i feel like this post is so empty because i mostly have links to other stuff so here’s some other info!! i’ve been on and off tumblr since i was about 11, and im 16 now!! this blog has not been around that long tho cause i used to change blogs a lot. i love to make new friends and to just talk about nothing or everything. ill always be here to listen or to do pretty much anything!! i love my mooties <3
[ SYNOPSIS ] — You try to be the "perfect" partner to Megumi by hiding your own needs and pain so you wouldn’t be a nuisance. This habit becomes dangerous when you get badly hurt on a mission and lie about it, leading to a tearful confrontation when he finds you bleeding in secret. w.c: 4.8k
[ PAIRING ] — megumi fushiguro x people pleaser!reader
[ TAGS ] — gn!reader, established relationship, canon compliant (?), hidden injury, blood, reassurance, hurt/comfort, use of [Name] once, megumi is a sweetheart as usual. Lmk if I missed anything! art by: @/hong_nock
"You wouldn't mind taking care of these mission reports for me, would you? You're a lifesaver!"
Satoru Gojo didn't even pause to wait for an answer, dropping a stack of heavily redacted, coffee-stained files onto your already cluttered desk. His iconic blindfold was pushed up, a devastatingly charming smile plastered across his face—the kind of smile that made it entirely impossible for anyone to refuse him.
Your head was pounding. A dull, rhythmic thud echoed right behind your eyes, a souvenir from a consecutive string of sleepless nights. You had your own reports to file, a history exam to help Yuji study for, and Nobara had explicitly told you to be ready in twenty minutes to carry her bags through Shibuya. Your throat tightened, the word no forming perfectly on your tongue.
It was right there. All you had to do was push it past your teeth.
"Of course, Sensei," you heard yourself say, the voice sounding entirely detached from your own body. "I'll have them on Principal Yaga's desk by three."
"Knew I could count on you!" He gave you a cheerful salute and vanished in a blur of limitless space, leaving you staring at the mountain of paperwork. You swallowed the sigh building in your chest, picked up your pen, and started writing.
This was simply how you survived. You made yourself a skeleton key, filing down your own edges, your own needs, and your own exhaustion until you perfectly fit the lock of whatever anyone else required. If you were useful, if you were accommodating, if you smoothed out the friction in the lives of the people around you, they would never look at you and decide you were too much trouble to keep around, that's how it should be, right?
But nowhere was this exhausting performance more prevalent than in your relationship with Megumi Fushiguro.
Megumi with his quiet nature, Megumi with his storm-clouded eyes, Megumi who shouldered so much— with Tsumiki's curse, with the expectations of having a powerful cursed technique, Megumi who you were so so so afraid of losing.
You still have a hard time believing you two are dating. The way it happened was so casual it almost felt unreal.
It wasn’t a grand confession, just a quiet surrender to everything that made you fall for him. The hallway was still buzzing with leftover energy from Yuji’s and Nobara’s laughter, but at your door, the silence felt heavy. Megumi lingered, hands shoved in his pockets, before his fingers grazed your wrist as you were about open the door. When he leaned in, it was with the soft gentleness of someone who had finally found a place to let his guard down. The kiss was brief, but you both knew exactly where you stood in each other's lives.
Yet, being his partner did not cure your affliction; it magnified it even further. You treated your relationship like fragile glass sculpture you had to constantly balance on your fingertips. You altered your entire existence to fit the mold of what you assumed was his ideal, low-maintenance partner.
You drank your tea unsweetened because he preferred bitter things, forcing the astringent liquid down your throat every morning while secretly craving sugar. You slept rigidly on the absolute edge of his mattress, your muscles cramping by dawn, just to ensure he had the lion’s share of the blankets. When he was exhausted from a mission, you swallowed your own awful, lingering trauma from the day, hiding your bruises beneath long sleeves and painting a bright, serene smile on your face so you wouldn’t add to his mental load.
And Megumi knew.
He was incredibly perceptive, and the forced perfection of your behavior was beginning to wear on him like coarse grit against his skin. He saw the way your hands shook when you agreed to take a double patrol shift. He noticed the barely perceptible flinch when he absentmindedly turned the television to a channel you secretly hated, only for you to vehemently agree that it was a great program to watch. It frustrated him.
Megumi loved you, he loved you so much it pained him, but he felt like he was dating a shadow, only moving when he did. And he did not know how to bring it up without fearing for what you would do.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The mission was supposed to be a standard Grade 2 curse eradication in an abandoned subway terminal. It was a joint assignment for the two of you, a rare opportunity to work together. But the intelligence from the auxiliary managers was flawed, as it so often was. The curse was a Grade 1, a massive, grotesque amalgamation of rusted metal and rotting flesh that moved with terrifying speed.
The battle was chaotic in the claustrophobic underground tunnels. Dust choked the air, illuminated only by the flickering, dying fluorescent lights overhead. Megumi had summoned Nue to provide aerial attacks, the electrical discharge illuminating the grim determination on his face. You were covering his blind spots, your own cursed energy manifesting in sharp and precise strikes.
It happened in a fraction of a second. The curse, recognizing Megumi as the greater threat, lunged toward him with a massive, scythe-like appendage. Megumi was mid-incantation, his hands clasped together, momentarily vulnerable.
Your body moved before your conscious mind could register the decision. The ingrained instinct to protect, to serve, to sacrifice, propelled you forward. You shoved Megumi hard, knocking him out of the trajectory of the blade.
The impact was deafening. The rusted metal sliced through the air and tore into your left side, ripping through your uniform and biting deep into the flesh of your waist. The agony was instantaneous, a blinding flare of white-hot pain that stole the oxygen from your lungs. You hit the concrete floor hard, the taste of copper flooding your mouth.
"Nue!" Megumi roared, his voice cracking with a rare, raw panic. The shikigami descended in a blinding flash of lightning, obliterating the curse in a concussive shockwave of cursed energy.
The dust settled, heavy and silent.
Megumi was beside you in an instant, his breathing ragged, his hands hovering over you as if afraid that touching you would shatter you completely. "Are you alright? Where did it hit you?" His eyes were wide, the usual cold indifference entirely stripped away, revealing the terrified boy underneath.
The pain in your side was excruciating, a throbbing, burning sensation that suggested the curse’s rusted blade had been laced with some kind of venomous energy. Blood was already soaking the fabric of your shirt, hot and sticky against your skin. You needed Shoko. You needed a stretcher.
But as you looked up into Megumi’s panic-stricken eyes, the old, familiar terror clawed at your throat. You caused this panic. You are making him worry. You ruined the mission. You are a burden.
The people pleaser within you seized the reins of your vocal cords.
You forced the agony down, burying it beneath a mountain of sheer, desperate willpower. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, twisting your torso to hide the worst of the bleeding from his line of sight. You plastered on a smile that felt like it might crack your face in two.
"I'm fine," you lied, your voice painfully steady. "It just grazed me. I knocked the wind out of myself when I fell."
Megumi frowned, his dark brows knitting together in suspicion. He reached out to inspect your side, but you swiftly shifted away, standing up on shaking legs. The world tilted dangerously, black spots dancing in your peripheral vision, but you dug your nails into your palms to ground yourself.
"I swear, Megumi. I'm okay. Let's just report and go home. I'm exhausted." You kept your tone light, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry I got in your way. I should have been more careful."
The apology tasted vile. You had saved his life, yet you were apologizing for being in the way.
Megumi stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. The tension radiating from him was evident, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He knew you were hiding something. He could smell the blood. But your adamant refusal to acknowledge the danger built a wall between you that he didn't know how to breach, yet he trusted your judgment, he trusted that you would tell him if the injury was serious.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with frustration and repressed anxiety. He recalled his shikigami, the shadows swallowing Nue whole. "Let's go."
The car ride back to the college was nothing less than silent torture. You sat pressed against the passenger door, your arms wrapped tightly around your waist, secretly applying pressure to the wound that was continuously oozing blood. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of agony up your spine, but you bit the inside of your cheek until it bled rather than make a single sound. Ijichi drove in stony silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, every now and then apologising for the mistake in the mission logs, and then expressing his relief at your well-being.
By the time you reached the dormitories, you were running purely on adrenaline and the need to lock yourself in your bathroom before you collapsed.
"I'm going to take a shower!" you announced the moment you stepped into his room, your voice breathy and strained. You didn't wait for a response, practically fleeing into the adjoining bathroom and closing the door behind you.
The moment it was locked, the facade crumbled. Your knees gave out, and you slumped against the cold tile door, an agonizing gasp escaping your lips. You peeled off your ruined jacket and the blood-soaked shirt beneath it. The wound was horrific. An angry tear across your oblique, the edges blackened with residual cursed energy. It was deep, bleeding sluggishly but persistently.
Tears of pain and exhaustion finally spilled over your eyelashes, tracing hot paths down your dust-streaked cheeks. You had to clean it. You had to wrap it. You couldn't bother Shoko this late; she had been pulling all-nighters all week. You couldn't bother Megumi; he was already mad at you.
You dragged yourself to the sink, turning on the faucet. You grabbed a washcloth, soaked it in hot water, and pressed it against the wound.
A choked, pathetic sob tore from your throat. The pain was blinding, a sickening wave of nausea crashing over you. You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body trembling violently as you tried to scrub away the blackened, infected tissue.
Click.
You froze. The sound of the lock turning from the outside. You had forgotten Megumi kept a spare key on the upper frame of the door for emergencies.
The door swung open, revealing Megumi standing in the threshold. He had changed out of his uniform, wearing only a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked exhausted.
But whatever exhaustion he felt vanished the instant his eyes landed on you.
He took in the scene in a fraction of a second: your pale, shivering form hunched over the sink, the blood-soaked washcloth in your trembling hand, and the gruesome, gaping wound on your side that was currently dripping crimson onto the pristine white tiles.
The air in the bathroom seemed to drop ten degrees. The shadows in the corners of the room physically writhed, reacting to the sudden, violent spike in his cursed energy.
"What," Megumi breathed, his voice barely a whisper, yet it resonated with the force of an earthquake, "is that."
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. You scrambled to cover the wound with your arm, backing away from him like a cornered animal, your eyes wide and terrified.
"It's nothing!" you stammered, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a desperate rush. "I was just cleaning it. It looks worse than it is, Megumi, I promise. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make a mess. I'll clean the floor, just—"
"Stop."
The command cracked through the air like a whip. Megumi stepped into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. His face was a mask of cold fury, but his eyes—his deep, beautiful, stormy eyes—were wide with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like devastation.
He crossed the small space in two strides, grabbing your wrists. His grip was firm, inescapable, but agonizingly gentle as he pulled your hands away from your side. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as he finally got a clear look at the injury.
"You call this a graze?" he demanded, his voice shaking with a terrifying, suppressed rage. "It's entirely infected with cursed energy. You need reverse cursed technique, immediately. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say anything in the tunnel?"
Your chest heaved as you struggled to pull oxygen into your lungs. The panic was taking over, suffocating you. You were trapped. You had failed. You had made him angry. You had become the burden you fought so hard not to be.
"I—I didn't want to worry you," you choked out, fresh tears welling in your eyes. "You were already stressed about the mission being a Grade 1. I didn't want to slow us down. I'm sorry, Megumi. I'm so, so sorry. Please don't be mad. I can fix it, I'll go to Shoko right now, you don't have to deal with this—"
"Stop apologizing!" Megumi yelled.
You flinched violently, your shoulders instantly hiking up to your ears, your head bowing in an automatic posture of submission. The silence that followed his shout was deafening, broken only by your ragged, hyperventilating breaths and the steady drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the floor.
Megumi stared at your cowering form, the anger draining out of him in a rush, leaving behind a profound, hollow ache in his chest. He realized, with a horrifying clarity, that you were not flinching because of the pain of your wound. You were flinching because of him.
He dropped your wrists as if they burned him, taking a step back, his hands taking place behind his neck.
"Why do you do this?" he asked, his voice cracking, the anger replaced by a desperate, agonizing confusion. "Why do you lie to me? Why do you let yourself bleed out in a bathroom rather than ask me for help? Am I that unapproachable? Am I that terrible of a boyfriend that you think I would be annoyed by you almost dying?"
"No!" you cried, your voice breaking, the absolute terror of him thinking he was at fault tearing at your heart. "No, Megumi, you're perfect. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. It's not you, it's me. I'm just… I'm just trying to be good. I'm trying to be easy. I don't want to be difficult."
"Easy?" Megumi repeated, the word sounding foreign and ugly in his mouth. He stepped forward again, crowding you against the edge of the sink, his hands gripping the porcelain on either side of your waist, trapping you in. He didn't touch you, but his presence was demanding your full attention.
"You think I want you to be 'easy'?" he pressed, his eyes searching yours frantically, demanding an honesty you didn't know how to give. "I want you to be honest! I want you to tell me when you are hurt so I can take care of you!"
You shook your head furiously, the tears flowing freely now, hot and unrelenting. Your entire body was trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break. You were breaking apart, the foundation of your entire coping mechanism crumbling beneath his gaze.
"You say that now," you sobbed, the ugly, deeply buried truth finally clawing its way up your throat, bitter and raw. "You say that now, but you don't know. You already have so much on your plate, I don't want to make it worse. If I don't do it, you will hate me, I don't want you to hate me."
The confession hung in the humid air of the bathroom, heavy and devastating.
You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the blow. Waiting for the agreement. Waiting for him to step back, to look at you with cold realization, and walk out the door. You had finally revealed the ugly, pathetic core of your soul. You were a coward, terrified of abandonment, buying love with servitude.
But the silence stretched. And then, you felt it.
The gentle, hesitant brush of his knuckles against your tear-soaked cheek.
Your eyes flew open. Megumi was looking at you with an expression that shattered your heart into a million irreparable pieces. It wasn't pity. It wasn't disgust, but heartbreak. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted as he struggled to find words that could possibly combat the magnitude of your self-hatred.
Slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild, frightened animal, Megumi reached out. He didn't grab your wrists this time. He slid his arms around your waist, mindful of the gaping wound on your side, and pulled you flush against his chest.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your skin.
"You are so stupid," he whispered, the words muffled against your skin, devoid of any malice, dripping only with a desperate, heavy sorrow. "You are an incredible person, so beautiful, so incredible, but stupid."
You stiffened, your hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch him, terrified to ruin this moment. But Megumi just held you tighter, his strong arms wrapping around you like a shield against the very demons inside your own head.
"Listen to me," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. He pulled back just enough to force you to look him in the eye. The intensity of his gaze pinned you in place."Stop acting like your existence doesn't matter, it matters to me. You don't get to decide that you're expendable."
You let out a choked gasp, your hands finally, tentatively coming to rest against his chest, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt like your life depended on it.
"I care about you, so much," Megumi continued, his voice dropping into that serious, unwavering tone he used when making vows. "I care about protecting the people who matter to me. And you… you are at the very top of that list. If you are hurt, my world stops. If you are in pain, I am in pain. Hiding your suffering from me doesn't protect me; it destroys me."
He raised a hand, his thumb gently wiping away the steady stream of tears falling from your eyes. His touch was warm, grounding.
"You are not a burden," he said, enunciating each word with fierce, desperate clarity. "And I am begging you, please… let me take care of you. Let me be the one who carries the weight for a while. You don't have to earn your place beside me by bleeding in silence. In fact, you don't have to do anything but be here."
You broke down.
You collapsed against him, your legs finally giving out, and he caught you effortlessly, sinking to the bathroom floor with you held securely in his arms.
You wept. You wailed. It was an ugly, guttural, heart-wrenching sound that tore from the very depths of your soul. You buried your face in his chest, clutching at him desperately, crying for the pain in your side, crying for the exhaustion in your bones, crying for the terrified little child inside you who had spent their whole life terrified of being left behind.
Megumi didn't shush you. He didn't tell you to calm down. He sat on the cold tile floor amidst the blood and the discarded bandages, holding you. He rocked you slowly, one hand gently stroking your hair, the other resting firmly against your back. He let you fall apart completely, creating a safe, impenetrable fortress within his arms where you were finally allowed to be shattered, loud, and inconvenient.
Hours seemed to pass before the sobs finally subsided into heavy, exhausted hiccups. Your throat was raw, your eyes swollen and burning. The adrenaline had completely left your system, leaving you weak and painfully aware of the throbbing agony in your side.
You shifted slightly in his lap, sniffing pathetically. Megumi immediately loosened his grip, looking down at you with a softness that made your chest ache.
"Are you done?" he asked quietly, a tiny, sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
You nodded numbly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I ruined your shirt," you rasped, noticing the dark stains of your tears and blood on the grey fabric.
"I don't care about the shirt," Megumi said softly. He gently shifted you off his lap, standing up and reaching down to help you to your feet. You swayed dangerously, the blood loss finally catching up to you. He caught you around the waist, easily supporting your weight.
"Come on," he murmured, his voice gentle but brook-no-argument firm. "We are going to Shoko. Right now."
The instinct to protest flared up instantly. It's 3 AM. She's sleeping. I can just bandage it tight. But as you looked up at Megumi, at the deep circles under his eyes and the lingering terror in his posture, the words died in your throat.
You swallowed hard, the word feeling foreign and incredibly heavy on your tongue.
"Okay."
Megumi let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. He didn't say anything, but the relief in his eyes was blinding. He practically carried you down the silent, moonlit hallways to the infirmary.
Shoko was awake, smoking a cigarette out the window when Megumi kicked the infirmary door open. She took one look at Megumi’s pale face and the blood soaking your side and immediately crushed the cigarette, immediately tending to you.
The process of healing was agonizing. Shoko’s reverse cursed technique was a miracle, but extracting the foreign cursed energy from the wound before healing the flesh was a torturous sensation. You lay on the sterile white cot, your teeth gritted, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.
Through it all, Megumi sat beside the bed. He held your hand in both of his, his grip tight enough to bruise, grounding you in reality while the pain threatened to pull you under. He didn't look away, even when the wound looked its most gruesome. He stayed exactly where he promised he would be.
When it was finally over, and the flesh was knit cleanly together leaving only an angry pink scar, exhaustion hit you like a physical blow. Shoko handed you a clean t-shirt and kicked you both out, muttering something about needing sleep.
The walk back to Megumi’s dorm was slow. You leaned heavily against him, your body utterly drained. You felt hollowed out, incredibly fragile, like a glass blown too thin.
When you reached his room, he didn't turn on the overhead lights. He guided you gently to the bed, pulling back the heavy comforter. You crawled in automatically, immediately scooting to the absolute edge of the mattress, curling into a tight ball. It was muscle memory at this point.
Megumi stood at the edge of the bed, watching you in the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. He sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound. He kicked off his shoes, discarded his ruined shirt, and climbed into the bed.
But he didn't lie down on his side.
Instead, he moved to the center of the mattress. He reached out, grabbing you gently by the hips, and physically dragged you away from the edge, pulling you across the sheets until you were flush against him in the very middle of the bed.
You gasped softly in surprise, stiffening. "Megumi—"
"Stop," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. He tangled his legs with yours, pinning you to him, ensuring there was no physical way for you to retreat to the cold periphery. "You are exactly where you belong. Take up the whole bed if you want. Kick me out if you want. But stop going all the way there."
You lay rigid in his arms for a long moment, your brain struggling to process the sensation of being held so securely, of being allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. The warmth of his body seeped into your cold skin. His heartbeat thudded steadily against your back, a rhythmic, grounding lullaby.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, you forced your muscles to uncoil. You let out a long, shaky breath, letting your weight sink fully into his embrace. You closed your eyes, his scent surrounding you, pulling you down into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of brewing coffee and the sound of birds chirping outside the window. The sunlight streaming into the room felt unnervingly bright.
You sat up slowly, testing the newly healed skin on your side. It twinged slightly, a dull ache, but the agonizing burn was gone. You looked around the room. You were alone in the bed, the covers tangled around your waist. You were dead center in the mattress.
The door to the small kitchenette opened, and Megumi stepped in, carrying two mugs. He looked rested, his dark hair a chaotic mess, his eyes softer than you had seen them in months.
He walked over to the bed and handed you a mug.
"Morning," he mumbled quietly, sitting on the edge of the mattress near your feet.
"Morning," you replied softly, your voice still gravelly from crying the night before. You wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic mug, seeking comfort in the heat. You brought it to your lips, taking a tentative sip.
You immediately paused, your brow furrowing in confusion.
It wasn't black coffee. It wasn't the bitter, acidic brew he drank every morning. It was warm milk, steeped heavily with a sweet, floral chamomile tea, and generously laced with honey. It was incredibly sweet. It was exactly what you actually liked.
You lowered the mug, staring at the golden liquid, a sudden lump forming in your throat. You looked up at Megumi. He was watching you carefully, his dark eyes analyzing your reaction.
"You didn't make coffee," you whispered, stating the obvious.
Megumi looked down at his own mug, taking a sip of the black sludge he preferred. "I know you hate it," he said simply, not meeting your eyes. A faint, barely perceptible pink dusted the tips of his ears. "I noticed a while ago. You always grimace when you take the first sip. And you always buy that sweet stuff when we go to the convenience store, but you never drink it around me."
Your breath hitched. He had noticed. He had known, and he had been waiting for you to say something.
He reached out, his long fingers gently wrapping around your ankle over the blankets.
"I'm not asking you to change everything in one day," Megumi continued, his voice quiet, steady, and infinitely patient. "I know it's a habit. I know you're terrified. But I am asking you to try. With me. Just with me."
He paused, a tiny, teasing glint momentarily breaking through his stoic demeanor. "For example. I was thinking of making eggs for breakfast. But I know you like pancakes, even though you always say eggs are fine. So. What do you want for breakfast?"
It was a test. A small, seemingly insignificant question, but between the two of you, it carried the weight of the world.
The instinct rose up instantly. Eggs are easier for him to make. He likes eggs. Tell him eggs. The familiar panic fluttered in your chest, the fear of demanding too much, of being an inconvenience.
You opened your mouth, the word 'eggs' forming on your lips.
But you stopped. You looked down at the sweet, warm tea in your hands, the tea he had made specifically for you, acknowledging your preferences, honoring your comfort. You looked at the hand resting gently on your ankle, grounding you, keeping you safe. You remembered the desperate way he had held you on the bloody bathroom floor, demanding that you exist loudly.
You closed your mouth. You took a deep breath, fighting the tremor in your voice. You forced yourself to meet his gaze directly.
"I…" you started, your voice barely above a whisper. You cleared your throat, trying again. "I would really like pancakes, Megumi. If that's okay?"
The silence in the room stretched for a single, terrifying second. You braced yourself for a sigh, a roll of the eyes, a sign of annoyance that you had requested the more difficult option.
Instead, Megumi’s face broke into a smile. It wasn't his usual smirk, or a polite curve of the lips. It was a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile that reached his eyes, illuminating his features and making your heart stutter in your chest.
He stood up, taking his mug of bitter coffee with him.
"Pancakes it is," he said softly, turning back toward the kitchen. He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes filled with a certain amount of serenity that was so rare for megumi.
"And [Name]?"
You looked up, your hands gripping the mug tightly. "Yeah?"
food is not a reward for good behaviour food is not a reward for good behaviour food is not a reward for good behaviour food is not a reward for good behaviour food is not a reward for good behaviour food is not a reward for good behaviour food is not a reward for good behaviour food is not a reward for good behaviour
warnings. dark themes, arranged marriage, fluff, aerion is a warning himself, gentle!reader, aerion's only soft with her, obsessive behaviour, ooc aerion.
gifs cr : @ lady-arryn; @ s_attayee
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he never leaves your side at the wedding.
You still remember your mother’s one wish before the mysterious fever had claimed her life – the same words she had been telling you since you were a child.
"Let love always be your choice, darling. Do not repeat my fate."
She never spoke in long speeches, yet you knew. Your mother was too wise a woman – she never put things plainly. There was no need for it; you've always been a clever girl.
Never marry a lord out of duty. It will eat you alive, until nothing of you remains.
And here you were, from head to toe in your wedding attire, dressed entirely in red – the colour of his house.
At least you didn't break the promise you had given to your mother, did you? He is everything but a lord.
Your husband. The one you were meant for.
A cruel prince who has gone mad – that's what people say about him. A monster who takes pleasure in hurting others.
Aerion Targaryen.
A dragon in human form – his heart is too cold to be tamed, too hot to be approached.
Yet your father didn't care enough to do something about it.
After all, you were truly your mother's daughter.
Turning your head slightly, you studied his profile: pale silver hair that he had run his fingers through countless times, a tense jawline and eyes filled with nothing but irritation.
You couldn't blame him, honestly. The air was thick with the smell of wine, meat, and sweat. Men, treating your wedding feast as just another excuse to get drunk, glance at you with an interest that bordered on the obscene.
"Dragons don't need love," he had said when you first came here. "Don't bother trying. It will make you look pathetic."
But he was there, sitting beside you, even though most of the wedding has already passed, leaving only the drunkards behind. You had expected him to leave as soon as his father had returned to his chambers, but he hadn't.
Instead, Aerion's eyes stayed fixed on someone else.
"I'm going to rip that scum's eyes out right here."
Frowning at his sudden threat, you followed his gaze and noticed an older man with a shaggy beard staring at your cleavage.
Oh.
You let out a soft laugh. "He's not the first."
"He will be the last."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he was mindful of your pleasure on your wedding night.
Aerion's footsteps were loud in your quiet chambers as he slowly entered, still wearing his finery. It seemed you were the only one who needed such preparation.
The wedding night. To consummate the marriage, to fulfill the very reason you had been sent here: into the dragon’s grasp.
You recalled all your aunt’s stories about such nights of pain and impassive husbands. Your heart skipped a beat at the realization that your fate was no different from your mother's – perhaps even worse.
Your father was an honest man. He never loved your mother, nor did he seek to pretend – not for you, and certainly not for his wife.
He wasn't cruel. He never laid a hand on you, never spoke harshly, never punished you for the kind of whims children are prone to. Not once did he force your mother to bear one child after another to secure an heir.
And maybe that was the problem: he felt nothing at all.
Aerion noticed your mood shift – of course he did. He notices everything, you thought. He had taken you to the garden when you could no longer endure your family’s expectations, and after a silent walk, you parted ways to prepare for what was to come that night.
The longer the servants prepared you, the more you felt their sticky, pity-laden gazes. Words never left their lips, but there was no need: you knew exactly what they meant.
“A cruel fate for one so young.”
“You’ve done nothing to deserve this, my princess.”
"May the Gods have mercy upon you."
You smiled softly in response. There were fates far worse than yours.
Lost in thought, you didn't even notice when Aerion came close enough for you to feel his presence. He ran his hand through your hair, slowly combing it with his fingers.
Gently, almost tenderly.
"They're softer than I imagined," he murmured, as if mesmerised.
You froze, his touch somehow soothing you, then slightly leaned towards him, unsure of what to expect.
You slowly turned around to look at him and felt your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was already roaming over your face, as if he wanted to remember every detail.
He wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you closer until you shared one breath. "You are the dragon's wife now," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm not interested in hurting what's mine."
Then his lips crashed onto yours with such force you’d have fallen if he weren’t holding you so tightly.
There was nothing gentle about it, nothing subtle. He made no attempt to play the part of a good husband. Aerion kissed you like a man certain of what was his. Hungrily, he pulled you in, while you responded at your own pace. You kissed him slowly, as though you had all the time in the world.
He broke the kiss and let his lips wander along the line of your jaw to your neck, lightly grazing your skin with his teeth.
"Aerion," you whispered his name, and he let out a sound that was almost a growl. His teeth sank above your collarbone, his tongue leaving a mark that would remain as proof of your night.
A part of you wondered if he’d allow you to do the same.
You kept your thoughts to yourself. One day, maybe.
A little moan slipped from your lips, making him lift you so effortlessly – as if you had always belonged in his arms – as he guided you towards the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around him as he claimed your mouth once more.
"Perhaps this time," you thought, "your aunt was wrong."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he won't let you sleep apart from him.
"Egg isn't feeling well, and I need to be there for him." You were supposed to return to Aegon’s chambers to read him a bedtime story about knights. Yet here you were – Gods knew for how long – in your chambers, arguing with your husband about... about what, actually?
"If he is not feeling well, he can call a fucking maid who'll read him those stupid stories. And you certainly don't need to waste your night on him."
"I can’t bear the thought of him waking up in the middle of the night, Aerion," you stepped closer to him. "Terrified that no one is there."
You stopped in front of him and tried to meet his eyes, but he stared somewhere far off, his jaw tight. You did what you’d learned over the last month, what you knew would soothe him. You leaned against him, laying your head on his chest; his heartbeat is quick under your ear. His hands almost automatically – instinctively – wrapped around your waist and squeezed you lightly.
"He's our brother, our little treasure," your voice is soft – as always – you never raised your voice.
That made him snort. "And I'm your husband."
You blinked.
Then pulled back enough to face him and finally understood what the problem was.
How could you have missed that?
Since that night of the wedding, you’d always slept together. He never let you go to your own chambers.
Your hips burn with a sweet pain; you feel every mark he left on your body, every grip that will surely turn into bruises. You are exhausted; your husband is lying on top of you, his nose tracing your neck. The skin-to-skin contact feels so intimate, it’s almost laughable considering what just happened.
You know, however, that comfort like this is only temporary and you can’t let yourself get used to it. You try to get up, the pain in your hips makes it impossible to think clearly, but that’s a worry for another day.
"Where are you going?" his voice is hoarse, heavy with pleasure and something else you can’t quite recognize yet.
You tilt your head slightly. "To my own bed."
He fixes you with a look that leaves no room for argument. The decision has already been made, and all you can do is accept it.
“You will sleep here.” He pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist in a possessive hold, your back resting against his chest.
You can't help but smile. He wants you to sleep beside him. Together.
He buries his nose in your hair, deeply breathing in the scent of lavender – the soap used by the servants to wash the princess's hair. His hand rests on your stomach in possessive grip, as if protecting what has yet to exist.
"I thought dragons knew nothing of love," you lean towards him, speaking tenderly, causing him to murmur something under his breath. A sense of calm and something you can't name yet blooms in your chest.
"They don't." His voice is rough, but his grip hasn’t loosened at all. "You are my wife, it’s my duty to sleep with you. Do not be fooled."
But when you wake up, sunlight pours over the bed, and he is still holding you as if you could vanish at any moment – you knew better.
And now, waking beside him – even though you clearly remembered falling asleep by Egg’s bedside – you saw that he was not the monster everyone else believed him to be.
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he spoils you.
Taking off another bracelet engraved with his initials, you found your gaze was drawn to the jewelry box, filled with pieces he has given you - dragon pendants, countless bracelets in black and scarlet. Your eyes then move to the armoire, filled with dresses of the purest silk, tailored just for you by the best.
The books you've only ever mentioned once in your morning talks rested on the shelves, which seemed to appear by some unseen hand whenever you spoke of a new one.
"It is likely the servants," he said, avoiding your gaze. "Or one of my stupid brothers who wants to impress you."
A gentle laugh escaped you as you move towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands clung to you immediately, almost without him realizing.
You swayed lightly. "Maybe."
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he comes to you when things get difficult.
It was late at night when you had decided to walk through the garden, enjoying the quiet and breathtaking view that had become so familiar.
You had spent the day guiding Aegon through the history of his ancestors – he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to outdo Aerion – before finally deciding to rest because you had started feeling dizzy.
There had been no time to see your husband; you had simply assumed he was busy with his training.
How wrong you were.
When you entered the chambers, he was already there, standing with his back to you, staring off into the distance.
He didn't acknowledge you when you entered, yet you noticed the signs of recognition. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as though he was finally letting himself be at ease beside you.
"Husband."
He kept silent.
Instead, he turned and walked toward you slowly. There was none of that teasing sparkle or even a hint of mockery in his eyes—only fatigue and acceptance, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Then, to your surprise, he leaned in and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent that reminded him of home.
"My mother would've loved you," he whispered, a quiet, wry smile in his tone.
No pretense, no show. Sincere.
It was only then that you realized: Egg's sudden urge to learn something new, why it had been so quiet – no servants bustling about, no Daeron pestering you with his philosophical debates.
Their mother. They all needed something to distract them.
You lifted your hands to the back of his head, caressing his hair gently, making him pull you closer. A quiet hum escaped him, followed by a small kiss on your neck. It felt as if you’d melted into him - he held you so tightly as though the slightest distance could carry you away forever.
“I’m sure she was a wonderful woman,” you said, kissing him beneath his ear. “She gave me you, and a few more sisters and brothers besides.”
He smirked but didn't let go for a moment. "Could’ve just stopped at me, my precious wife."
You smiled, not falling for his little act. He tried to play it off as a joke, to hide his weakness - but you wouldn't let him. Not here. Not with you.
“I’m here,” you whispered, leaving small kisses to soothe the tremble he desperately tried to suppress.
His hands roamed across your back, fingers spread wide, his breathing deep and rapid. He clung to you like his life depended on it, and you didn't complain.
You could feel it. He didn't say much, but you knew. He needed you just as much as you needed him.
“You’ll always be here,” he said in a voice so low you’d hardly have heard it unless you were right there. “You’ll never leave me.”
˗ˏˋ He says he doesn't love you, but he cannot stand your tears.
In all the time you’ve spent here, you had never shed a tear. There was no reason to - everything you needed was already yours. People starved, gave their lives for the land; a princess's tears would have seemed ridiculous.
But this time you couldn't keep it in.
It was supposed to be an ordinary day like any other - jousts, a feast honouring the noble guests. Yet everything went wrong when word reached you that Aerion had lost his mind and broken the fingers of an innocent girl.
Your heart ached for the girl who had only been playing and having fun, unaware of how it would all turn out.
He would never hurt you, but that didn’t make it any easier seeing him harm another so calmly.
The door opened and you sensed his heavy steps before you heard them. You didn't give him your usual gentle smile - the one he's used to seeing from you.
"She mocked our family, our very blood," he said. There was a note of irritation in his voice at having to justify his actions so openly to you.
Dragons owed nothing to anyone. They acted, and they took pleasure in the results. Yet here he stood behind you, covered in blood and still proud, unable to bear even the thought that you might be hurting.
You didn't respond.
"This is treason," he continued, unused to your silence.
You were barely holding back your tears - you didn't want him to see them. Not from shame, never. But because crying wouldn't change anything. But what he said next shattered you completely and your gentle heart couldn't take it anymore.
"She's lucky it was just her fingers. I’d have taken her head if I’d told the King."
A quiet sob escaped you, one you couldn't hold back.
It was foolish. You knew the man he was. Even softened by you, dragon blood still ran through him. And you knew why he was frustrated, why that play had offended him so deeply - after all, his bloodline had been insulted, ridiculed.
And yet the image of a young girl of your age appeared before your eyes; her gaze swimming with tears, her hands powerless.
At first, Aerion froze at the sound. You’ve never cried, he thought. You’ve never looked away from him.
Then, as if the realization struck him, he strode across the room and turned you to face him, gently taking you by the elbow.
His eyes wandered across your face, as if he physically needed to ensure you were unharmed. You knew he would behead anyone who even dared think of hurting you.
And for the first time that didn't bring you any comfort.
It didn't scare you either - he had never scared you. He was your husband, the other part of your soul and you would always choose him. You would always stand by his side.
Still, a tiny piece of sorrow remained inside you – a quiet awareness that no one else would ever know just how loving and caring he could be.
He would always be a monster to them.
His eyes didn't leave yours, which were now red and swollen from tears that wouldn't stop falling. You noticed the frown that crossed his face as he realized why you were like this.
He leaned in and kissed your damp, flushed cheeks, letting his lips linger a moment longer than expected.
“Dragons do not pardon traitors, my love,” he said softly, confused as to why you were so concerned about a mere commoner, unworthy of any of your attention. Your normally bright face was covered with such a deep sorrow that his heart ached.
I’ll let her go,” Aerion murmured. “Would that make you feel better?”
You nodded slowly, still unsure whether he would keep his promise, unsure whether your wish alone could tame his temper. “Yes, my love.”
His eyes remained on you, studying your face for the smallest sign of doubt that might hurt you further. When he found none, he nodded and pulled you into his arms.
note: this is mentioned in the post about the tsaritsa's daughter and the harbingers and takes place slightly before scara's part and during pierro's. i recommend reading the other posts first for some context: see post here.
y'all need to stop being shy, requests for other characters are open 👀
again, will prob be ooc considering she isn't even out yet 😭
lore spoilers!
you haven't seen your mother in thirty seven years and five months.
it was more than enough time for a human being to age from childhood to adulthood, to pursue their talents or settle down with their spouses. enough time to conceive a child and nurture it so they can blossom. of course, as fickle fate is, it was time many people would long for. those who were stripped of life or condemned to the solitude that came with time and white hair.
for you, the majority of those thirty seven years were a struggle you were barely even conscious of. you would sleep for long intervals of time, enough where the young nurses of zapolyarny palace became married or received promotions by the time you woke up again. you barely recognized them in the short period of time you were awake, sometimes because of the changes in their physical appearance, other times simply because your mind was far from lucidity.
the first time you woke up after being cursed, you couldn't help but cry endlessly, but not about your curse.
all you could really process was the fact that your little brother, the boy who clung to your dresses while you clung to your mother's was gone. the boy who would bring your mother flowers and was naturally curious about everything he could see and touch. you would never see his pale blue eyes or hear his curious little voice.
and your father.
he was gone too.
naturally, the first thing the nurses and attendants around you who supervised your curse did was running to find your mother. you, the grand duchess of snezhnaya, who was equally skilled in poetry and dancing with the sword and halberd, who knew how to persuade from a scarily young age, was awake and mourning the family she lost.
she looked no better than you did.
of course, she hid the signs well to maintain the dignity that her position as tsaritsa commanded. but your mother's eyes, a pale blue color that calmed anyone down with a glance had red borders and puffy eyebags. her hair, which was a soft silver color was slightly messy, a few hairs out of place that were often tame. it was barely noticeable, and the servants didn't seem to notice it as much as her eyes. (you knew the difference, having braided her hair and intertwining it with your brother's flowers)
but what you really noticed was her expression. the god of love was often calm, cool like cold water after a burning summer day or the winter breeze after drinking fire-water. often, she'd have a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lip, becoming wider whenever your father or her children were around. though when it was simply her family around, a larger smile was present.
but now, her face, which was always pale, was now nearly as gray as her hair, the loss of family tearing away the warmth of her face. her lips were tightly pressed together in a thin line and trembling, struggling to keep her composure.
the attendants filed out of the room out of courtesy, allowing the tsaritsa to be alone with her remaining child, her beloved daughter. her steps were light and almost hesitant, making her way to your bedside where your cries refused to quiet.
you were wrapped up in thick blankets and shawls up to your neck, a result of the dangerous temperature of your body. the internal temperature of your body was freezing, shivering even in the warmest room in the palace, even with your pyro vision, which had dimmed significantly. your lips were blue and the points of your ear were covered with a thin layer of frost.
she raised a trembling hand to your shoulder through the blankets, soothing it with her touch. she had seen what the curse did to you. the dark blue that stained your hand and arm, rotting you with abyssal energy, a slow and painful erosion. and then the hypothermia that wouldn't go away no matter the warmth of the room or your pyro vision.
a few tears slid out, then they became a multitude until she unceremoniously slumped on a chair next to you, arms gently pulling you into her embrace through the thick sheets and cradled you with heartbreaking tenderness. her arms held you with a shaking firmness, tears ethereal on her face despite the fact she was crumbling from seeing her beloved daughter erode in the most painful way possible.
instinctively, her hand sought your cheek, a habit of wiping off dirt after training or tears when you fell hard on the pavement. instead of a soothing touch or your warm skin, ice crystals formed on your jaw the moment she brushed it. she drew her hand back when you whimpered from the sheer cold.
you could barely process the broken sob that escaped your mother's lips, but you could see her eyes. the tears in them were now accompanied by a cold, hard determination and a quiet fury that burned brighter than any fire. your eyes grew more blurry, but you felt the moment she leaned down to press to kiss to the crown of you forehead before unwrapping her arms around you.
you missed the warmth.
during the first twelve years, between the conscious moments of your healing period, you would weakly, but consistently ask for your mother's presence. yet every time, the attendants could only look at you with pity and sympathy before you eventually blacked out again without so much as a glance or word from your mother.
then around the middle of the thirteenth year since the placement of your curse, you began sitting up in bed and asking to see your mother. this time the attendants didn't have the protection of your exhaustion and could only give you the bitter news.
your mother was avoiding you.
of course, the attendants phrased it as such: that your mother wished for you to return to full vitality without distractions. but even to them, it sounded like a half thought of excuse. of course, this didn't stop your persistence, insisting that the attendants search for her again and again.
it was the late end of the sixteenth year where you were no longer confined to the hospital wing and began to slowly walk around in your chambers. of course, walking was a struggle among multiple layers of thick coats and your recovering body, but your stubborn will made it work.
the very first thing you tried to do was see your mother, hearing she was busy in one of the meeting rooms in the east wing of the palace. it took you ten minutes just to get there, and by the time you did, you couldn't even get close to the door. the temperature in the hallway was so cold, your fingers became a deep light blue color beneath your gloves.
not only did your mother's aversion towards you become an obstacle, but so did your body and the slightest drop of temperature. while your body was slowly acclimating to the temperatures of the palace, all you could really do was relearn how to play your instruments. the progress was slow and taxing, but eventually, your musical prowess was restored to what it was, playing complex pieces on the piano and the violin.
you couldn't play for your mother anymore, so you often left the door to your chambers and let the music flow into the wind for any passer-by to hear. of course, sometimes it attracted servants or your mother's new henchman.
pierro was old, but he radiated power that didn't seem natural for a world like teyvat. much like your father, he was khaenriahan, having the same four pointed star in his eye. to you, he was cordial, somewhat taking the role of an observer or a historian when the music died down. tales of khaenri'ah and the vinster king were always at the tip of his tongue, coming up in regular conversation.
you liked him for a while. that was until your body became a bit more tolerant of the cold. suddenly, before you could even get into the hallway where it seemed your mother ate, lived, and breathed, he was already standing between you and the coldness that didn't affect you as much.
it became a routine where almost daily, you were seen with the man escorting you back into the warmth of your chambers, your face scowling slightly while he drowned about your mother's busy schedule. the constant reprimands were waning your opinion about him negatively.
after seventeen years of the constant pushing from pierro and your mother's refusal to see you, you both grew irritated with the other. pierro began shooing you out with a single, terrifying glare and you would comply, already formulating and memorizing his schedule.
the hallway was barren, cold, and agonizingly quiet when you stepped foot into it. the years of memorizing pierro and pulcinella's schedule leading you to finally be able to cross the doorway that led to the conference room your mother was in. thirty seven years of pushing and prodding until you finally succeeded.
you shivered beneath the thickness of your coat. but that only brought a small smile to your face, one of accomplishment. early on, the temperature was enough to freeze your fingers solid through layers of thickly padded gloves and cover your legs with frost. now, only with a few layers of clothes and regular gloves, you could tolerate it with a heavy shiver and very slight frost on your fingertips.
the hallway was lined with intricate tapestries and paintings. next to you was your grandfather in his youth, to your right, an oil painting of a rendition of the events of the archon war. the floors were padded with dark blue rugs and silver linings and details.
your teeth clattered together as you walked down the very same hallway your little brother often chased you down, footsteps light and uncertain against the carpet. you remembered it used to be vivid, with the windows open, letting warmer air through. but now, most of them were closed except for the one at the very end, the only source of light in the early morning.
soon you stopped in front of the door of the conference room. you could hear quiet mumbling and the sound of your mother's heels against the hardwood floor. you knocked lightly, hesitantly. what seemed like an eternity passed, but what was probably only a couple of seconds before you heard your mother's voice for the first in thirty seven years. it was cold, much like her dominion over the cryo element.
"enter."
the room was far colder than the hallway, making you wrap your arms around yourself tightly. you stepped into the room with tentative footsteps, looking around the room with disturbed curiosity. the front of the room had several diagrams of strange looking things, carefully detailed to show off the intricate designs. a few, vaguely, familiar names like barbatos and focalors were labeled above some of them.
on the main desk in front of the diagrams were several stacks of books, some of them open to certain pages. you recognized one of them: perinheri. but others like before sun and moon or the pale princess and the six pygmies were unrecognized.
but what really drew your eyes was your mother's frame. she was always the type of person to dress more casually, even before the nobility. her hair used to be in a plain half up half down style with a clip to hold it in place. her dresses were simple and a bit loose, wearing minimal jewelry in the comfort of her own home. she used to look like a gentle goddess, much like her title implied.
but the woman in front of you looked vastly different.
instead of the pain blue dresses she wore, the one she had on was far more lavish, a coat wrapped around her shoulders. she wore jewelry that you rarely saw unless it was a prestigious event for the nation, like her crown, which now sat upon her head. to you, it looked more like a cage than a sign of power. the earrings she had on were replaced by the expensive ones your father gifted her, one of his endearing gifts that he gave out of nowhere. her hair was fully up in a bun, braided except for the strands that framed her face.
she looked like the nobles she barely tolerated.
"mama?" you called out.
you saw the way her posture tensed like a rigid block of ice. her fingers set down the plume in her hand, slowly turning around to face you for the first time in thirty seven years. her eyes were harder, colder, but undoubtedly, they were your mother's. but when they looked at you, and met your eyes, they became softer, but not with the surprise of seeing her daughter walk again. no, it was something that made your own smile fall.
it was guilt and shame.
her lips, which were in a thin line opened and closed, trying to find the words to her thoughts.
she wasn't the only one who looked different. you had grown taller, a good few inches above her, having inherited your father's height. your face lost some of its baby fat, but still enough remained where she could imagine herself caressing it or your father pinching it lightly while you puffed them out. of course, she knew every detail about your recovery and dottore's checkups on you, how your development stopped around the physical age of sixteen.
but you were no longer her little duchess.
you swallowed thickly, taking a few steps forward. "mama." you repeated with certainty, but it was all you could really think of saying. her lips parted and shut before she steadied her resolve.
"my child." she paused, staring at your face as if trying to memorize it through sight alone. then her eyes fell back to the diagrams, her voice cold and distant, so unlike the gentle mother you longed to see for decades. "you should not be here."
your face fell but you pressed further into the room, completely ignoring the fact that your fingers were turning a solid blue beneath your gloves. you shook your head stubbornly. "then where else, if not by your side? i'm your daughter! mama-"
"i will hear nothing of your stubbornness, (name)." her voice was deadly serious and harsh and you could feel the temperature of the room fall a few degrees. "you will return to your chambers and you will remain there."
"and do what? sit around with the servants for company while you pretend i will ever get any better?!" you couldn't help but vent out in anger, your fists clenched in defense. you were always so calm, docile, but this anger, even anastasya had to admit, was expected from you. you may have taken from your father's appearance, but emotionally, you were every bit like her.
it scared her sometimes.
"enough of this. i will give you the chance to leave without repercussions." her own words surprised her. she could never imagine herself threatening her own child, especially not her living, cursed, daughter. but the sheer anger she had, bit towards you, but rather the source of your curse was enough to make her a ticking time bomb around anyone who crossed the line.
"repercussions?" you repeated, your voice low with hurt and anger and the restraint of tears. "you can even look me in the eye, can you?! are you that desperate to be rid of me?"
anastasya's eyes visibly widened, stunned by your words. quickly, she spun around, showing more vulnerability than she would have liked. "no, no, gods no, never that-"
"because at this rate," you cut her off sharply, coldly like the ice that consumed you. "i'll be dead by the time you ever glance at me again."
"i-" she caught herself. her eyes looked at the ground as if it had all the answers she was looking for. she pushed you away for a reason, a way to keep you safe from her revenge against the heavens and the gods who act on folly. of course she loved you, as any mother would her child.
but sometimes the greatest act of love can be the one that hurts the most.
she inhaled sharply, steeling herself into a solid wall of ice and frost before meeting your eyes again, erasing any hint of emotion. her voice was in the form of a command that could challenge celestia itself. "you will leave this instant, and you will not come back under any circumstances."
you heard the door open, revealing pierro staring at you with contempt, waiting for you to leave the room. you grit your teeth, clattering slightly once you felt the frost creep up your neck. "i hope that whatever you end up from this is worth losing your daughter, because it certainly isn't worth losing my mother."
you shoved past pierro, breaking into a sprint down the hallway.
you glanced at the books in front of you through your mask, a pair of tweezers prodding at the open skin of your corrupted arm. next to you was a newspaper imported from fontaine, a small column of the first and second place winners of the fontaine film festival. you could only glare at the blonde haired figure and their floating companion.
it has been roughly four hundred and sixty two years, three months, and eleven days since you last saw your mother in that conference room.
your research led to one point and one point only.
if dying was your fate, then you'd die on your own terms.
What happens when you journey far from home and find yourself in the palm of peril?
Even in moments of worry, your husband manages to ease your worries and save you without fail.
INFO: wc: ~1k. (flins x f! reader). flins and reader are married. reader is referred to as his wife. hurt/comfort. mentions of fear. possibly ooc (written before 6.0 release). semi based on that one gamescom video!
The soft light of the moon shines an impossible, ethereal light on all below it. With its assistance, all who stray will be guided, and all who are lost will be found. Only the whispers of the wind are heard in the everlasting silence; longing souls who have strayed from their path and subjected themself to eternal agony.
The realization that you’ve journeyed far enough to be in danger hits you like a revelation. The graveyard is thick with the feeling of despair, a gloomy canopy of darkness engulfing you and all the area around it. The Wild Hunt is near. Their cries resound in your ears, searching for their next victim. It’s a dire situation you’ve landed yourself in.
The silver encrusted dagger you’ve brought with you is – as you now realize – a miniscule means of defense to any being that may attack you. You curse yourself at your foolish actions. How could you be so unprepared?
The matter is gone now. You traveled here for one reason, and one reason only. To obtain something precious. Something that all the riches in the world couldn't buy. You crouch to the ground quickly to veil yourself in the tall lilac grass, feeling around for your target. It’s near.
The wind howls, as if plagued with anguish. Tears of dread threaten to spill from your eyes, making your sight blurry and muddled, but in the corner of your vision, you spot the thing you’ve been searching for all along. Your fingers move to grasp it, but swift footsteps stop you in your tracks. You rise abruptly, dagger already raised.
There’s no need for it though, you soon realize.
“This is no place to linger on a foggy night. Allow me to escort you out.”
The freezing gales are biting at your skin, the feeling vicious and cruel, but as your husband before you takes you by the hand and guides you out of the mist shrouded plains, the night gets a little warmer.
Flins is not an inexperienced man. He’s braved the chilling storms, the spirits that appear only in the darkest of hours. The light at his side is the beacon of guidance that illuminates your way. The road ahead is certainly difficult to cross, but the azure glow of the lantern is the key to your smooth journey.
He’s careful – calculated in everything that he does. You know this. He’s holding you tight, a gentle hand at the small of your back, grounding you in a state of tranquility. In the distance, a looming structure can be seen; to an outsider, it might seem to be the most frightening thing of all, but to you, it gives you solace. The lighthouse is right ahead.
Your beloved is silent as he leads you through the iron gates and into the front entrance. The freezing wind has immediately ceased with the shut of the intricately carved wooden door, but you’re still shivering at the gaze that your husband has currently cast upon you.
Only now does he speak. His words are exasperated, but you’re aware he doesn’t have the heart to properly scold you.
“My dearest.”
You tilt your head to the side, doing your best to feign indifference. “Yes?”
“Just what were you thinking, leaving the lighthouse at such a late hour? Were you bothered by anything?”
Even in his moments of vexation, the lingering threads of concern in his voice envelop you in a comfort that almost brings you to tears once again. In the low lit, cozy expanse of your shared room, you try your best not to fall apart at the seams with affection.
“‘I’m sorry for making you worry. It was late, and I wanted to surprise you the next morning with a small gift.”
And with that, you reach into the expanse of your sleeves and reveal what you’ve been hiding from him the entire time you’ve been traveling. A bouquet of flowers, the rare iridescent species that grows only in the land where the Hunt runs rampant.
“I had tried to take the necessary precautions when I set off, but it seems you had to save me again in the end.”
He was frightened. You know by the downward curves of his mouth, the fine stress lines graven below his eyes. He’s holding you impossibly near to him as you present your hard won gift.
His demeanor brings you distress. You ease your lilting tone slowly, your expression contorting to match his.
“I promise I’ll never do it again.” You swear quietly, a hand moving to cup his cheek.
He was frightened, but now, as you stand right before him, hand outstretched with the gorgeous, blooming flora that you picked just for him, he cannot make himself press any further.
You’re here, and that’s what matters.
The amethyst haired man is silent, as if deep in thought, choosing the words that dare to spill from his lips deliberately. But finally, you feel him relax in your embrace, his muscles letting go of their tension. He lowers, moving to bury his head in the crook of your neck. And there, he finally replies.
“If my wife went through so much trouble just to see me smile, how could I ever be angry at her?”
Your heart swells.
Pale, luminescent light sneaks its way through your closed curtains as the two of you share this moment of intimacy, lips meeting so softly it almost seems dreamlike. In that everlasting silence that the graveyard bears, his confessions of adoration are heard only by you and the moon’s ever present radiance.
a/n: he's been taking up all the space in my brain recently. I WILLLL GO BROKE THIS PATCH
kinich x gn!reader, pure fluff, a little something before I go MIA for finals
Kinich looks at you like you hung the moon and stars in the sky.
And really, it’s quite obvious. Almost too obvious to his friends — particularly Mualani, who giggles about how "utterly in love with you" the saurian hunter was. To her dismay, you refuse to believe so, always laughing her words off entirely.
Well, she supposes you can’t be blamed for being so oblivious.
Kinich is rather skilled at putting on the calm, stoic facade you’re used to seeing, after all. But while it may be difficult for you to catch the affection that lingers in his eyes, it's all too clear to everyone else.
Kinich is always right beside you: a gentle hand on your back when walking through the busy streets, or the occasional brush of his shoulders against yours when he "accidentally" stands too close during your meetings with Chief Wayna.
Even when Kinich isn't beside you, you don’t see his longing gaze fixated on the way you so easily laugh and smile with others, whispering lighthearted jokes in their ears. You don’t see the usually-poised warrior fixed in a trance as he scrubs his claymore clean 10 times too much because his mind is preoccupied with thoughts of you.
Mualani likes to joke that Kinich looks like your guard dog, and Ajaw agrees, much to the Almighty Dragonlord’s annoyance. Archons, how did his servant manage to turn into this gooey, cheesy mess of an idiot?! The dragon can only pray you turn Kinich so stupidly in love that he trips over himself and falls off a cliff to his demise.
Unfortunately for Ajaw, you are rather oblivious to Kinich's feelings.
Well — mostly. Because sometimes, you're left wondering if Mualani’s exaggerated words may have even the slightest bit of truth to them. Times like this, when it’s just you and Kinich. Alone.
-
“Tired?” you murmur, observing the hunter’s face. It’s dim outside, the only source of light being the flames of the bonfire before you.
“A little,” Kinich admits. He’s subconsciously leaning into you, warm breath grazing your cheeks. It makes you shiver despite the relatively warm weather.
You can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, but his eyes look softer, gaze tender as they trail over your eyes, nose, and finally landing on your lips.
“What?” you chuckle, nudging his shoulder softly. Kinich is quiet, yes, but never this quiet. There’s an air of vulnerability to him as he looks back up at you. His pupils are dilated, you realize, orbs of sunset widening considerably as they meet your gaze.
“…Nothing.” Kinich exhales softly, fidgeting with his gloves as his eyes flit away from yours again. He seems almost a bit nervous, you think — quite odd for the usually stoic man. For the next couple of seconds, the hunter continues to stare wordlessly at the dirt.
You sigh. You’re about to ask Kinich what in Teyvat was on his mind, but he beats you to breaking the silence.
“It’s…” he starts, swallowing thickly.
“It’s just…you look really pretty tonight, did I tell you that?”
𝒢𑄺 — Zanka wont say you’re dating, but there will be signs
—————
#1
Rudo’s had a long day, fighting trash beasts, training exhausted him at the end of the day— and all he wants to do is unwind and relax with the others before bed.
but he notices something.
when did you and Zanka get so…close?
he is well aware you guys are close, but as he chats with the other cleaners, his eyes drift to the two of you, half engaged in the conversation, the other half of you too busy giggling at something Zanka said, his arm lazily resting on the back of the couch behind you.
“when did zanka become funny?” Rudo mutters in confusion, not intending to say it out loud. Zanka, you and enjin, who’s smirking mischievously as if he knows something Rudo doesn’t, look at him. “what? did you say my name?” zanka asks, slightly suspicious.
Rudo’s ears flush red, turning away from his gaze, “oh- uhh, nothing.” he plays it off not-so cooly, but Zanka just shrugs, going back to his past conversation.
He notices it all, the way zanka subtly shifts closer to you, how he leans in close to talk to you, and his cheeks— which are dusted with pink.
Zanka surprisingly doesn’t mind the proximity too, your head is borderline resting on his chest, and your knees are pressed together, he would’ve instantly moved away if it was anyone else.
but its different when its you.
———
#2
the mission didn’t go as planned, there were casualties— too many— including you. zanka hasn’t left your side once, he’s hunched over where you lay in the infirmary, your body covered in cuts and bruises as you sleep off your injuries from earlier.
rudo comes in to visit, his hands holding a little bouquet of sweet scented flowers, and enjin towers behind him. He stands beside Zanka, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“she’ll be alright, don’t worry too much, eh?” he says, but zanka doesn’t look up, his eyes remained glued to your face just waiting for you to wake up and to tell him your okay.
Rudo steps forward hesitantly, placing the flowers beside your bed, he spots zanka holding your hand tight, thumb stroking along your knuckles, which are painted with dark bruises and grazes.
he finally glances up and the two others, his face pale with worry and eyes blown wide from earlier adrenaline. “You don’t look so good.” Rudo states, taking in his complexion.
Enjin snorts, “he’s worried about his girl- of course.” his hand goes up to ruffle his hair, as zanka attempts to hide his face, which is bright pink with slight embarrassment from being so openly called out.
his girl? interesting…
———
#3
Zanka’s sick— as much as he tried to deny it and play it off, he found himself at your bedroom door in the middle of the night, sweaty and restless from his current inability to rest.
“zanka?” you question quietly, your voiced laced with worry. “whats wrong?” he steps into your room, and his head finds your shoulder, burying his face into it. “i…i don’t feel good,”
you help him to get comfy in your bed, the comforting smell of you from the duvets puts him at ease. as you place a cool towel on his forehead, there is a soft knock at the door. confused at who may be here at this hour, you approach and open the door— its rudo.
“hey, i—“ he freezes when he notices zanka in your bed, the tips of his ears flushing. “is this a bad time?” you smile, shaking your head softly. zanka sits up in bed, looking quite obviously dazed and half asleep— unaware who awaits at the door.
he groans softly, “come backkkk, its cold..” and rudo’s blush deepens, he’s never seen zanka in a state like this, so soft and needy.
weird.
———
#4
its early morning, the sun barely grazing the horizon in a soft yellow hew. most of the cleaners remain in their rooms or are out on missions.
Rudo woke up early, heading downstairs to grab some water— but he was not expecting to see you and zanka kissing on one of the couches. he clears his throat awkwardly, making you both look up and gasp. Zanka abruptly removes his hands from your waist. “shit.”
you simply laugh it off, whilst zanka hides his face in your neck. rudo is stunned, unable to move from where he is standing.
kissing isn’t what friends do.
—
rudo is traumatised to say the least— he cant even look the both of you in the eye. He is sitting with you, enjin, zanka and riyo, the sun beginning to set after a long day, and you all find yourselves caught up in light-hearted chatter, whilst rudo stares into space.
“rudo?” riyo asks, waving her hand infront of his face. He jolts slightly. “oh—uhh, yeah?” he says, eyes darting around. “nothing, you look like you’ve seen a ghost though, whats up?”
you and zanka both look over at eachother, and rudo flushes bright red. “i…umm-“ he gets cut off by you, “he walked into me and zanka kissing.”
Enjin bursts out laughing, clutching at his stomach at the whole situation, zanka’s face spurring on his laughter. “they’ve been together for a while now— what, 7 months?” rudo’s eyes practically fall out his head, obviously having no idea about you and zanka’s relationship. riyo perks up, “yikes, you have alot of catching up to do.”
———
・ ꪖ/n : mb if this is buns ✌️anyways why is it so hot its only may, im not complaining tho
