#ragnvaldr x reader

[dadsbongos]

@ghostlykeyes !!!! oomfie n i were sharing daydreams abt living in a swamp cabin and being rag’s witchy partner and this popped out heheh

377 words - not proofread oops

Savory burns of meat are overtaken soon after the front door hinges squeak, Ragnvalder’s hefty boots thud across the floorboards before he’s flush behind you. His own scent of the vague outdoors floods the kitchenette. You can make out raw dirt and iron, sharp twinge of the stench of sweat.

“You reek,” you point out unhelpfully.

Ragnvaldr barks a laugh into your ear before pressing his nose into the back of your head, lips soft against your skull soon after. He lingers there stubbornly, squeezing around you like a viper crushing its prey, but he kisses you so tenderly. Warmth licks over your back from his broad, bare chest; you’ve tried warning him that thick furs are not as useful in a swamp as they are in the north, but your outlander persists. Wrapping around you tighter and tighter until you’re blue and bursting at the joints - simply petrified at the mere thought of releasing you.

“I can’t cook like this, you know,” the air is pushed out from your chest as Ragnvaldr squishes you into his chest, making a deeply huffed ‘oof!’. You giggle at his clingy display and pat one of his thick forearms, stretching out to flip the sliver of feral swine underbelly, “I’ll burn the food! This is dinner -- do you want to eat char?!”

“Only if it’s made by you,” Ragnvaldr nuzzles into your hair, “I hung more pig outside. And rabbits,” you feel the impression of his proud grin against the back of your head, “I know you wanted rabbits’ feet.”

“Thank you, darling,” you coo, gently raking your nails over his skin and watching goosebumps rise in the wake, “Did you find any yellow russulas?”

“I was waiting for you to ask,” perching his chin over your shoulder, Ragnvaldr watches with seemingly unending interest as you shift peeled carrots and chopped potatoes and shredded greens in the pan’s bowl. He kisses your shoulder before replacing his chin there, “I pinned half on the clothesline to dry out and left the rest by the line.”

“My brave warrior,” you lean your head back enough to press your own kiss to his cheek before stripping the meat and vegetables from the open flame.

“The best for you, elskling.”

[yandere--stuck]

Could you write a few Yandere headcanons for Ragnvaldr? I'm interested in your interpretation of him

🍖 Born with the Soul of The Tormented, Ragnvaldr always knew his life would be forever marred with struggle. Even from his youngest years, nearly dead by his own father's hands during a famine. The thing he had to do to survive… Best not to think too hard about it. As he grew, though, he became optimistic. Comfortable. Happy with the family he had made and the community he had grown into. For once, things were looking wholly up for the Outlander. But, of course, he should have known better. He should have expected tragedy to strike at some point. His family. His people. His home. All gone. All gone, by the command of a fair-haired captain who slaughtered and stole from his people. Consumed by bloodlust and revenge, Ragnvaldr promised to himself and those he lost that he'd get revenge. That he would kill that man with his own hands…

🏹 The Outlander certainly hadn't planned on making friends during his journey into the dungeons, but after coming across you in the courtyards, he found himself drawn to you. Years of experience and tragedy behind him left him with a certain amount of distrust toward others, but something about you lowered those walls, made him want to be by your side. And he had to agree with you - there was strength in numbers. It certainly made the trek deeper into the dark a lot less lonely and just a bit more comforting. It also helped that you were easy to talk to. When you had moments of reprieve, you'd talk about your life on the outside, what brought you both here, what your interests were… Ragnvaldr wasn't exactly ready to spill his soul and bloody past to you (not to mention the exact reason he was there), but… He was able to be himself around you. He talked about things he'd never had the chance to utter in so long. Hell, it'd been ages since he last really conversed with someone, and… Talking to you was both a comfort and a relief.

🍖 The deeper you delved and the closer you grew to one another, the harder and more desperate Ragnvaldr began to fight. This was no longer about just the Knight captain, this was also about protecting his newfound comrade. No matter how strong, skilled, or adept in magic you are, Ragnvaldr will encourage - or, all but force - you to stay behind him or hide to keep you out of the way of danger. It came to the point where he nearly killed the stray wolf down in the catacombs, if it hadn't been for your offering of rotten meat to quell the beast. All the more reason why you made such a great team! Ragnvaldr was a man of action, and someone who was able to step back and attack trouble from a different angle was refreshing and, much as Ragnvaldr loathed to admit, good for him. Good for the both of you, even.

🏹 The closer you grow, the more desperate Ragnvaldr's behavior becomes. He even goes so far as to begin devouring the bodies of enemies so as to allow most of the food to go to you, designating the rotten food to Moonless. He fights with even more determination and fury, not even daring to allow a chance for an enemy to get a hit on you. If you give any signs of wanting to part from him, Ragnvaldr will at first try to subtly redirect your or change your mind, but it won't be long until the Outlander will be begging for you to stay, threatening to harm himself or any allies you've met on your journey. He may even begin to align himself with Sylvian in an attempt to successfully become a marriage with you, if he really believes you'll leave him.

🍖 Whether Le'garde is alive or dead, it doesn't change the outcome. You knew full well by this point why Ragnvaldr is here, and whether you agreed with his methods or not didn't matter… He… He was your friend. He deserved closure. He'd beat Le'garde to death, until his fists were bloody and he was shaking with effort and spent rage. He'd keep going until Le'garde is unrecognizable. The floors, walls, Ragnvaldr himself… All covered with blood. Even if Le'garde was already gone, he'd brutalized the man's body until he's satisfied. Afterward, he'd acknowledge that the captain was good for something, at least - meeting you.

🏹 You are what soothes Ragnvaldr's tortured soul. You're all he had left now. You and Moonless. He couldn't just let you leave! Without you, there was nothing. No reason to go on. You couldn't part now! Meeting each other had to be fate. He could take care of you. Please? You don't think you could really just say no to him, do you? When he was strong enough to break all your limbs or saw them off, leaving you dependent on him forever. Please, just make this easy on yourself. On him. He's been through so, so much. He just wanted to have you. Love you. And he would do whatever it takes to make you realize you and he were meant to be. He'd been through too much to start taking the easy route now…

[iguessigotta]

i'm not saying i 100% will, but what if i started writing for some fear and hunger characters? it would be almost entirely the male characters w/ male/nb reader - would anyone even be interested in that?

[dervampireprince]

ASMR | Fear and Hunger - Enki x Listener SFW Trying To Rest With The Dark Priest Enki

[M4A] [No horror from the game or description of those horrors in this audio] [Listener is in the dungeon with the characters] [Nightmare comfort but without the comfort because it's Enki] [Established that you've been travelling together for a while at least] [Flustering Enki] [Slightly implied romantic/sexual feelings]

If you aren't familiar with it, do not look up Fear and Hunger without reading it's trigger warning lists first, you can find them on doesthedogdie.

It's not like anyone can stop me from babygirl-ifying Enki. So yes the person who can't handle horror has gotten into Fear and Hunger by wanting background noise video essays on in the background while he draws and stumbling upon one Funger video essay and then watching like 5 more and then saying yes it's interesting but I'm not going to get properly into it and then oh no I drew fanart on stream and then oh no I've recorded an audio 3 days after discovering the games. This is just like with Astarion all oVER AGAIN WHY.

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Old public spicy audios on sound gasm (link in pinned post). 2 Exclusive spicy audios on Patreon every month. I also stream on Twitch every week @ dervampireprince . [minors + ageless blogs dni. this blog is for 18+ only.] [do not repost/reupload/edit any of my content]

[andromedalupus]

Cahara but Willy Wonk. One of my BESTIES @revo-depresso made the cursed joke about Cahara looking like Timothée Chalamet which was cursed. So enjoy this piece of trash lol.

[plaidpyjamas]

just call me Kira (cause I drew half of this in the dark with my left hand inside a chip bag)

[yandere--stuck]

You don't have to answer this ofc, but what is your opinion on the main four(D'arce, Cahara, Enki, and Ragnvaldr)? Also, what's your take on them as Yanderes? If you don't feel like answering this im really sorry for bothering you! Hope you are having a great day!!❤️

Thank you! :D

---

D'arce is a worshipping and delusional yandere! She thinks you're absolutely perfect, a god in human form without even needing to ascend. She would go to the ends of the earth for you. Anything you say is truth. Everything you do is perfect. All D'arce wants is to love you and protect you. She was your knight, after all! And all she really asks for in return is the blessing of being able to by your side. As your confidant. Your knight. Your lover.

Bearing the soul of the endless, Cahara had spent much of his life simply drifting by, seeing where his travels and jobs take him. The flings he'd had before were simply that - flings. He figured it'd be more of the same with you, but no. You fascinated him. You were like an addiction. He became obsessed, wanting to always be close to you, touch you, look at you, know everything about you any way he could. At some point, Cahara had an epiphany. It was almost like you... You were meant to be. His infatuation over you has become endless, as well.

Enki is definitely possessive. He wants to make sure that not only do you know you're his, but so does everyone else. He keeps himself very close to you, boxing you away from the others. Being a tad sadistic, he'll threaten your or your allies to keep you in line - and he may even make good on some of them! If he senses any potential rivals, he won't hesitate to simply cast an incredibly agonizing spell on them that slowly kills them over time.

Ragnvaldr is a protective yandere. After losing his entire life, his family, to the Knight of The Midnight Sun, Ragnvaldr hadn't been the same man. His soul was that of the tormented, but when he was with you, the burden was so much easier to bear. He found friendship in you, clicking together like you were always meant to meet. But, Ragnvaldr finds himself waiting for the next boot to drop. For you to be taken from him, too. The idea his terrifying. He can't lose the last good thing in his life. He can't let anyone else die...! He doesn't care what he has to do to keep you safe. Even if it means sawing off all your limbs so you can never, ever leave. It's okay. He has enough strength to protect you.

[dadsbongos]

kanin under maanen

word count - 4.6 k

warnings - p in v sex, reader is described with words like "soft" and "round" and is also fem, rag's status as a widower is an afterthought, i kept losing track of where i put his furs

also - i think oldegaard is funger's norway?? or something... :P oops

“Please- I’ll be quick, I swear! I’ll carry things! I know how to mix herbs, I can heal you! And I’ll be quiet, too. Just, oh, just please... please let me stay with you…!”

Your hands rattle against your chest, which heaves like you’re fresh from a churning dash through the entirety of the dungeons -- just to ask this man, a stranger, a simple question.

“Can I stay with you, please?”

Ragnvaldr stares down at you over the bridge of his nose, seafoam eyes lapping over the weaker stain of your frame in his vision. Such bold, shameless desperation plagues him. He starts to wonder how you’d made it to the courtyard. How many cramped corners you’d jammed yourself into, barely scraping out of the dungeon beasts’ sights. How you’ve held your mind together to form words and continue your slow crawl to freedom.

The reddened, raw stretch of skin over his right ribs stings suddenly to emphasize your point. Ragnvaldr was raised well enough to know which shrubbery to scrub into which wounds and which ones to avoid at all costs, but his knowledge was poultry compared to what these cells demanded.

At the downwards twitch of your knees, Ragnvaldr can feel an uncomfortableness to rival the ache of his seared flesh twinge through his beating chest. He takes you by the shoulder, grip loosening when you flinch under his hold. Ragnvaldr shakes his head, silky cardinal tresses dancing over his skin. His lips, cracked and fading in color, pin themselves back faintly to ease your shivering uncertainty.

“No need to beg on your knees,” Ragnvaldr unlatches from you completely in favor of cradling the slowly leaking slashes in his side, “You said you can heal?”

“Yes!” you eagerly respond, nodding, “Yes, let’s sit you down!”

Ragnvaldr flows under the bristle of your fingertips, fur armor quickly coming off. His uncovered back was against the chilled stone highwall; lower body stretched out against the grass bed. Your hands move in smoother, more assured strides as you single out the most useful of your colored leaves.

“Can I…?”

“Ja, anything you need.”

Ragnvaldr’s eyes, you notice, have softened in how they watch over your work. The flutter of his lashes now matches the tenderness of their color. A near-missed swipe from a serrated weapon -- none like you’ve seen -- decorates the majority of his right side under his arm. Angry red lines string over the pink flesh. You press a careful hand into the surrounding area, testing the firmness of his body for soft spots. For broken bones. He allows it, despite the stark difference in strength and the fact he could probably crush your skull with one palm -- he allows your hands to roam.

The bag you pull from is ratty and he thinks the deep brown hue may be more from staining than original dyes, but he says nothing. You first pull out a thick book with yellowed pages between faded, peeling covers. Then, four blue herb sprigs and two glass vials -- the stretch and twist of your bones and ligaments beneath soft, unbruised skin is hypnotizing to Ragnvaldr. You crush the sprigs with a single vial before hurriedly separating the remains between the two vials and combining two blue vials into one.

“I don’t think it’s infected,” you murmur, clogging the vial with a cork. A lighter shade of blue now shimmers beneath the glass, darker shreds of herb cling inside the abandoned second vial.

Ragnvaldr shakes his head, “Nej. I’d have mentioned it.”

“Ah, right,” you cup a hand over your mouth, eyes wide as if you’re offstruck by your own words, “I didn’t mean- of course, you- I mean… I’m sorry,” you bashfully reopen the cerulean bottle and hold it up towards the man’s face, “I didn’t mean to suggest anything…”

A vicious anxiety continues to course through your chest, no matter how pliant Ragnvaldr has made himself to show his trust for your care. You’re visibly hyper-aware of how simply he could end your life. Something about the nature of this makes him nauseous.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Ragnvaldr speaks softer than before, his voice a deep, gentle purr through the broad expanse of his chest. Tenderly, he swipes the open vial from your palm, the warmth from his skin washing over the cold nips of your own, “Thank you.”

Silently, you nod, wasting seconds to watch his adam’s apple bob thickly with each swallow before you pull loose the cloth you’ve collected through ransacked rooms. The strips coil around themselves by your kneeling legs.

“Can I start wrapping it?”

“Ja.”

“This might be…” you flounder under his eyes, instead stringing up the cloth in your hands and leaning over Ragnvaldr’s bigger frame. Invasive.

Ragnvaldr contemplates, for the second time, how you’d skipped past guards and tentacled flesh beasts and dogs. Even the impish, frail, winged creatures seem capable of knocking your terrorized self off your steady. Then, he asks himself why he’s taken you in. Oldegaard groomed strong warriors, and he had always taken pride in that. He was raised with scorching blood and willing hands, you were not.

But you remind him of the blacksmith’s girl. A sweet thing -- also unfamiliar with the fighter’s path. He prays she was killed quickly rather than being made to suffer.

Perhaps he can apologize to her and the rest of his gutted homeland by escorting you back out once he’s taken revenge.

“How did you get this?” your voice lulls Ragnvaldr from his own head, he looks up from your binding hands to your soft face, “Can I ask that? How were you injured?”

“A man with the head of a crow,” Ragnvaldr admits this to you with the ease he would his name, “A mace for an arm,” he gestures down the length of his side, “He’s much faster than I am.”

“I’m glad you got out,” you finish tucking the tattered end of your cloth spiral into the rest of the sprawl. You are suddenly afraid of being misconstrued, “I’m glad this dungeon couldn’t claim another soul.”

Ragnvaldr thinks you are as kind as the blacksmith’s girl, but you must have resilience to survive this far. More guts and nerve, and even teeth. They may be loose and accustomed to chewy, lavish fat, but you most certainly have teeth.

He wants to see them.

“I feel the same.”

You smile, bigger than he had earlier. The thin shadows and dimples highlighted in your face remind him of when he was younger, with the liberty to stare up at full moons. Absorbing and beautiful with radiance to shine over shadowed forests and into black night seas. He wants to return to there. Even in the cruel winters when he was faced with the opened chests and severed limbs of his deceased comrades. Even then, when he had to eat or be eaten, things were simpler compared to now.

“I think you should rest,” you frown immediately after speaking, “To avoid agitating the wound with the cloth… it isn’t very clean and I don’t have enough green herbs to keep infections at bay for long.”

Ragnvaldr tenses, but it’s not as nerve-wracking as it would’ve been mere moments ago. He clenches his fists and gently skims his knuckles down the pseudo-bandages, when it stuns him momentarily, he nods.

“We can’t stay out here, then.”

“There are rooms in the dungeon’s first level.”

“For torture?”

Dread fills you, that he may consider your suggestion foolish and ultimately dump you off to a guard, but then you see the lopsidedness of his grin. He’s messing with you.

“Well, yes,” you huff, coming to a stand and holding out both hands to assist him up, “but our options are limited.”

Ragnvaldr stubbornly stands on his own, pushing off the tower wall behind him and stumbling ahead of you towards the entry hall.

And with just as much defiance, you jam yourself under one of his arms before you can properly think out the action. Your desire to be helpful and needed by the strongman outweighs your politeness; not wanting to be abandoned with your back turned. Ragnvaldr jolts over you, but relents and leans the more unstable part of his weight against you. The trek is difficult, but you both manage. You feel less afraid traversing back through the dank, dark halls than you did leaving them, and you are not ignorant to the fact it's because of Ragnvaldr hanging over you. Injured as he is, he’s still far more competitively capable than you.

Once you’ve properly settled into a room and jammed the door shut, Ragnvaldr slips onto the sole creaky bed. His eyes close, exhaling noisily through his nose.

The bed’s frame is caked in dried, blackening blood and sits opposite a bucket full of murky sludge; a crinkly film drying over the surface. Pressed far into the side of the room is a table with glinting blades scattered across the stained wood. You can’t define what most of the tools are, but you can identify the skinning knife teetering by the closest edge of the table.

Aside from that are the typical smears of carmine blood over cobblestone: people before you and someday people after you. You can only pray now to the old Gods that it won’t be your own blood to join the pool.

For that, for your safe passage through the dungeons, you need to ensure your new party doesn’t fall to infection or blood loss.

“I’ll check you over tomorrow morning,” you tangle your fingers together, switching the weight between your feet, “Maybe tonight if it’s noticeably hurting.”

Ragnvaldr stares over at you again before patting the bed.

You heed the silent command, dragging along the worn bag you pulled from a barrel in the basement.

“What brought you here?” you wonder quietly, looking over at the man. He monopolizes the bedspace, spread wide over the mattress without even intending to.

His eyes drift up to the ceiling before finding your dutiful hands again, he follows the movements as they dig through your items. Taking stock of what you have, mourning the losses, and fretting over what you need. The blacksmith’s girl didn’t have hands as mystifying as you.

“I am here to find a relic that a certain person took from my people. This man is imprisoned somewhere deep down below,” Ragnvaldr is not so foolish as to believe his home’s pillaging is either undeserved or unbefitting for his soul to bear. He’s done the same, and the parasite from Vinland still burns a hole in his pocket. Even so, his human heart persists, “When I found them- I was one of only a few survivors.”

“Oh,” you pause your inventory search to very delicately press a hand to his shoulder and pat sympathetically, “I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

He wonders what someone with as soft hands and face as you would think of such a declaration. If the teeth you have can chew through the toughness of his words. You pull back, but much slower than he was expecting, and return to sorting through your bag.

Much to Ragnvaldr’s surprise, you smile, “Then I’ll make sure you get there in one piece.”

You swallow his ominous message without pause.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ah, a friend of mine…” you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, fingers caught at the bottom of your bag with a thin slip of paper, “She’s pregnant and the man promising to wed her came for a job to set them up for life. He’s been gone for a while.”

“A friend would send you here? Into this evil?”

“She never said she wanted me to come here,” you shrivel into yourself, settling your bag against the bedpost leg, “I don’t know what compelled me… I really- “ your hands fist the torn, blood-stained sheets, “I was an idiot to think I could’ve done any good here.”

Ragnvaldr sits up, laying his calloused palm over yours, “The man you’re looking for. What’s his name?”

“Cahara. Cahara of the South.”

The man nods, auburn strands hanging with the motion, “And I’ll make sure you find him for your friend.”

“Thank you,” you notice the way he moves further to the side, a new gap on the mattress for your body to slot beside him, “Thank you, Ragnvaldr.”

He doesn’t think he’s heard someone outside the North say his name with such care.

You lay beside Ragnvaldr and revel in how close the two of you are. Safety and comfort buzzing in the lack of space.

He’s big. And warm. Like the sun.

You missed the sun.

…

Upon rising from slumber, you see that Ragnvaldr is still in unguarded rest. His bare chest rises and falls in soothed repetitive swoops, and his soft hair rains over the flat pillow beneath him. Prepared to slide off the mattress, you don’t register the arm fastening you to Ragnvaldr before you’re brushing against it. The arm tightens and you’re rendered useless.

You contemplate waking Ragnvaldr. Of squeezing yourself through the narrow hold. Even forcefully unwinding his muscle from your midsection.

You fall back asleep.

…

By the next time you’re awake, Ragnvaldr is too. You’ve sat him up against the scratched, chipped headboard and are undressing his wound. Green herb sprigs sit at the ready by your right knee in case pus is clinging to the cloth and oozing from open shreds. Thankfully, nothing of the sort awaits.

“Good!” you chirp, and Ragnvaldr remembers a full moon hanging over the spindly, leafless trees in the harsh falls of his youth, “There’s still some scratching, probably scarring later… but no infection! And it’s not inflamed or red.”

“We should continue our way, then.”

“Oh.”

Ragnvaldr laughs suddenly, from the hull of his chest, and only stops when the skin over his ribs pulls uncomfortably, “You want to stay here?”

“It’s been nicer than out there… We could stay in here. Away from the darkness.”

It has been nicer. The dungeons of Fear and Hunger are no place for domesticity, but anything is fair in a locked room. In a strange way, you wish you could stay with the beautiful man from Oldegaard.

His hair brushes past his shoulders and even though he is so much larger than you (you fear that he may even be able to kill a guard on his own), he is nicer than most men you’ve met in your life. Especially where you live in the seedier underbelly of Rondon -- men with spines are not uncommon, but men with spines and hearts are. Cahara was a welcomed gem in the coal mines of home.

And Ragnvaldr, you fear, might be your prettiest diamond.

He gazes upon you fondly. Seafoam you want to drink up. Or drown in. You haven’t decided yet. He cups your round cheeks and smooths back the stray hairs slicked to your face.

“Maanejente,” he coos beneath his breath, the harsh pads of his thumbs glide over the plain of your face and down your neck, working into the knotted meat of your shoulders, “Maanejente… nothing will hurt you. Not with me here,” he wants to see your teeth in that pretty smile from last night, “You have sugar in your heart, has anyone told you that?” you bare your teeth in a grin and he feels more successful than after any battle, “We’ll press on later.”

You nod under his calm massaging, eyes drifting to the fiery lines over his right side, “I don’t have anything to make the wounds close.”

“I don’t expect anything more,” he soothes, studying you kindly. Oldegaard had such a wide, unhindered view of the skies, when he was a boy he would stare into the moon’s craters. He’d compare them from night to night and dream about a day when he would defeat a beast so great, he’d be rewarded. The thick trees of Vinushka Himself would lift Ragnvaldr high into the sky and he’d be able to study the deep caverns up close, “You’ve healed me plenty to keep fighting.”

He became a man and forgot those dreams in favor of providing for himself and his wife and their child.

But he remembers himself in his purest form and finds that he doesn’t want to part with you after taking revenge against the foolhardy Le’Garde. If you asked, he would stop fighting after that, or he could become the God of Ultra-Violence. Whichever way you please, he’ll bend.

“Maanejente, we should go.”

You move swiftly, exhaling sharply with a curt nod, “Right!” you stow away the unused green herbs, “Right, we’ll go.”

“The job your friend had taken, what was his work here?” Ragnvaldr watches you move. Your sureness and determination sway him further.

“He had to find a man,” you bury yourself into the shadow of Ragnvaldr as he unsticks the room lock, “I’m not sure of the name.”

“An important man, though,” Ragnvaldr is embarrassed how his first thought is what you’ll do if he kills the man your friend is meant to rescue, “Must be.”

You realize what he means, eyes widening, “No! It… Well… It could be…”

Ragnvaldr’s warm gaze melts into the floor tiles as he guides you through the dim hallways. Prison guards moan and gurgle in the distance and the sound used to freeze you in your spot -- it now feels like the squeaks of mice with the Northern man in front of you.

“I’m sure if he knew,” you brace, “he wouldn’t get in your way.”

Ragnvaldr pushes through to the courtyard, unveiling rows of hanged men naked and baking in the open air. Despite the fact this is, in fact, open air, the scent of death continues to cling along each blade of grass. A mist clogs your vision.

Bared skin wafting more warmth than the exposed sun, Ragnvaldr looks down at you as you clutch your measly bag. Your expression is pinched like you’ve somehow stabbed him in the back. His red hair burns like gold embers in the bathing light.

“You would let me kill the man, then?”

“He hurt you,” you answer simply. A way so unbridled by dark and evil, Ragnvaldr once again cannot comprehend your survival past the entrance guard dogs.

You discuss a stranger’s death with the comfort you would which color you prefer for robes. You have teeth unsharpened by true terror. Ragnvaldr should get you free of these walls soon.

“Sugar for a heart,” he muses.

The two of you duck under an archway and find a womanly figure in the mist. Two oblong points jut out from her skull, and the closer you get the more defined her shapes become. Firstly, is that she’s naked (Ragnvaldr chuckles when you gasp and clench your eyes shut); second is that her horned points are ears on a mask. Her voice drips like honey from behind the bunny mask,

"Welcome to the meadows, o' travelers,” she shifts closer to the wood post behind her, your eyes slicing sharply away from the sway of her breasts, “Let us ease your suffering…” your stare dawdles up over the contemplative face of Ragnvaldr, then to his injured side, “The first one is free."

“Mending of flesh,” you mutter, creeping further into Ragnvaldr’s coziness, “Sylvian will heal you, if you…”

Ragnvaldr is struck by the opportunity, wringing his hand through yours and stringing you into the scene. The expressions you can make out from under the eggshell masks are highly varied -- from twisted agony to buttery bliss to far-off stares and brainless drooling. Some bodies are limp, unmistakable from corpses aside from occasional jolts and twitches of their hips. Other bodies are more lively, rocking and humping in veracity. A man with dark hair stands in the middle, he waves the both of you over.

"Are you looking for partners?” you clutch Ragnvaldr’s hand tightly and pointedly ignore his exposed groin, and he squeezes back. The man giggles quietly beneath his mask before holding out two more, “Just take off your clothes and put on these masks."

“Come, mannejente,” Ragnvaldr pulls you away from the man, a previously unfamiliar thrumming working hot blood through his entire body. He works off his furs quickly and lifts your bag from your shoulders to lay it down, “Would you be my partner?” he smiles softly, “I’m not sure of these other people.”

His utterance curls inside you like a full meal. The thought alone makes your mouth water. He’s got meat on his bones and you want to sink your teeth into him. If he were to sleep with anyone else in this garden, you can already tell the sight would make you physically sick. You hope that he’d feel the same.

“Right,” but the dungeons are not a place for his affection for you, and even though you know you’re not made for this world -- you don’t want to make him lose sight of his mission, “Everyone else is just strange.”

“Not you,” Ragnvaldr’s hands find your shoulders again -- working slightly under the hem of your lackluster cloth shirt, “Not you.”

Ragnvaldr is big and warm like the sun. More like the sun than what hangs in the sky above. The sun you used to run under as a small girl before the crushing weight of responsibility ran you tired and nerve-sprung. You miss those days. Somehow, even though he’s directly sifting off your clothes, you even miss Ragnvaldr.

Somehow, you need him closer.

And closer you pull Ragnvaldr, right by the furs draped over his shoulder; unsurely brushing your hands under the thick material. Ragnvaldr flows under your call, shrugging off the weight of his furs as he frees you of your own clothing. Little mind is paid to either you or Ragnvaldr by the other erratic bodies, but still, their presence is off-putting. In a terrible nightmare, you could see these people being broken from their overstimulation as soon as Ragnvaldr is tucked inside you. Then their eyes would wander -- would they judge you? A newcomer unwelcomed, perhaps?

Ragnvaldr gently kisses your cheek, sweeping you up between his arms and smoothly lying you on the plush grass. He kneels between your spread legs, angling the surrounding bodies out of your vision the most he could.

“Focus on me,” he simpers, all to your ears, “Sweet girl… snill maanejente...”

You never studied the tongue of the North, figuring that it would never come into play in the West, but you could listen to Ragnvaldr ramble to himself in his mother tongue all day. His hands slide over your sides, molding into the bend of your waist before snatching you up by the hips and perching you over his bent knees.

“I- “ wind catches in your throat, hands balling on the ground, “I’ve never laid with a man before…”

Ragnvaldr nods, leaning over you with his broader form to kiss you again. On the lips this time. He leaves with a soft, chaste peck before pursing his lips and letting spit pool in his mouth and laving your cunt with the saliva. He promises to be patient while slicking a single finger inside you.

The stretch is not entirely unpleasant, a faint pinch.

“Relax for me, sweet girl,” Ragnvaldr stares down at his hand slowly pressing into the apex of your thighs, “Take a deep breath and relax. Let me take care of you, yes?”

Ragnvaldr hikes one of your thighs to his waist, continuing to fingerfuck you until you’re gasping his name. His spit is joined by your natural wetness mixing along his thick middle finger, slippery and messy: he coils a second finger into you, carefully stretching your hole. Your other thigh joins at his waist of your own volition, jerking your leg into him in the throes of bubbling pleasure.

The warmth of Ragnvaldr’s body swaddles you, the meat of his palm grinding against your clit and sending a spiral of heat down your spine. Heating your chilled blood and raging all the way into your face.

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, both hands squeezing around Ragnvaldr’s wrist as you cant your hips into his hand.

Noticing your earnest efforts to meet his fingering halfway, Ragnvaldr’s spare hand cups the flesh of your ass and pulls you higher over his lap, “Eager, maanejente?”

“Oh, please, Ragnvaldr!” you whimper, jerking onto his fingers. This begging he could get used to, “Please, please, I need you to- !” unfortunately for him, you stop that plea short, “I need you!”

“Beautiful voice for such greed,” he shadows over you, kissing and sucking the column of your throat as he replaces his fingers with the head of his cock. The enveloping heat of your cunt sucks him in as though you’re starved, tightly he grasps your hips and restrains the urge to give in and press your pelvis flush to his. He may leave violet imprints, but he knows he will soothe them later so the concern is quickly pushed aside, “My sweet girl is greedy,” he whines at the squeeze around his dick, “And so lovely when I’m inside her. So pretty, aren’t you?”

Your arms loop around his neck, nails puncturing into the skin of his bare back. Heat waves through your palms and through your arms -- all down your chest and into your churning gut. Most of all, however, the heat is buzzing where the both of you are connected. His hips slotted against yours.

“Pretty when you’re working,” he lifts you from his cock before thrusting in again, building in speed until his hips are pistoning into you in smooth, fluid strokes, “Pretty when you’re fucked,” his thumb finds your soaked clit and circles it, just to pinch out as many of your whines as he can, “Pretty - hah! - pretty maanejente.”

Ragnvaldr is big and broiling hot and you don’t know if you can stand to be apart from him after this. Dungeons be damned, damned as your souls.

His cock spears each sweet spot nestled inside you: thick and full. And messy. So wet you can feel your juices webbing between where his hips meet your thighs on every pull-back.

The arm not stimulating your button of nerves rolls under you and up to the back of your neck. He secures you in his hold, pressure on the sides of your throat though not suffocating, so he can push even further inside you. Ragnvaldr kisses up from your collarbones to your jaw and finally the corner of your mouth before he huffs into your mewling lips. Your thighs tighten around him as the steady warmth of ecstasy comes to a boil.

Ragnvaldr’s tongue dips into your mouth, desperate to taste your own tongue. Try as he may to keep quiet in favor of your moans, the throaty, raw groans and grunts from his chest never cease. The sounds make you wail louder into his gaping maw as your cunt cinches around Ragnvaldr.

When he was a boy, he used to dream of being lifted by swirly branches until he could scrape the moon with his fingertips. He imagines the feeling of you cumming with him is the same, inseparable euphorias digging up from his gut and swallowing the rest of his body whole. Your teeth latched into his neck, and he is unwilling to be released.

In darkness, he finds the moon. And for now, he doesn’t need to consider how foolish it is to trap a celestial body beneath him when he’s here for Le’Garde’s bastard head. In darkness, he’s illuminated by the powdery shine he senselessly clings to.

In the same way, you bathe in a sun that feels otherwise unattainable. Large and unburdened, Ragnvaldr warms your chills with ease under a sun less desirable than his company. A muggy, clouded sun -- wholly unappealing compared to the man above you.

This affection will eat you alive down here.

You might let it.

[dadsbongos]

I NEED MORE RAGNVALDR SMUT THIS MAN IS MAKING ME GO CUCKOO

you n me both you n me both you n me both you n me both like!!

warnings - randomly lost the spark for this at the end and you can… tell lol, not proofread, fem body, whiny pathetic big man with big tits >>>>>, unprotected piv but liek cmon… what is the protection in that era youre lucky rag’s washed

845 words

~~~

“You’re very close.”

“You’re more comfortable than the bed.”

Ragnvaldr snorts a laugh, eyes fluttering shut as he grins, hands winding tighter around your waist and squeezing the soft fat, “You’re obsessed with flattering me, elskede.”

“You’re worth the flattery,” you lift your chin and settle it between his collar bones to stare up at the man.

Auburn strands of hair burn like gold in the pouring sunlight, soft sage eyes gooey as they return your gaze. Morning birds sing outside the gaping window, fresh air chilling through the bedroom. Last night, you’d fallen asleep side-by-side only for the man to pull you atop his chest in the dark. Or maybe he did it as the sun first rose, staring at your lax face through bleary eyes; determined not to wake you. 

Wringing both arms under Ragnvaldr’s head, you pull your face closer to his and earnestly giggle at how his cheeks go ruby red. 

“Hm, blushing is a good look for you,” you dance the blade of your nails across his sharp cheekbones, feeling the warmth from his face lick over your fingertips, “So bashful.”

“Bashful,” he scoffs at the mere notion, “I’m the strongest warrior in Oldegaard, I am not bashful.”

“No?”

“No.”

“So, then, if I do this…” you sit up slowly, making a show of petting your palms down his chest and curving your back to push out your chest, perhaps -- just by mere coincidence -- grinding your pelvis into his, “You’ll feel nothing?”

“Nothing,” the tremble in his muscles says otherwise. So does the upward, smitten twitch of his lips. His hands tighten around your waist.

Ragnvaldr is as much a lovestruck fool as he is a warrior, he’s big and simple and so, so tender in your hands. 

“Do you lie to me?” you pout, and though he knows it’s fake Ragnvaldr is tempted to smear it off your face.

He beams up at you, a chuckle rumbling low in his throat, “Of course, I’m lying. Have you seen yourself?”

You shrug coyly and he laughs again. 

“Beautiful,” Ragnvaldr stretches his neck to press his lips to your neck, “So very beautiful.” 

“Now who’s full of flattery?” you tease as hands larger and bolder than your own peel off the gown you’d slept in; Ragnvaldr lifts his hips while you fumble off his trousers.

Warmth lathes up your spine, washing over your skin in time with the softness of Ragnvaldr’s palms. He pulls and squeezes the fat of your hips in appreciation as your slick envelopes his cock. Tossing his head back in a throaty whine, Ragnvaldr bucks his hips up -- settling both feet on the creaky straw and pelts to better thrust into you. Slow and thorough, he curls both arms around your waist and binds you both chest to chest; earnestly moaning at the squish of your bare breasts against him. Leaning his head against yours, Ragnvaldr lovingly molds his lips against your forehead.

“I love you,” he proclaims, “Love,” he whines, high and pitchy and snapping into the back of his throat, “My love, my good love, sweet girl…” he shudders under your hands, pace quickening, “Please, sweet girl, kiss me.”

You should’ve known -- if you weren’t preoccupied with whimpering and wailing his name, you’d probably giggle. Ragnvaldr loves to kiss during sex, no matter how contradictory his wrapping and hugging says otherwise. You have to wiggle up from his sweaty arms to worm your face by his, kissing along his jaw just to tease your lips against the corner of his mouth.

“Please,” the big man huffs pathetically, arms cinching tighter around your body and hips rocking the thin mat below you, “Don’t be cruel to me.”

“Rag’,” you croon, finally giving him the pleasure of your lips locked to his, now mumbling against him, “My precious man, big, big man. You’re so good to me.”

His face flames beneath yours, only growing hotter the longer you speak, “Uh-huh?”

“Yes, yes,” you gasp, his cock driving harder into the spongy spot that makes you weep, “Fuck me harder, Rag’! Rougher, my love, don’t be gentle…”

“Uh-huh…” he nods weakly, and continues nodding against you -- skulls thumping dully in time with his fucking, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh…”

Fire rips up the seams of your tangled limbs, scorching up the loose ends of the building knots in both of your guts. Ragnvaldr tears his face back from yours, groaning and crying mixes of your name and gibberish. Gibberish until he finally crackles out,

“Can I- !" he's broken by a shiver and moan, "Can I cum inside, elskede?”

He wriggles one arm off you and in between your bodies to flick wetly around your clit. You burrow your face into the bend of his shoulder, biting the meat of his neck to muffle your swelling moans. You snag your nails into his broad chest, his soft hair tangling under your fingers, spurring you for an eager reply.

“Yes, yes, yes!” you chant dumbly, decisively numb to everything except Ragnvaldr and the ecstasy he brings.

BOOM bomb explodes you DIE!!!

[iguessigotta]

Requests are open!

I'm in the mood to write (probably headcanons rn) so send em in!

[iguessigotta]

*shakes bag of kibble* COME GET Y'ALL'S FOOD Cahara x gn!reader warnings: injury mention other than that it's just some bittersweet fluff 💜

“S-sorry, I’m just…” you said softly, voice shaking as you let the sentence hang unfinished in the air.

Scared, Cahara knew. He understood why – these dungeons would be terrifying enough empty – too many sleepless nights (days? It was hard to tell now) spent running from hulking guards and things that looked human but refused to die even after their heads were cut off. It would wear anyone out.

You’d held out this entire time, moving ever forward using nothing but pure willpower to continue. It reminded him of the flowers he’d seen back home, growing through stone paths and buildings. A slow but unstoppable force from each flower, each leaf, adding to the pressure that would eventually crack those stones in half. You were strong – powerful – in your own quiet way, Cahara knew that. Admired it. Unfortunately….even as tough as you were, you weren’t built to endure this place. No one was.

“I know,” he said with a sad smile, extending his arm to you, “C’mere.”

Cahara barely had time to blink before you’d launched yourself into his lap, trembling arms wrapped around him as tight as they could go. He froze for a moment; startled by how quickly you’d moved (he sometimes forgot you could be so fast) his arms finally coming up to pull you in closer.

He hummed softly to you a while, a song from when he was young, lightly rocking the both of you as you tried to relax in what he hoped was a safe room. The two of you had gotten separated from Ragnvaldr and Enki one, no, two a few days ago and had been running since. You were visibly exhausted and Cahara worried you wouldn’t be able to run much longer.

With any luck, one of them would spot one of the markings Cahara had left around the dungeons, coded messages meant to guide them to one hiding place or another. Hopefully they’d find the right one. He huffed a quiet laugh into your hair as he pictured Enki angrily decoding each message they find, spurring Ragnvaldr onward so he could scold the two of you for getting so lost. That was one angry rant he’d be happy to listen to, he decided, as long as it meant you were all back together.

Cahara hugged you a little tighter, relieved that you seemed to be getting some rest. He tried - and failed - to stop his wince as he adjusted the bandages covering the mangled, bloody stump of his right wrist, one simple phrase repeating in his head.

“I’m scared too”

[iguessigotta]

awww, thank you @lolmiau0101 ! (is my inbox still being weird? why does that thing hate me...) i agree, the fanbase needs more writers!! come on, people! there's SO MUCH to work with - angst! smut! dark horrors beyond our comprehension, driving us all mad as some half-forgotten god slowly digests us!!!!!!! Cahara x GN reader, no warnings

i'm a firm believer in pansexual & panromantic Cahara, so I don't see gender really factoring into how he feels about a person

his love languages are definitely acts of service and physical touch - and he actually loves clingy people so please glue yourself to his side 24/7 he will revel in it

the dungeons are a difficult and dangerous place to be, so he by no means expects you to be at your best

i think Cahara would actually prefer a partner who's more often in need of some kind of help - probably someone easily frightened or more timid

someone onto whom he could focus his own fear and concern and desperate need to protect (which he also does w/ the girl - he'd die for her - and you - so fast)

every time you shy away from a sudden noise, discreetly tucking your body behind his shoulder, he feels like his heart might burst

you could just as easily hide yourself behind Ragnvaldr, in fact that might be the better of the two options, but you chose him to protect you

you trust him

that's what really does him in

he'd also love someone he could easily fluster - Cahara's a massive and shameless flirt; nothing delights him more than getting a reaction out of someone

if he can get your cheeks to go pink or cause you to bashfully hide your face...all with one well-timed smirk or wink...

it makes him wonder what would happen if he snuck up behind you, crept in close to whisper in your ear....

how would you react?

would you trip over your words, stuttering through your reply?

would you be speechless?

how much could he get away with?

a lighthearted flirtatious comment, sure

a hand at your hip or small of your back while avoiding an unfortunate encounter with one of the many creatures roaming the dungeons, obviously

but how long would his eyes or hands get to linger, how direct could he be about hist flirting before you noticed, eyes widening as your face heats up...

would you lose yourself for a moment, body unconsciously leaning into him, heavy and warm against his own...?

he's lost himself in thought over it quite a bit

often enough that you notice - and if you make a teasing comment about his glazed over eyes and flushed cheeks?

he's unable to respond as his throat dries suddenly. he's sure his heart skips a beat

you might be the death of him-