heavy in his hand. The mask he wore to conceal his identity from the townsfolk who feared him was now a barrier between him and the one person who had ever truly seen him. He took a step closer, the moonlight glinting off the lenses of his goggles. "It's me," he said, his voice gruff from disuse. "It's Toby."

Y/N stopped, their breath hitching in their throat. They took a tentative step forward, their eyes searching his face, looking for the little boy they had once known. Slowly, they reached out and pulled the goggles from his face, revealing the hazel eyes that had held so much innocence in the past.

"Toby?" They chuckled in disbelief, their eyes watering as they said, "We finally met again. But not on a sunny day, huh?"

Toby's body twitched, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the fragments of their conversation. The hatchet felt foreign in his hand, a tool of a life he couldn't remember choosing. He nodded, the motion stiff and unnatural. "Yeah," he murmured, the word barely leaving his lips. "Y/N, right?"

Y/N's eyes searched his, looking for a spark of recognition that wasn't there. They nodded, the corners of their mouth turning down slightly. They stepped closer, their arms wrapping around him in a fierce embrace. Toby's body tensed for a moment, unused to the warmth of human contact, and then he melted into it, finding himself hugging back, the hatchet forgotten at his side.

When they pulled away, Y/N led him to the river's edge, the water splashing slightly at the shore. They sat down on the cool grass, the soft fabric of their shirt brushing against his worn clothes. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the promise of rain. Y/N took a deep breath and turned to him, their voice quieter now. "Remember when we used to sit here and gossip?"

Toby's eyes searched theirs, desperate to find a connection, but the fog of his memories remained. He nodded, even though he couldn't recall those moments. "I'm sorry," he murmured, the words sticking in his throat. "I don't remember much.

Y/N gave a sad smile, patting his hand gently. "It's okay," they said. "You don't have to remember everything. We're here now." They picked at the blades of grass, their fingers deftly weaving them into a chain. "But do you remember the day you caught the soccer ball?"

Toby nodded, the memory a flicker in the back of his mind. "The day you protected me from Billy," he murmured.

Y/N looked at him, their eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I didn't just do it because you were my friend," they confessed. "I did it because I had a crush on you, Toby. I've had one for as long as I can remember. Though I was too much of a coward to tell you at least on the day Ieft. What happened to you after I left is still unknown to me, but I want to apologise for any pain that I caused you. Emotionally, I mean, since you can't feel phisical pain."

Toby stared at them, his eyes widening. He had never thought of Y/N in that way, not really. They had always been his protector, his confidant, but love? The concept was as foreign to him as the words that had just been spoken. The voices in his head fell silent, their whispers replaced by the thundering of his heart.

Y/N's cheeks flushed, their eyes darting away from his. They picked up a pebble and tossed it into the river, watching the ripples spread. "I know it's weird," they murmured. "But I had to tell you."

Toby sat in silence for a moment, the weight of Y/N's words pressing down on him. He didn't know how to feel, but he knew one thing for sure—he couldn't let Y/N get hurt. "You have to go," he said, his voice urgent. "They're looking for innocent people. If they find you here with me, they won't hold back."

Y/N frowned, their confusion deepening. "What are you talking about?" they asked, their voice trembling. "Who's looking?"

But Toby was beyond words. His eyes grew wild, the voices in his head screaming at him to protect Y/N. In a split second, he made a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his days. With a trembling hand, he raised the hatchet, the cold wood heavy with the weight of his fear. "I-I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I'm s-so sorry."

With a swing that was more a plea than an act of violence, he brought the handle of the hatchet down on Y/N's head. The sound of impact was muffled by the thunder of his own pulse in his ears. Y/N's eyes rolled back, their body going limp as they slumped to the ground, but quickly being caught by Toby.

~~~

When Y/N woke up again, their head was pounding and their ears ringing. The cold, damp earth of the woods was replaced by the familiar scent of their own bedroom, the darkness pierced by the moonlight streaming through an open window. They sat up with a gasp, their hand flying to the tender spot on their head. It was sore, but there was no blood, no wound. They looked around, their heart racing, trying to piece together what had happened.

The last thing they remembered was the feel of the hatchet handle connecting with their skull. But here they were, in their own bed, dressed in the same clothes they had been wearing when they had found Toby—or thought they had. They reached over to the bedside table and turned on the lamp, the soft glow casting shadows across the room.

There, on the nightstand, lay a crumpled piece of paper. Y/N picked it up, their trembling hand smoothing out the wrinkles. The handwriting was messy, a scrawl that looked as though it had been etched by a child. Yet, there was something eerily familiar about it. Their heart sank as they read the words:

"Never walk in the woods alone at night again unless you have some death wish. Meet me tomorrow at 4 p.m. at the tree with lots of centipedes on it. You should recognize it by the bzbzbzbz sound they do. Cya."

Yep, definitely not a dream-

--–—

The end <3

—–--

bonus:

(a rather ugly lazy sketch made by me with my new phone's pen that i don't know how to use-)

--–—

(Sorry if he seemed too OC or anything like that, I tried to keep him on the slightly canon track-)

#creepypasta #ticci toby #ticci toby x reader #fanfiction #genderfluid Y/N #fanart

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comfortless · 7 months ago

Note

this thought has been running around in my head for weeks and your König hcs are my favorite… so here i go

what icks do you think our König has? ik he may consider himself to fall in the “beggars can’t be choosers” category but i am just so curious… 🤔

FAVORITE?! 💞 you are so correct about the “beggars can’t be choosers” mentality. König is very much aware of how other people tend to view him as some creepy, stupid brute. i think that there is certainly a lot that bothers him, mostly attributed to his past, but none of it is an actual dealbreaker in any sense. you’re likely to be met with a cold shoulder and a bit of trust diminished at most. the majority of his “icks” are just him picking up on red flags. the gross or awkward things are just cute to him!

A very “vapid” approach to interests and such is going to make him concerned. König does not understand trends, or liking something simply because someone else does. He equates keeping up with pop culture and fashion as being similar to the children that tortured him in the past (So: popular kids with popular hobbies). Authenticity is held in high regard here. The stranger and more alienated that you are, the more compatible and similar you two may be in his mind.

This said, König would go feral seeing you in one of those pretty dresses or outfits that are all the rage. Dressing like a cute milkmaid for a picnic date, playing some sweet love song for him that you may have picked off a viral video, etc. He’s not exactly in touch with these things so he’s no proper judge or jury here.

Being too pushy. There’s a fine line there that’s not to be crossed. He much prefers playing the role of a leader rather than being a submissive follower. He’ll boast about being your devotee, worship like a dog at your feet, but he likes to feel in control of the relationship and what goes on within it.

He’ll never tell you directly that yes, his anxiety will be gnawing at his guts if you plead with him to come along with you to a commonly crowded mall, and expects that a simple rejection should suffice. It’s likely he would keep hushed about the fact that your frustrated pleading actually turns him on, too.

Being unnecessarily cruel. The man gets cruelty, he’s paid in abundance for it. But women should be sweet and soft. If you’re talking poorly about another person, using words like “ugly” or a slur of some kind, how are you any better than some bully? It does not matter that the victim can not hear you speaking about them, what matters is that he can. It would send him into a spiral of thinking that each time you two have had an argument, you’re likely cruelly chattering about him to your friends afterward.

Yet… he is very much the type to shoot an inept employee a glare and make demands. He will call his fellow operators all sorts of things when he returns from a mission gone wrong. König is the king of double standards here.

By extension, dogging him/his work/his interests is sure to bother him. König likes to believe that he’s done the work to make himself more pleasing now: trained his body through the military to give himself the stature women seem to drool over, covers what he can of his face when it’s socially acceptable so that others don’t harp on an unpleasant glimpse, even thinks of himself as some sort of chivalrous gentleman (very easy to do so as no one gets a peek at what goes on in his mind). His work, not therapy, is where he gets to blow off steam in a justifiable, honorable way. Sure, he’s got some dorky, juvenile interests, but they’re things that he enjoys.

Talk of previous relationships/sex would immediately make his blood boil! Even if it’s said to assure him that he’s better than a former lover. He’s just very jealous and if he were to be blunt, he would tell you he is addicted to the relationship and doesn’t want to think of anyone else ever having what he does currently. It’s best not to mention any past you may have had unless you care to answer a series of questions. “Were they better in bed?”… “Full name?” … “When did you last see them?”

Ironically, if you already have children, he would absolutely adore the stepdad role. It’s not so much as a challenge, then, only the glee that comes with getting to play savior for more than one person.

Infidelity. Whether in a past relationship or in a current one with him. The thought of you ever cheating on him, emotionally or physically, would tear him apart. Something as simple as a fantasy of wanting two or more men to serve you is filed messily in his brain with this, too. Same with you confessing to finding another man attractive, whether a celebrity, someone entirely fictional, or even some random civilian padding by on the sidewalk. All of that counts as some minute form of infidelity to König. He does not share.

He’s guilty of threesome fantasies, guilty of staring down a woman that he finds attractive… he just doesn’t act on these things, holds his tongue and huffs that he certainly wasn’t looking and would never want to fuck any one other than you. It does not really occur to him that those things are normal, especially in long term relationships.

Bear in mind that this is all from a man who almost entirely lacks shame. He’s comfortable with himself now (somewhat). He has no qualms with chewing the skin around his fingernails when he’s stressed out, picking his nose in front of you, shitting with the bathroom door wide open, or talking with his mouth full when he’s just that engaged in a conversation. I think it’s only fair to include some of the things he does that may be repulsive!

Absolutely clueless when it comes to seeing you cry. He has no idea how to comfort someone properly as he never really had that. His solution seems to be hovering over you and asking a thousand questions or just draping himself over you and letting your arms curl over him for comfort.

Would kiss you with his eyes open. Not his fault that you’re so pretty and he doesn’t want to miss a moment of it. Not always, but once is bad enough.

Would absolutely send you an “I miss you” text the day after your first date. Will also tell you that he’s in love with you the first time you have sex.

Will get hyperfixated on historical weapons and will absolutely purchase some rusted, ancient relic without telling you beforehand. It gets well polished and loved, then displayed on your living room wall.

Loves talking about his kills. He’s proud, because if there’s one thing that he’s good at it’s knowing where to shoot or stab or punch. He knows to hold his tongue about the more grisly details around someone delicate, but more often than not he is prone to slip-ups.

Will use your toothbrush without asking.

Thinks he’s very skilled and very cool because he can trim up any overgrown facial hair with a pocket lighter. It is not cool. There’s a razor and shaving cream right there. He may not burn himself, but it’s not exactly pleasant to have your bathroom smelling of burned hair.

Does not have a lick of fashion knowledge. Plain t-shirts, jeans, combat boots, maybe a belt if he cares to bother with it at most. At the least, when he’s at home, you can expect him to indulge in some nudist fantasy because it’s unlikely he will bother to wear a thing. Maybe socks.

#kö headcanons #this was super fun actually heheh #he can be a little gross as a treat! it is cute…

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starless-nightz · 3 months ago

Text

Voicelines about "The Mad Mage" (Freya)

Includes: The Archons, Albedo, Klee, Dainsleif, Wanderer, Arlecchino, Lyney, Lynette, Freminet.

Venti:

Oh, you’ve heard of the Mad Mage too? Heh, they say Freya was once the High Mage of Khaenri'ah, before she lost herself chasing immortality. Quite the cautionary tale, isn't it? Now, some say she roams the world, searching for even more power, like a storm that never passes. But... myths have a funny way of becoming songs! Maybe I’ll write one about her one day. Though, I’d leave out the part about her sneaking into children’s dreams... wouldn’t want to scare my audience away, hehe!

Zhongli:

The Mad Mage, you say? Hmm... I am familiar with such tales. However, certain... agreements prevent me from speaking on matters that are not mine to share. It is said that every myth contains a grain of truth, though some truths are best left undisturbed. Should you seek further knowledge of Freya, tread carefully. There are forces that do not take kindly to prying eyes.

Ei:

The Mad Mage? Freya... Hmm, I am not well-versed in such a name. If she is truly from Khaenri'ah, then her path has not crossed mine. Still, the pursuit of power without balance... it sounds familiar. Many have lost themselves to such ambitions. If this 'Mad Mage' still wanders the world, I would be cautious. Power that is uncontrolled can disrupt even the most carefully crafted eternity.

Nahida:

Ah, The Mad Mage... Freya, isn't it? A name whispered through the cracks of history, and yet, not much more than a myth to many. But I know myths often carry seeds of truth. Once the High Mage of Khaenri'ah, she sought power beyond the stars themselves. Now, some say she wanders the lands, still seeking, still... yearning. It's unsettling to think of someone who would trade so much of themselves for endless power. But at what cost? Legends may fade, but the consequences... they often linger.

Furina:

The Mad Mage? Freya...? Oh, no, no, no—don’t speak of her so casually! Do you know the kinds of horrors they say she’s capable of? Immortality, power beyond reason... and that unsettling way she slips through the shadows, unseen. A mere myth? Hah, I’d rather not find out if it’s true! The idea of someone like that lurking in Fontaine—*shivers*—it’s... unsettling. Best not to tempt fate with her name, wouldn’t you agree?

Albedo:

Ah, Freya... yes, I remember her. She used to collaborate with Alice, though their relationship was far from friendly. Cold, calculating, and entirely self-absorbed—Freya always seemed more interested in pursuing her own ambitions than fostering any real connection. Her pursuit of power was relentless, even cruel at times. To her, others were merely tools, disposable once they served their purpose. It's no surprise she’s become more myth than memory now, but I can assure you... she is very real, and just as dangerous as the stories claim.

Klee:

Oh, you mean Auntie Freya! She’s kinda scary to most people, but not to me! When she used to visit, she’d always give me yummy sweets—lots of them! She said it was so I wouldn’t 'interrupt her important work,' but I think she just liked having me around, hehe. She doesn’t smile much, but I know she’s not as mean as she seems. Maybe she just needs more friends... or more sweets!

Wanderer:

Freya, huh? I’ve crossed paths with her in the past. Back when she was still working with the Fatui, her arrogance and ambition were... palpable. She was always wrapped up in her own schemes, manipulating others to further her goals. The so-called ‘Mad Mage’ was nothing but a power-hungry relic, even back then. Her presence was a reminder of why I steer clear of such alliances. I’ve seen firsthand how destructive unchecked ambition can be.

Arlecchino:

Freya, that insufferable fool. Her arrogance is as legendary as her dark powers. I’ve always found her self-importance utterly revolting. But I must admit, she has one redeeming quality—her peculiar fondness for children. She may use it to manipulate or distract, but it’s the one weakness in her otherwise impenetrable facade. It doesn’t make me like her any more, but it’s a curious aspect of her otherwise repellent personality.

Lyney:

Ah, Freya... I’ve seen her true nature in action. With the Fatui agents, she was nothing short of ruthless—her methods were cold and unyielding. Yet, when she interacted with the children of the House of the Hearth, she was a completely different person: calm, gentle, and almost affectionate. It’s unsettling how someone so capable of cruelty can show such kindness to the innocent. It’s a reminder that beneath her fearsome reputation lies a complexity that few can truly understand.

Lynette:

Freya? I’ve crossed paths with her a few times. My experience with her has been... neutral. She’s certainly formidable and carries an air of authority, but she’s never given me a reason to feel strongly one way or the other. I’ve seen her be both cold and calculating with the Fatui and surprisingly gentle with children. Perhaps that duality is what defines her. As long as her actions don’t impact us directly, I prefer to remain impartial.

Freminet:

Freya... I remember her well. When I was little and I fell and hurt my knee, she was there. Despite her reputation, she was surprisingly kind. She told me it was okay to cry and not to hide my pain. Her words were gentle, and her presence was comforting. It’s strange to think of her as ‘The Mad Mage’ when I have such a different memory of her. To me, she’s someone who showed me unexpected kindness during a difficult moment.

Dainsleif:

Freya... I remember her well, from the days when Khaenri'ah still stood. She was once our High Mage, but her obsession with immortality led her down a dark path. Through forbidden rituals and dark magic, she achieved what she sought—eternal life—but at a terrible cost. Even back then, I distrusted her, her cold ambition and disregard for anything but her own power. Now, to know she walks alongside Lumine in the Abyss... it is unsettling. She may be immortal, but her soul is long lost to darkness. And I will never trust her.

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corspepointvision · 1 year ago

Text

A New Pelle Interview from Death Power!!! From DeadFromMayhem.ru Dark Hel

Interview with Dead, done by Scottis Kriss-Toff.

LITTLE STORY ?

It’s always the same hard to give a brief history and to shrunk down about 6 years. So, I tell of the line-up of MAYHEM. After that MANIAC (ex-vocalist) and MANHEIM (ex-drums) left (straight after the recording of "DEATHCRUSH"), I joined MAYHEM in the early spring 1988 and HELLHAMMER joined about a month later. We’ve got terribly hassles with rehearsal places, somewhere to live, money, etc etc... But we don’t feel for give up only to continue when the band is the reason of our existence.(We would be dead without MAYHEM, eh ! ! !) We’re still trying to get enough of material together for the L.P. We do only songs that will last for years, not the shit songs that becomes a short-time trends,...I hate trends !

STYLE ?

We’re a Black Metal band!!

INSPIRATION ?

We're trying not to copy other styles, but every band has got inspirations even if they don’t think so by themselves. We’re still VENOM Heads (old VENOM of course) and VENOM created the music. I’ve got personal influences by different singers of course and to mention some: MANTAS/early DEATH, SARCOFAGO, POISON (german of course), PARABELLUM (the first demo) and early SEPULTURA.

PRODUCTION ?

By all these years, it has not been much of discocraphy.There have been "PURE FUCKING ARMAGEDDON" in 1986 limited to 100 copies, DEATHCRUSH in 1987, our second demo, our mini-L.P. DEATHCRUSH in 1987 limited to 1000 copies + some rehearsals tapes given out by MANIAC’s "MANIAC PROD".

ACTUAL LINE-UP ?

-DEAD (but still not buried) (vocals)

-EURONYMOUS (greek name for prince of death) (lead guitar)

-NECROBUTCHER (bass)

-HELLHAMMER (drums)

ACTIVITIES OUT OF THE BAND ?

-DEAD : immigrate to Transylvania, castle mania, cut deeply in myself and others, torture humans and animals.

-EURONYMOUS : dangerous expriments with chemicals, weird science.

-NECROBUTCHER : guru and pot-smooker.

-HELLHAMMER : hellish drunks always and then sings sailor songs.

REASONS OF THE NAME MAYHEM ?

It sound cruel enough we think. But as the most people who’re reading this now, there has been lots of other "MAYHEMS" all over the world, but we were the first ! The name is from 1982 when EURONYMOUS had a band then.

CAN YOU SPEAK ME ABOUT YOUR LYRICS ?

At "PURE FUCKING ARMAGEDDON" the lyrics were pretty VENOM clones. "DEATHCRUSH" had more slaughter, insanity, Eating corpses style over it. As for the new ones, I make them far and I’m possessed of transylvanian legends and its castles, satanic coven meetings, black art and nice animals as vultures, bats and goats. So that, I write of Evil ! I’m inspired by evil in everything I do. When I make a drawing, it’s to express evil, when I talk, when I dream, when I’m thinking... and when I create lyrics.

WHAT WOULD YOU SAY IF I TELL YOU THE FOLLOWING WORDS ?

Alcohol : Nothing left. Drug : Against. Cigarette : No smoking. Sexe : Violence and death. Politic : Crap! Religion : Evil, ancient, Satanic! Money : Broke always... A.I.D.S. : Marcin Wawreynzak (of "ETERNAL TORMENT"). Torture : Nice to do. Noise : Children’s bands!!! Dream (hope) : Transylvania, Immortality. Death : Peace. Life : Stupid mortals! Rain : By the night. Wind : In the dark forest. Thunder : At the darkened sky. Evil : Evil weather, castle. NAPALM DEATH : Trend! Earth : No hope. Wizard : Black arts. The end : Crossover, straight edge and Grind. You : The superstitious mortals in Transylvania’s dreams came true...

YOUR TEN FAVORITS BANDS ?

(this is not in order) PARABELLUM (R.I.P.) from Colombia, SARCOFAGO from Brazil, MASACRE from Colombia, DEATHPEED (R.I.P.) from Japan, POISON (R.I.P.) from Germany, DAMNATION (R.I.P.) from Canada, TORMENTOR from Hungary, IMPERATOR from Poland, GROTESQUE from SWEDEN, REENCARNACTION from Colombia.

Do you know MAYHEM, the MAYHEM from U.S.A. ? What do you think about what they do.

I hate them !!! How can a records company releases such crap, even if they are a commercial label !?! We gave out our mini-L.P. "DEATHCRUSH" a half year before they released their excrement compilation ! I suppose you’ve heard the Brazilian MAYHEM (?). They’re now splitted up but that was at least a Death Metal band and I liked their music. There has been also other MAYHEM’s in the history but they don’t exist no longer. I know of two other still existing MAYHEM’s : from Hungary and from Uruguay.

HAVE YOU ALWAYS PLAYED IN DEATH/BLACK/EVIL/ FROM THE DOOM BANDS ?

The two bands I’ve singing in are MORBID and MAYHEM, the both of them are Black Metal.

WHY DID YOU LEAVE MORBID ?

‘Cause the original guitarist of the line-up left the band and the others didn’t know if they wanted to continue like before and to remain a dirty and a Black/Satanic band. There had been too many hassles of the gigs and between the members, so, after my opinion, that band didn’t exist after the first demo "DECEMBER MOON". Later, they recorded a second demo with another line-up, new logo and completly different style than before. Something I think I have to add here is that we’re thinking of having one, just one more MORBID gig of the old style as MORBID was (and also should be) and we also think of the finish song "DEATH EXECUTION" that the "DECEMBER MOON" ends with (on the demo it’s only the la-la version slowly of the refrain and the opening riff). It was a whole song but a not finished such coz we were changing it the time during MORBID’s existence and then, have one or two more songs and then, give it out as a demo… some dark day.

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT WHITE METAL (METAL FOR THE BIBLE, METAL FOR JESUS) ?

First of all, I don’t think it’s Metal. Then, I think as long as it can be called Metal it comes originally from VENOM… Even if there is Grindcore, fun-noise, straight edge-anti-everything or yucky white metal. To me, only Black is true and only death is real !!!

THEY ALWAYS SAY THEY WANTS TO MAKE GIGS WITH BANDS LIKE VENOM OR SLAYER. WOULD YOU LIKE TO MAKE A GIG WITH STRYPER, VENGEANCE OR HOLY SOLDIERS ? WHY ?

It seems like the white « bands » believe Black Metal is only for fun… We’re a serious black band. We take this mortually serious! The « white » bands don’t deserve to exist.

HAVE YOU EVER HAD PROBLEMS WITH THE CHURCH OR ANYONE WHO FOLLOWS A RELIGION ?

Well, the chritians, new-boru christians, the mormons, hare-krishnas, Jehovas witnesses and more have tried lots of their methods of turn me into it, without success of course. The most of them, especially the christians and fanaticals but do not believe in it cos so many of them have been forced by their parents and their family to « believe » and, after that, they’re going out trying to make others join them… of the more limited believers who chose it by themselves and have got a belief in it, I use to scare them up (and to them it works almost every time) most of the cases. The all I have to do is to talk with them and they’re getting corpse pale in their faces and then realize I’m lost and impossible to turn over. One guy even tried an exorcism on me......

WHAT DO YOUR MOTHER THINK ABOUT MAYHEM ?

She (and also my dad) thinks it’s good for me that I’m in a band, so I don’t start with something stupid instead. It’s hell a work to play in a band, whatever someone might think. Only the letter writing is a full-day job. What she do not like is when I sometimes gets ideas of cutting myself up and when I lived at my parents home, none of them liked when I had parts of animals in my room (from some animals they used to start to rot already at the second day).

CAN YOU SAY A FEW WORDS ABOUT THE SONG « BURIED BY TIME AND DUST »

Not the best lyrics I’ve done.

YOU SEEM TO LIKE BLACK SIDES OF THINGS, WHY ?

It simply is my way of thinking. The only that feels as the possible right to me. I search for the Evil and Black in all matters and I don’t give a dawn of what others are saying of that !

WHAT IS OCCULTISM FOR YOU ?

It sounds too mystical only, to me... I’m into the pure Evil and right on Black ! But with that I don’t mean I’m a great sorcerer. I mean of a though and a style of living.

I just don’t really know why I’ve hated all the fucking christans the whole life of mine and I’d search for the Evil darkness. I totally ignore those who are telling me I sicking my head I better go to hospital. Occult can be just anything that people think sounds strange to them. There is no actual limits of what is the occult… Yes mystic, it can be anything from practice. After my opinion, that word occult doesn’t say anything !

IF i TELL YOU "SATAN",WOULD YOU LIKE 95% OF THE TRASHERS, RUNNING AWAY DO A STRANGE FACE, SHIT ON YOURSELF, SAY "NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NOT SATAN",AND GET ANGRY AFTER HAVING CALLED YOUR MOTHER ? WHY ?

Of course, I won’t run nor put shit on you. Mainstream people of clone bands used to fuck with the very few existing anti trend Black Metal bands when crossover-straight-edge-vegetarians ruled the trends… then grindcore was "in" and people used to refuse listen to anythong else than NAPALM DEATH, and so on... It’s not actually NAPALM DEATH who created this awful fashion actually, it was the children who then had to try playing fast. How I hated all the demos with hundred of second-sings and lyrics talking of how many animals that get killed coz of hamburgers and do not vegetables either coz they’re also living. AAAAARRGH !!! As what happens sooner or later with all trends they’re vanishing completly and everybody forget about it really fast. Even Death Metal became trend. At least, it’s on its way. So, what did happen to all the "important" lyrics bands that blamed all the others for not been "in". Did they went designing new fashions that everyone had to follow ? Hell no ! AAAAAAARRRHHHHGGHH-death, the mother fuckers jumped on Death Metal !!! How dared they make Death Metal to something normal that wimps are starting to play to await something new to appear… Next trend ! I will guess the most of the true BM heads (who’ve been into it since Venom) can understand what I mean here. It feels like something is really wrong when serious bands that wanna create something own musically are in ‘zines that also feature noise bands that have been existing for a week but already have released 3 demo’s or something like that and are playing in 25 differents "bands" only for fun. Bands that are sending picture of theselves who are supposed to be funny, strange glasses, toilet paper and a shirt on the head and so much other childish and above it all boring bullshit, I think those have misunderstood humour completely! I refuse to laugh of this! I cannot understand why everything has to be so fucking funny and how people can laugh at this, and if someone might laugh of this interview, I can tell him that he has misunderstood the whole point of this and the rest of this interview, read it again more carefully and he won’t find this funny at all! It’s not funny and I refuse to say something funny or laugh, everybody would misunderstand everything only. There’s so much that stupid people only seek for a good time, so they can laugh don’t understand by the music so I should even refuse listen to music... But that would be too hard to do and it needs more self control for that. The most of the new demo’s sound all the same, the originally is gone it seems. I can’t see why so many self-condemned bands have to exist. One weird thing is that when a band almost is formed they have to record a demo and straight after that, they "have to" give out something on vinyl... and then only after a few weeks they can’t understand how they could record this when they’re sounding much better now if they haven’t already forgot it.

DO YOU LIKE BLACK SABBATH (OLD ONES, WITH DIO AND OZZY) ?

Only with Ozzy! By dio I can listen to « Holy Driver » but nothing else.

DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE A HEAVY METAL KIDS ?

Hey, I’m lucky I’m not a NAPALM DEATH/CARCASS kid. Well, then the most Evil, "Occult", dirty and the worst are BLACK SABBATH, KISS,IRON MAIDEN, AC/DC and MOTORHEAD, they were my faves. When I heard VENOM and MERCYFUL FATE, it felt like I lost an important part of my brain and I worshipped them.

WHY ARE YOU ANTI-MOSH ?

Cos I hate that word !!! I wanna hear an explanation of what the moshers actually do when they’re moshing...

LAST WORD...

"Antiquus Malum Cruentus Scriptum De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas" : It’s a book I recommend.

CREDITS:

Link To The Page: https://www.facebook.com/PerYngveOhlinTributePage

Per Yngve Ohlin Tribute Page from Facebook

Link To The Post:

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=pfbid02AzqVjvVATRPMWu7mnJ6cLiGPtTGYm2Q6sKaVWMHW3pVcK2LmYc2TiyH5kxKWmgipl&id=100044624010389

#metal #pelle ohlin #mayhem band #mayhem #the true mayhem #celebrity interviews #metal music #norwegian black metal #morbid #polish metalheads

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babydollmarauders · 1 year ago

Text

YOU’RE LOSING ME — JACK HUGHES

jack hughes x fem!reader

summary: in which y/n is struggling to grasp the fact that she and jack have grown apart amongst his newfound nhl stardom

warnings: angst, neglectful jack, dying relationship, long intro (so sorry), alcohol

specific lyrics: “remember lookin' at this room, we loved it 'cause of the light. now, i just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time” and “how can you say that you love someone you can't tell is dyin'?” and “how long could we be a sad song 'til we were too far gone to bring back to life? i gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy and all i did was bleed as i tried to be the bravest soldier. fighting in only your army, frontlines, don't you ignore me. i'm the best thing at this party (you're losin' me). and i wouldn't marry me either; a pathological people pleaser who only wanted you to see her. and I'm fadin', thinkin' "do something, babe, say something" "lose something, babe, risk something" "choose something, babe, i got nothing" (i got nothing) "to believe, unless you're choosin' me"”

notes: idk how i feel about this. it’s been awhile since i’ve written an actual fic so i think my writing is a little rusty. there will be no part 2 to this one! i know y’all love when i make part 2’s to my angsty fics, but some fics i just wanna keep as angst and this is one of them <3

maybe we were naïve. young and innocent in thinking our love would last forever. that we could withstand everything the universe had to throw at us.

i could give us this; we did last past Jack’s rookie year. but maybe that’s when things started breaking. i couldn’t tell you for certain.

when we moved to New Jersey, we were going on three years into our relationship. we thought that milestone of three years meant we would be together forever.

we went apartment hunting, i opted to go into online schooling rather than on campus classes, late night whispers consisted of marriage and future children.

now, the last time i even brought up marriage, he told me he wasn’t ready for that. that he was at the peak of his career and didn’t want to spend time that could be used bettering his skills, to plan a wedding.

i spend most nights in an empty bed, the cold sheets serving as a harsh reminder that my boyfriend would rather go out with his teammates than spend time with me.

rather than the past early mornings of soft loving stares and cuddling on his bare chest, i now spend my mornings glaring towards my boyfriends sleeping figure; trying to calculate when he may have gotten home after i had already fallen asleep.

seven years. one-third of my life, spent with Jack.

no one ever said love would be easy; but no one ever told me it would be this hard either.

the mug in my hands is at risk of breaking from my grip, the coffee inside having gone cold. a cruel euphemism to how our relationship has cooled. the burning fire that it once was, now fizzling to dying sparks. but i still hold onto what’s left, because i’m not sure i know how to live a life without him anymore.

i sit curled up on the sofa, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the New Jersey skyline. i still remember the day that Jack and i decided on this apartment, this room was a deciding factor. we loved the lighting, the way the sun shone through the windows and cast a golden haze over the rest of the apartment.

now i sit in the darkness nearly every night, wondering if this was the end of our relationship; if it’s time.

the worst part is that we keep going on. keep playing house. pretending that our relationship is still as happy as it once was.

‘i love you’s never became a rarity, still uttered past our lips multiple times a day. but i know his words only hold an empty promise now.

how can he say he loves me when he can’t tell that this relationship is killing me?

that this dynamic of our relationship becoming a chore has slowly broken me down?

our life is robotic now. we wake up, he leaves for practice, i stay home, i do school, he comes home for a pre-game nap, he leaves for a game, i still stay home, i go to bed, he comes home, repeat.

even worse when he’s away. what once started as facetime calls whenever he was free on a roadie, slowly died until it’s nothing but a few measly unsubstantial texts.

at first i thought maybe we were just going through a rough patch, that we would get through this, but now i fear we won’t.

***

my eyes track my boyfriend at the crowded rooftop bar as i nod my head, only half paying attention to what Ryleigh says.

Nico’s surprise party has been a success. for Nico, at least.

i, selfishly, thought i would use this party as an opportunity to grasp Jack’s attention. i wore the dress that he used to say was his favorite, but not once did he mention it. i curled my hair because i knew how much he loved it, but he didn’t compliment it how he usually does. i dolled myself up in hopes that it would glue him to my side. maybe even spark that possessiveness he used to hold for me.

but instead, all i got was a measly and empty ‘hey babe, you look nice.’ when i arrived, before he chased Dawson down to discuss some new bar he wanted to check out after their next win.

i spent the next hour following him around like a lost puppy, standing by his side as he spoke to his teammates. if he hadn’t had his hand resting on my lower back, i would’ve thought he forgot i was there. but somehow being forgotten would’ve felt better than being ignored.

i’m the best thing at this party, or at least i should be to him, and he barely spared me a second glance.

eventually, i saltily left to find the other wives and girlfriends. for the past three hours now, i sit with Ryleigh and Darya. Ryleigh is currently recounting she and Dawson’s date night last night.

the party has been dwindling down, our group of people among the bar slowly dispersing, giving their final birthday wishes to Nico and going home.

“what about you and Jack?”

“hmm?” i perk up at the mention of my boyfriend, dragging my line of sight away from said boy and back towards my friends.

“i asked about you and Jack. when was your guys’ last date night? how was it?” Ryleigh is only trying to be polite, i know that. but she’s only reminded me that Jack and i haven’t gone on a date in what has to be at least six months.

“honestly? i couldn’t tell you.” i confess. “i don’t even remember the last time we went on a date.”

“well, that’s not right! we should do a double date soon! i’ll have Dawson set it up.” she smiles. “ooh triple date! you and Yegor should come!”

“we’d love that!” Darya chimes in. i let out a polite smile, but i know it won’t happen. i’ve tried too many times to set up a date night and nothing ever comes from it.

“hey, baby. you ready to go?” Dawson saunters over, planting a kiss to his girlfriend’s cheek. Ryleigh nods, bidding Darya and i goodbye.

“hey, y/n? i think Jack was looking for you.” Yegor tells me as he comes over next, gathering his wife to leave for the night.

“he was?” my voice is filled with a pathetic hope, an excitement over even the thought of my boyfriend seeking me out. but when i look back to where i last saw him, he still stands next to his captain, laughing over something one of them said. “thanks, Shara.”

he smiles, the both of them now saying their goodbyes. and then there was one.

i sit by myself, lazily chewing the straw in my drink as i watch my boyfriend and his friend.

i quickly lose track of how long i sit there, ordering drink after drink. eventually, i stop watching Jack, opting for mindlessly scrolling through instagram instead.

“hey.” my head snaps up at Jack’s voice, watching as he finally joins me. my heart thumps in my chest, like i’m a teenager again, at the thought of spending time with him. “i think i’m ready to head home.”

my mood deflates, my shoulders slumping, but i nod, gathering my purse as Jack sets some cash on the bar top to cover my drinks from the night.

i wobble slightly as i stand, Jack’s hand coming up to hold onto my arm, making sure i don’t fall. heat spreads from the site of the touch, shivers racking my body.

“you okay, babe?” he chuckles, pulling me into his side as we walk to the elevator, pressing the down button and waiting for it to arrive. “how much did you drink?”

“i don’t know. maybe three? i lost count after the first hour alone.” i shrug, my words are slurred, a product of my tipsy state. “i started off with sprite, but i switched to gin and tonics once Darya left.”

Jack is silent as we get into the elevator, his brows furrowed and him seemingly in deep thought. the whole ride home is quiet, the air charged. i spend the whole drive with my head turned to look out the window. but as soon as we reach the parking deck of our apartment, getting out of his Range Rover, he speaks up again.

“you could’ve come and found me? i was just with Nico.” i’m silent for a moment, picking up my pace to try and reach apartment faster.

“i didn’t feel like being ignored again.” i shrug as we step through the door, the alcohol giving me obvious courage that i never had before.

“what do you mean ‘again’? i haven’t ignored you.” Jack follows behind me into our bedroom, his eyes tracking me as i sit on the bed and begin unfastening my heels.

“stop.” i sigh.

“stop what? y/n/n, when have i ignored you?” his genuine obliviousness hurts more than i thought it could. the fact that he didn’t even realize he was ignoring me; that it was just a subconscious reaction for him to push me aside.

“every day.” i tell him. my eyes start stinging with tears, finally ready to have the fight that i’ve so desperately been avoiding. but it’s obvious that Jack doesn’t feel the same.

“i’m sorry you felt that way.” he tells me, barely sparing another glance my way before he starts grabbing pajamas out of the dresser.

“you’re losing me.” my words are choked out in a whisper, but i know he hears them because i watch as he stiffens, slowly turning around.

“what?”

“Jack, this doesn’t feel like a relationship anymore. it feels like a job. a chore.” i confess. “it doesn’t feel like you love me anymore and i need you to just say it. because i love you too much to keep going on like this.”

“y/n-”

“we barely talk, Jack.” i cut him off. “when we do, we’re struggling through empty small talk. you’re barely home, and when you are, you don’t try and spend time with me. i sit in this house, alone, even when you’re here.”

“what are you talking about? y/n, we’ve been together for almost seven years. we’ve been through so much together.” his words are harsh, defensive.

“exactly! i gave you all my best me’s- i gave you my teenage years, i gave you all of my best years! i gave you all my empathy when you were being called a bust. when you were struggling in your rookie year and at your lowest. i sat here and comforted you after every loss! i stayed here and cried and tried to be brave every time you were gone. i defended you to everyone!”

tears roll freely down my cheeks, my nose becoming stuffy and my throat tightening. i’ve risen from the bed now, still keeping my distance from him though.

“and what do i have to show for it? an empty apartment? an empty relationship? we used to spend hours talking about marriage and our future. now, the last time i tried to bring that up, you all but told me you didn’t want to marry me.” i scoff. “and i can’t blame you, i wouldn’t marry me either; a pathological people pleaser.”

“don’t say that, please.” he whispers.

“but all i wanted was for you to see me, Jack! i’m here! i have feelings! i know it’s hard to believe, but i’m a person too! i need love! not whatever this has been.” my words fade off at the end, breaking off into sobs.

Jack’s eyes are red, tears of his own slowly descending as we stand in silence.

“do something, please. say something.” i plead, furiously wiping at my tears. i swallow a lump in the throat as he finally takes a step forward.

“i’m sorry.” his voice is shaky, breaking midst sentence. “i’m so sorry i didn’t know you were feeling this way. i’ve been so wrapped up in hockey and the team that i haven’t been here. not fully, at least.

“i took you for granted. i guess you’ve been this dependable force in my life for so long that eventually i forgot that you need more than just my presence.

“i do love you, y/n. i can’t imagine my life without you. i’ll be better, i promise. just, please, don’t leave.” he begs.

Jack steps forward, closing the distance between us and taking my face in his hands.

“i need you. i’ll always choose you.” his hands shake on my cheeks as he pulls me into a kiss. he pulls away, heaving out a broken mix between a sigh and a sob. “i’m so so sorry.”

“we can fix us. i believe that. but please, don’t put me through this again.” i beg, laying my forehead against his.

“never.”

#jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fic #jack hughes blurb #jack hughes imagine #nj devils #nhl fic #nhl blurb #nhl imagine #faithlynn’s writings <3

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emo-toaster · 8 days ago

Text

Since some of you asked— I'll be trying to write a Beauty and the Beast fic with YN and Gyutaro . Yay (๑>◡<๑)

This post contains both prologue and chapter 1! Also, I'll try to make Y/N as gender neutral as I can!

Warning! English is my second language. If you find any errors in my writing, please understand. I used autocorrect to help me with my grammar and spelling, so I'm deeply sorry if any mistakes were made. Dyslexia + writing in a second language = challenging task (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

Anyways, enjoy!!!

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Beauty and the Beast.

Miko’s attempt at making a good fic.

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Prologue

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Once upon a time, in the heart of Japan, on the outskirts of Yoshiwara, there was a castle. In this very castle, there once was a prince. A prince with a heart so cold, cruel and petty that people’s faces twisted with disgust and fear even by hearing his name. He taxed the district that was under his rule; so he could fill his castle with only the most beautiful, expensive objects and to have only beautiful and high-ranking guests at extravagant parties he threw.

But one night, a ‘doctor’ with her assistant entered the castle; looking for shelter from the ruthless storm and bitter cold outside. In exchange for help, the doctor wanted to offer the prince a single red rose. The prince wanted to turn them away immediately, ignoring the gift, blinded by his own bitterness, but the woman warned him not to be so quick and act without thinking about his actions first. When the prince wanted to turn to violence instead, the woman revealed herself, surprisingly due to her calm nature, as a powerful demonic being. Seeing that there was no love nor compassion in the prince’s heart, she and her assistant transformed the prince into a literal demon, casting a powerful spell on the castle and all those who lived there.

The rose; a gift from the mysterious Lady, would bloom until the prince’s 26th birthday. If he could learn to love another and forget about his violent ways until the last petal of the flower fell, the spell would be broken. If not; he would be doomed to remain a bloodthirsty monster for all eternity.

Days bled into years, and the prince and his servants were forgotten by the world... The powerful castle, claimed by the deep, snowy forest around it, became cut off from the rest of the world. With every passing day, the prince fell into despair and lost all of his hope.

For who could ever learn to love a beast?

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Chapter 1: One single rose

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”Good morning!”

There was silence for a moment, before at least ten different voices repeated the greeting. Little town, a small, quiet village; every day was like the one before. People rushed to the market, buying eggs, rice and vegetables. Merchants walked through the main streets, selling coal, wood, fabrics or such. Children played around, running, singing songs or fighting each other with long sticks, pretending to be mighty warriors. Your basket was slowly filled up with groceries; fish, fruit, vegetables. There was the merchant with his rice as always, the same old things to sell. Every day was just the same, since the day that you and your father came to this small, safe town. People talked, laughed, or even gossiped. Every second, a new voice was audible in the crowd.

“Ah, good morning there! ” A sweet voice called to you before a sweet maiden came over.

“Good morning. Miss Koyuki! Have you lost something again?” You called back with a smile as the girl approached.

“I’m not sure…oh well, I’ll hopefully find it one day. Where are you off to?” She asked with a sweet smile, looking over at you with those big, warm eyes.

“I’m going home…with a new book; it’s about two lovers who lived in the west”

“Sounds so sweet! Hm— I feel like I'm missing something again, forgive me!” Koyuki answered before waving goodbye and going back to her own problems. It was always like this, something seemed to escape her mind every time you saw that sweet damsel. As if something was there once, but then suddenly disappeared.

It was another day, like dozens of other days here. The same people, same routine and same town over and over again. You were never a permanent part of any crowd, maybe because sometimes your head was stuck on some cloud, and people saw you as the funny one. Father said that it was safe, that it was good, that it was just how things were everywhere. But how can this be compared to all the stories you saw written on paper? Brave warriors, beautiful women, curses, battles, monsters and so much more were right there, in the books you managed to collect over the years. Even if it wasn’t much, it had to do. How many times have you dreamt of leaving this place, of just seeking something more out there? This place wasn’t bad of course, but you had a feeling, a small voice inside your head was telling you that something way greater was waiting out there just to be discovered, seen, understood. There had to be more than this simple life.

You seemed so peculiar to all those around you, like a puzzle to be solved, but all those things could just fade away when a book was opened by you. Oh, it was so amazing. And this exact book had your favorite part in it; the one where the protagonist meets their prince charming, but they don’t discover that it’s him until chapter 6.

The town lived its own life, but there was one person focused on you at that moment. Kaigaku. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked in your direction after finishing his spare with Zenitsu.

“Look there, my future spouse. They're the fairest of them all in this little shithole. When I become a great samurai, they will be right at my side, all sweet and all.”

Kaigaku hummed before tossing the wooden katana away, before Zenitsu picked it up.

“True, but they're more into— you know. Doesn't grandpa say it's good to share interests?”

Zenitsu answered meekly before looking up at Kaigaku while they both stared at you passing through the market.

“I don't really care, but I feel like I'm missing something…and they give me this thrill”

Kaigaku hummed before walking towards the market as Zenitsu followed along. From the moment Kaigaku met you, saw you, he thought you're gorgeous and he fell. So he had been making plans to woo and marry you for a while now. It was like chasing something so rare and unobtainable, it always gave him those chills that he slowly grew to like more and more.

You slowly moved through the streets, looking into one of the books belonging to you, moving towards your house.

In the exact same moment, a hand snatched the book out of your hands. A familiar face showed up with a small grin on his lips. Kaigaku. And Zenitsu not far away from him, of course. Their master, or rather ’Gramps’, as they both called him, really wanted them to get along, so they were spending a lot of time together. Even when Kaigaku showed clear displeasure in that.

“I thought we lost you there for a second. How can you read this crap, there are no pictures at all… I thought they’re making books more interesting now, but this is just disappointing. Absolutely nothing to focus your eye on. Funny how you can even read all this...”

He muttered before the book came back into your hands. Funny; that’s your role around here. You seemed to be the only person who wasn’t able to get used to the very boring reality. People thought you were daydreaming too much, it was harmless of course, but there was always an excuse that there were more important things to do instead.

“Well, I guess you could always use your imagination when reading a book” You answered before Kaigaku raised his eyebrows and huffed softly

“Well, it’s a waste of time anyway, I focused just on my training and the world around me, and I’m turning out just fine.”

He answered before making an angry face as Zenitsu was about to say something in protest. The yellow haired boy then looked away, not bothering to say anything, clearly intimidated by Kaigaku and the possibility of getting punched for saying anything.

“Well, I was thinking that you could come, watch me train, maybe I’d inspire you like I did to many other people already...” Kaigaku added with a smug look on his face, trying to show off.

“I’m afraid I can’t, I’m sorry.”You answered, getting ready to leave, yet his hand stopped you.

“You’re busy?”He asked quickly before you yanked your hand away and moved away.

“No, not really.”

Those were the last words leaving your lips before you walked away. Zenitsu just waved you goodbye before Kaigaku scowled at him and punched him on the arm, making Zenitsu whine in slight pain afterwards.

_________☆____________

The door opened quietly as you walked into your house. A soft sound of tools being used while soft muttering started being audible as well.

“Hello, father.” You said softly, gently putting the grocery basket next to the door. As you stepped out of your geta, your father turned towards you, noticing that you entered due to the door leading into his working room being open.

“Welcome back— uh…could you pass me the…” The old man didn't get to finish before you passed him the right tool and he immediately started working. With western culture slowly entering Japan, many new items became popular, like music boxes. You felt lucky that your father quickly picked up on making simple and then complicated mechanisms, and soon enough began creating music boxes, just like those from the western countries! Maybe one day he would sell enough and that would help in getting a new house in a new place where something new could be already waiting for you? Who knows…

While father was working, you wandered off into the kitchen, taking out some of the groceries you got from the market. The sounds of water boiling soon enough filled the room as breakfast was being prepared. Miso soup was poured into two bowls, steamed rice was put into others as you chopped down some veggies and fried some eggs into tamagoyaki.

Once you sat down by the table, father joined you as you both ate. The old man swallowed his meal rather quickly, but how can you blame him? Your dear father was a busy man who constantly worked to try and make your lives better. He was really passionate about assembling his music boxes and other gizmos he produced in his room all day. That's how it just was, just you and your father trying to reach out for the stars.

“Is it the last one?” You asked as your father carefully packed the finished music box. As it joined the others, also beautifully packed, your father nodded, slowly turning to face you.

“Let's hope I can sell those to very wealthy people. Next time, maybe I'll take you to sell the music boxes with me? You've always wanted to see some new places, so once I figure out where to sell my creations, we'll be able to go together.” Your father smiled, slowly walking towards the cart outside to put his creations inside it.

“Are you sure you can pull this cart all on your own?” You asked, slowly leaving the house alongside your father as he prepared for his journey.

“Of course. I'm not that old! I'll manage, I can work on my own just fine.” The old man answered with a smile as he finally got ready.

“I'll be passing through bigger towns and districts, would you like me to bring you something? Maybe a fan, or a new haori…perhaps a whole new kimono if I find one with a nice price.” Your father chuckled, waiting for your answer.

“Oh, that's too much. I don't need anything right now so…I just wish for a safe journey for you. As for any souvenirs— a single rise will do, really.” You answered, feeling the soft rays of sun hitting your and your father's faces.

“A single rise? Oh well, I can't argue with you about it, especially if you truly want it, even if it's so little.”He answered, chuckling quietly once more, before starting to walk down the path that would lead him out of the village.

You waved your father goodbye, hoping his journey would be safe and that he would hit the market with his handmade music boxes. With this on your mind, you couldn't help but wish that everything would go as planned, that your dear father would earn as much money as possible and that your life could perhaps change for the better? There had to be something waiting for you in the great, wide somewhere. Something was waiting, yearning, screaming to be seen. Hidden away deep in the darkness just to be discovered. When you couldn't see your father anymore, you just peacefully walked back into the house. There were still some things to be managed, and once father returns, he'll be happy to see everything done. Once father returns, everything can get only better, right? Father will return, and everything will be good, wonderful even.

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Okay! Here we are with the prologue and the first chapter! I hope I did good, since this is literally the first fanfiction I ever published for everyone and not just my friends— ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

#gyutaro #gyutaro shabana #fanfic #beauty and the beast #beauty and the beast au #gyutaro x reader #kny au #kny x reader #x reader

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