⛧ WARNING ⛧ some viewers may find the following content highly disturbing. viewers discretion is advised. please see the following link for more information. 🕸
gn!reader x childe, identity issues, predator/prey.
minors and ageless blogs dni.
You have always loved crocuses.
Snezhnaya is a brutal winterscape at the best of times, but the crocuses never fail you. They pierce through sheaves of snow, bearing spring in their hardy stems. They bloom into dark purple bruises, their golden stamen hidden away between the petals, something precious and protected.
It’s a promise imbued into a flower, small and hardy, the beginning of the Snezhnayan winter’s long goodbye.
They are coming later and later, these days.
The village whispers that there may be a day they never come. That winter will stake its claim on your land forever, leaving naught but desolation in its path.
You will not let that happen.
“That rite is ancient,” the elder says, her brow furrowed. “And that god—”
“Still lives,” you say.
“—is dangerous.”
You fall silent.
The elder’s eyes gleam in the firelight. You think of the dark stones of the river under moonlight, how they shine. “Yes,” she says. “He lives. But it is too perilous to invoke him.”
“He protected us once—”
“That does not mean he will protect us again.”
“What choice do we have?” you ask. “What more can we lose before it is too late for us to recover? The winter begins to have no end.”
“And who will be sacrificed, then, to fulfill this rite of yours?”
You take a deep breath. “I will.”
The elder watches you for a moment, her expression giving away nothing, as impassive as the glacier that rises beyond the village. You meet her gaze. She sighs.
“You are certain?” she asks.
No, you think, a chill fluttering down your spine, a spiral of winter.
“Yes,” you say, and if your voice trembles a bit, she is kind enough to say nothing.
“Very well.” The elder leans back in her chair, her dark eyes keen. “We will help you with the preparations.”
You dip your head. “Thank you, elder.”
“Go,” she says. “Make ready.”
You turn to leave and pause as she murmurs your name, as soft and warm as the spring sun. When you glance over your shoulder, her eyes have a glassy sheen to them.
“May you come back to us.”
You give her a small smile.
You go to meet your fate.
—
Snow is falling as you leave the village, the fat, fluffy flakes spinning in the breeze. They catch on your eyelashes and melt away, beading there like crystalline diamonds, sending the sun refracting through them, nature’s favorite prism.
It’s a half a day’s walk to the ritual grounds. The path is almost gone, lost to the passing years. The snow hides it, too, thick drifts of it piled high among the sapling ribs of the forest. You follow it as best you can.
You see the first crocus around midday.
It blooms through the snow, a bruise against the pristine white, and you stumble towards it. From there, you spy the next, the bloom unfolding towards the sun, an acolyte at an altar.
They only grow thicker from there, sprouting up in bunches as the snow thins, little markers of purple as deep as the night sky, dotted with blooms the color of the sun.
Soon you have to step around them carefully, leaving a path of swaying flowers in your wake, rippling like a river. They come to an abrupt halt at the edge of a snowless clearing, where thick tufts of grass are verdant against deep, dark soil. There are tiny flowers dotted in the grass like stars.
In the center of the clearing, a riot of flowers spills over, from massive peonies almost buckling under their own weight to tall, proud irises rising high. There’s something to the shape of them. It prods at you, but you can’t make sense of it.
You take a deep breath and step into the clearing.
Something sweeps through you, a frisson of power long dormant, fizzing across your nerves. Gooseflesh rises on your skin.
Nothing happens.
You step forward again. The sun shines boldly here, the rays soft against your skin. It is nothing like the bleak winter sun that has accompanied you on your journey. You close your eyes and turn your face up towards it. It plays over your skin like a lover and you bask in it. There is a sweet scent lingering in the air; it mixes with the fresh smell of the grass crushed beneath your heavy boots.
For a moment, you simply stand there, nestled in this little pocket of spring.
Ice trickles down your spine.
Your eyes pop open as your breath catches in your throat. You glance around wildly but nothing has changed.
“Hello?” you call out.
“Hi,” comes echoing back to you, obscenely cheerful, and you stumble back. A shiver rolls down your spine. “Over here,” the voice says, full of laughter.
You follow the sound of it up to a tree on the very edge of the clearing. It’s half in bloom, one side thick with lush leaves, while the other is barren and dusted with snow.
The god is sitting on a branch, tucked up against the thick trunk. His long legs are crossed and resting on the branch; he’s the picture of relaxation.
You suck in a sharp breath as he peers down at you, his head cocked to the side. It lets you see the very edge of a crimson mask jauntily perched on the side of his head. It gleams in the sunlight, wine-dark. You frown for a moment, wondering if there’s a mask you should be wearing—you don’t remember reading about one.
“Whatcha doing here?” the god asks.
You pause, thrown by how flippant he is, by the wide grin on his lips. Something cold settles behind your ribs, digging sharp teeth into the softness of you, a warning bite. You shudder.
“Well?”
You shake off the oppressive feeling that’s layered over your skin, coating you like oil. “I’ve come to invoke the spring rite,” you say. “The winter—it’s gone on too long. The growing season should have already begun.”
The god hums.
“Please,” you say, “the village won’t survive.”
“There’s usually a sacrifice for these types of things, isn’t there?”
Your hands tremble. “I’m here,” you say. “I offer myself in the spring rite.”
The god’s eyes gleam. “You give in easy, don’t you?”
You pause. “I don’t understand.”
“Tell you what,” the god says, hopping down from the tree gracefully. He lands on his feet without a wince despite the long drop. He prowls closer to you and the air thickens with something you can’t name. You choke on your next breath.
“You know the lake?” he asks.
Bewildered, you nod.
“You run to it. I’ll follow. If I catch you, you’re mine. If I don’t, I’ll help the village. Sound good?”
“I—I don’t understand—”
He prowls closer still. His orange hair catches in the sunlight and you think of a crackling fire, of the snapping bite of the flames. Your stomach turns.
“Do we have a deal?”
You square your shoulders. “Yes.”
He smiles; ice spirals down your spine.
“Run, little mouse,” the god says, sounding far too cheerful. His eyes—blue, blue, blue like the ocean’s depths, and just as cold—are sharp. “And c’mon, make it a good chase, won’t you?”
You turn and run.
Behind you, the god laughs, the sound young, almost boyish.
The flowers of the clearing smash beneath your heavy boots; you all but throw yourself back into the snowy grip of the woods, dancing between the massive oaks.
Your pulse is already singing in your ears, a thundering crash of waves. A branch catches your cheek, a sharp bite of pain, but you don’t even slow. You know you don’t have a second to lose, not with the snow slippery beneath you, not with the sound of laughter echoing behind you.
The air is humming, shot through with something you can’t name, something that settles deep in your bones, an old and terrible thing. You shudder with it as it shrouds you, weighing you down. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.
You dart right just as a hand skims the flaring end of your furs; you feel the slight tug of it and throw yourself forward, pushing harder despite your already-screaming legs.
“Good,” the god says, sounding deeply pleased.
You veer away from the sound of his voice, almost slipping on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow. You can practically feel him behind you, keeping pace with you as if it’s child’s play. He dogs your steps, his very presence oppressive and heavy.
You lose precious time ducking around trees and weaving your way through the forest, but you know he’ll catch you if you simply run. The winter wind nips at your cheeks and nose; it burns your throat as you take in huge, gasping breaths.
Behind you, the god is humming.
The tears burn at the corners of your eyes. It feels like they freeze on your cheeks as they trickle down. But the trees are starting to thin, the lake not far off beyond them.
You push yourself, thighs and feet screaming as you leap over a tangle of roots, and then the lake is in your view, glimmering under the bleak winter sun, the water shifting like a mirage.
You’re almost there.
You put on another burst of speed, your heart in your throat, lengthening your stride as your pulse hammers.
“Game over,” the god says in your ear.
You go down before you know what’s happening.
The god takes you to the ground in one fell swoop. He’s warm against you. You barely catch yourself; pain sears through you as you hit the ground. Still, you take advantage of his loosening grip to wiggle out from underneath him, dragging yourself free by digging your hands into the soil and scrambling forward.
You’re almost on your feet again when he catches you by the ankle with one big hand.
You kick on instinct, something carved into your bones coming to life inside you, a desperation passed down in your blood. You catch him just below the ribs, in the softest part of his stomach. Air leaves him in a billowing gust. His teeth clack together, bone against bone, a graveyard sound.
But he doesn’t let go.
He laughs.
It’s a crow of delight, bright and merry, echoing off the barren trees. His blue, blue eyes crinkle at the edges.
He drags you to him with an ease that makes something in you go cold, like the darkest part of winter, when the night swallows up even the smallest hints of the sun. He flips you over onto your back.
“Not a timid mouse after all,” he says, baring his teeth in a wide, thrilled grin. There’s blood shining on them. “You kick too hard for that, right, little hare?”
You try to kick him again; he pins you in place under his body weight, his eyes darkening.
“You can do better than that,” he says. “C’mon. Hit me harder. I know you can.”
“What kind of god are you?” you whisper.
He blinks. “God?” he says. He stares at you for a moment with those eyes, dull and deep, and then he throws back his head with a laugh. “Do you mean the god of that little clearing? You think I’m him?”
“I don’t understand,” you say, dread welling up inside of you, spreading through you like poison.
“I’m no god,” he says cheerfully. “I did kill that one, though. Tsaritsa’s orders. He was weaker than I thought he’d be.”
You think of the mass of flowers in the center of the clearing. Of the odd shape of them.
“I thought you were him,” you breathe.
“Nope.”
“You—” you start, before your tongue fails you. “You’re not a god?”
“Afraid not.”
You buck beneath him, trying to throw him off, wiggling around in the snow and trying to get leverage.
He tightens his grip until you go still.
“Still, a deal’s a deal,” the god—the man—says cheerfully. He leans down and brushes his lips over yours, a whisper of a kiss.
bf yuta! undressing you while you sleep to click a few photos to bide him by, whenever he has a long mission scheduled in the near future. you went to bed cuddling him, you wouldn't have suspected your 'sweet lover boy boyfriend' to be a closeted pervet, would you now?
rubbing you through your panties just enough to see that damp spot form before he clicks a silent pic— he guesses he should be grateful to the shady side shop owner who deactivated the click sound in his phone in exchange for yuta exorcising the curses in the area, he'd only been doing his job but he couldn't have refused such an offer could he?
Or lifting your tshirt to reveal your creamy tits. he almost drools at the sight, moving under the blankets to suck your nipples into his eager mouth to perk them up. imploring when the camera's sharp enough to catch the lingering gloss of his spit as well. He's careful never to wake you, tho his stomach pools with need at the thought of you waking up to catch him mid act. would you push him off, or would you help soothe his erection like the good lover you were? There's a small part of him that imagines you'd be a heady mix of flustered and afraid instead. And maybe it's wrong but he thinks he prefers that most of all.
bf yuta! silently getting off to those photos in clammy hotel beds or foreign bunkers, blanket drawn over his head, to not wake up his teammates. rutting into his own fist, shirt pulled up, hem stuffed in his mouth to keep the sounds in, his hand is a pale imitation of the real thing but it'll have to do for now.
hajime-nii who comes home after a long day of protecting the town bury his cock inside his sweet little sister. sighing as he pushes her knees to her chest and sinks his cock deep inside her, smiling down at her when she pushes at his chest and whines that he's too big and that he's too deep. kisses her tears away as she babbles about how mean and cruel he is, all of it just making his heart and cock swell with love for her.
hajime-nii who has been the only real constant you've ever had in your life, most of your friendships not amounting to much over the years. nobody ever seems to stick around much, no one but your dear big brother. he consoles you after every failed friendship, after every failed relationship that he hates to say but he told you it was doomed from the start, didn't he? has he ever been wrong? of course not. don't worry your pretty little head, just leave it all to your brother. :)
hajime-nii who is a little bit (majorly) protective of you. how couldn't he be? you're his pride and joy, his reason for fighting. you're his entire world, and anyone that comes close to you is trying to steal his happiness from him. they're the cruel ones, not him. they're the ones that should know better, and he makes sure to drill that into their heads if they do try. he's not afraid to fight for his happiness, not one bit. he doesn't mind letting himself get roughed up, especially not if it means he can come home to his sweetheart and they will nurse him back to health. promises that a kiss better will heal him right up, a kiss with way too much tongue and a whole lotta his blood mixed into it too. :))
reo and his love for spoiling you. i think he'd be way more than happy to shower you with lavish gifts and every little thing you could ever possibly dream of. that chocolate you said you liked that one time? he's bought out a whole stores worth. the restaurant down the street you said you liked that one time you guys went out? he's rented out the whole place for just the two of you. he truly has no qualms taking care of you, so it should have come to no surprise when his little claws began to dig into every aspect of your life.
he always heard you complaining about your job, how much you hate it, having often seen you upset because of that awful place. he first drops little seedlings into your mind when he offhandedly comments things like "you know, i couldn't always take care of you while your in between jobs. i'll take care of you while you get back on your feet. you don't need that place, and they definitely don't deserve you". isn't he sweet? it almost seems like a blessing in disguise when suddenly your boss decides to lay you off and you have reo to come home to and lean on in your time of need.
he's so sweet with you, always making sure there's fresh groceries stocked up in the fridge and cupboards, that there's always movies for you two to watch together while you're applying for more (useless) jobs. hell, you've even been able to catch up on the countless hours of sleep you'd lost since working at your old job, days often going by with a blink of an eye but you're too swept up to fully pay attention to the world around you. you get so preoccupied by this almost honeymoon phase you fail to notice that months have now gone by since reo let you stay with him "till you got back on your feet", you've forgotten the last time you spent any time outside or with anyone else other than reo at all. you'd grown so comfy the web reo had spun you didn't even to try to escape, maybe you didn't want to anymore.
trying so hard to be normal about deadpool but he's so hOT AH. sure the excessive pet names and the flirting could maybe MAYBE become a little annoying but he's so smooth with it it's not even a problem. i'm also shamelessly attracted to the suit itself like come ON. he's so funny. HOT. he's strong but would probably try to be so gentle with you even though he doesn't have to and that's so sweet he's so sweet. he's so strong and sturdy he'd be able to move you against him way too easily. he's so strong and durable and can take so much and oh my GOD it's hard to not think about it. him asking, no, begging you to hit him harder because he can take it! he'll survive! he wants to feel pain from your hands! needs it even! and who are you to say no when he's offering himself up to you on such a nice silver platter? <3
i think childe likes to be mothered in a very concerning way. he'll want to be the man of the house while you stay at home and keep everything nice and clean and tidy and warm. he'll want to have you see him off and greet him with warm, open arms when he gets home, holding him in your embrace as he "accidentally" shoves his face into your cleavage. he'll want to have meals at the dinner table where he discusses his day and how hard it was, how happy he is to have someone like you to look after him. i can see him being pretty obsessive with you, monitoring your every interaction because why are you paying attention to someone that's not him? smiling at someone else instead of him? again? he's warned you time and time again about this, now he's got to get his hands dirty once again, but that's okay. he knows that even when he arrives home covered in blood you'll welcome him with that sweet, sweet smile, and tell him everything's going to be okay.
making out over the top of their hero mask while you grind against their lap <333 it's kinda gross and you're not really kissing them, not really, but you still go for it as if you were really making out with them, tongue swiping against the slightly rough material as you leave an embarrassing wet patch in your absence. the best part is just barely feeling them smirk under that mask too, hearing them letting out little scoffs at your neediness and how you're making a mess of their costume on both ends. hearing them make little jabs at how much of a pervert you are for defiling a hero's costume, getting off on grinding against them while they just sit there and let you, occasionally grabbing your hips and moving you against them just to hear you whine out their hero name. they definitely love it too btw. they're so into it they almost cum in their pants. probably get hard when you call them their hero name, definitely having a perverse little saviour complex. mmm yeah <3
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