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toms-cherry-trees · 9 months ago

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Cracked || Jacaerys Velaryon x Twin!Wife! Reader

Summary: No one ever said duty would hurt like this

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: Twincest targcest (Velaryoncest?), angst, spoilers if you haven't watched S2E2, for anti hating purposes is not explicitly stated but all characters are above 18.

Author's note: Won't you look at me, 7 months since my last HOTD fic! That scene with Jace tearing up definitely did something to me. My very first time writing for Jace, hopefully won't be the last!

Also a massive massive thank you and all my devotion to @moris-auri for beta reading this!

No one welcomes him when he lands in the Dragonmont.

The flapping of Vermax's leathery wings is amplified, booming throughout the massive cavern, swirls of steam rising from the cracks on the dark stone. The only ones to witness his arrival are the dragon keepers, but even they are distracted, their focus on the exhausted dragon and not his equally drained rider. When they stride past him, they don’t acknowledge him at all, almost as if he doesn’t exist. Jace wonders if he is a ghost, because only in death could someone feel the agony that seeps from his bones and still be standing.

He feels like a foreigner in this place.

Even though he has lived on Dragonstone half his life, he feels like a foreigner. The fortress is not theirs. He doubts it never truly has been. They are just keepers of these ancient walls and the history they carry within. Dragonstone is a relic that will stand on that island for a thousand years to come, as welcoming as a gush of Northern wind on bare skin. The only warmth comes from its very core, from those who habit it and who've made the great fortress a home.

But the home he left weeks prior is not the one he now returns to. The warmth has been snuffed and the hearth has been shattered.

He walks with his head held high and his back straight, gaze always ahead and chin lifted in a gesture of near arrogance. He walks like an heir, because he is. He is now his mother’s heir and he must play his part, even if all he wants to do is lay his head on her lap and weep like a boy of ten.

A moon ago he was just Jacaerys Velaryon. He was a son, a firstborn son, but with no more responsibility than studying and learning, mastering skills that would serve him purpose in 30 or 40 years. His greatest concerns were training Vermax properly, what desserts would be served after supper, and how to avoid falling into another of his siblings’ silly pranks. He had been betrothed long ago, but marriage itself was something distant, something that could wait out a few more years.

He was a brother of five with another sibling on the way; a sister. While most in the castle pined for a son, another boy, he secretly supported his mother’s longing for a little girl.

And now he is Jacaerys, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to his mother’s throne and crown. He is more Targaryen than Velaryon now. He is an envoy, a messenger, a warrior if needed be. He is a strategist and a politician. He is an asset and a threat; someone who has forged great alliances, but also has found strong enemies, their weapons aimed directly at the target behind his head, target painted there by his grandsire many a year before his birth. A wedding , hastily arranged, to strengthen their cause and their line of inheritance.

He is a brother to just four now, and the crib has been left empty.

Cregan Stark had been the one to break the news to him. Standing on a cramped lookout on the edge of the world, nothing but whiteness as far as the eye reached, Lord Stark had said that the Wall did more than keep savages and ice at bay. It held back death.

But death came nonetheless.

Jacaerys had managed to maintain his stance as a man and a Prince, receiving the news with unyielding stoicism, even when his knees felt weak and his body chilled, like ice had spread down his spine. But this ice was nothing like the one surrounding him, there on the edge of the North. This one burned, burned like dragonfire while stabbing him with a thousand knives, leaving him to bleed out while not allowing him to die. It stole the air from his lungs and the blood from his veins, and filled him with snow. His lungs couldn’t breathe, his heart couldn’t beat yet somehow he didn’t drop dead right there where he stood.

He recalls little of what occurred after, nothing more than brief, precise memories. Receiving Cregan’s condolences, and feeling the firm squeeze of the older man’s hand on his shoulder. Northerners parting silently to make way for him in the courtyard, where a restless Vermax awaited, his screeches rattling the windows of the nearby towers. Someone handing him a parcel, hastily wrapped, containing a sleek wolf pelt as a present for their Queen. The thunderstorm he traversed in the Riverlands, and the toll it took on Vermax to fly through it.

The painful tightening on his throat as he wondered if he had encountered a similar one, not far from home.

Servants and courtiers make way for him, as he approaches his mother’s chambers. They bow and curtsy, and offer words of courtesy, lamenting the loss of the young Prince. Some stare out of the corner of their eye as he passes, waiting to see if the new Prince of Dragonstone will crumble like sand before their very eyes. But he never betrays himself; not a tear brimming in his eyes, not a wobble of his lips. The occasional flaring of his nostrils is the single telltale of the sorrow that simmers just beneath his skin.

He hesitates briefly, pausing at the end of the vast hallway where the royal apartments are. Up the winding staircase, past the single set of double doors to the left, his mother awaits. No, not his mother, the Queen. She stopped being his mother the day the crown was placed atop her head, and the court of Dragonstone bent the knee before her. Grief and loss shaped her, morphing her into the leader and ruler she had been born to be. Jace can only admire her, and hope that he will be able to embrace his new role as effortlessly as she has done hers.

The double doors are pushed open by Ser Erryk. The Queen sits alone, gaze downcast and thoughts troubled, that much Jace can tell by the nervous fidgeting of her hands, twisting her rings almost compulsively. When her eyes rise to meet his, Jacerys sees in them a mirror of himself, the same exhaustion, the effort to push back and bury the wrenching misery, the bleeding wound left behind by their loss.

They are alone, just the two of them in that silent alcove. Jace could break down, weep like he hasn’t done in years and lay his head across her lap; let her slender, motherly fingers card through his hair as she assures him that all will be well in the end. But he can’t, he can’t because she’s more Queen than mother now and she’s grieving too, grieving deeper than he is and if she can keep it together then so can he, because he is her heir and he has to make her proud and be a man worthy of respect.

The Prince doesn’t cry; the heir doesn’t cry.

A man remains immovable and imperturbable.

He straightens his back, head held high and hands laced before him as he recounts his triumphs, the Houses he convinced to pledge for them and what each one has offered and asked them in return. This moment should have been his shining glory, with himself striding through the castle with pride and confidence, ready to announce to the council how he had secured the allegiance of the Vale and the North for their cause. He would bask in his wife’s admiration, drink the praises from her lips and show her he was ready to one day be a great King, with a great Queen by his side.

Instead it is just them two, hidden behind doors, picking up the pieces falling from their carefully built masks before they completely fall apart. He brings good news, great news, but they matter little and now taste like ash in his mouth, burning and bitter. His victories mean nothing to him because his little brother is dead, gone 60 years before his time, and they don’t even have a body to burn and Jacaerys feels it should have been him, because he is the eldest and he should have protected him better. He should have faced their rageful uncle and died instead, but he didn’t and now he stands there, moving and doing because if he stays still the grief will swallow him whole and bury him in a pit of sand.

And then his voice breaks, the facade cracks and they both stop pretending, because pretending hurts, like gripping a white hot rod with both hands and refusing to let go even if it’s hurting you.

Her embrace is warm; her arms feel like home. With his head tucked under her chin, his cheek pressed against her chest, he feels young again. He feels the sobs racking her body, the tears dampening her face and his hair, her fingers digging on the fabric of his cloak. They sway slightly, rocking from side to side like when he was a babe of just a few days old, fussy and restless, keeping the whole holdfast awake at night because he refused to settle anywhere but on his mother’s arms.

But now Jace suspects the motion is meant for her more than for him, to transport her to days past when she held her babes in her arms and they were safe under her wing and no one could harm them because she would sooner tear the world to pieces. Discreetly the places shift, now it's her forehead against his shoulder and his arms holding her steady. Jace feels the tears stinging his eyes and the lump blocking his throat, but he cannot break down because his mother is broken and someone must stand strong and whole and it has to be him.

Soon, too soon, his mother has dismissed him, sending him to his chambers to bathe and rest because they will have the funeral at sunset and they must not show weakness before the court. The cracks must be patched and hidden, no matter how deep they run. Not a single piece can fall out of place.

He drags his feet now; the weight on top of him has grown heavy. His posture slackens, his shoulders slump, the pretence is harder to hold. Sunset feels like a death sentence, because a funeral makes it real. It makes it true. Burning what they have because there is not even a body left behind to burn. That way he can no longer pretend that is not happening, that is all just a tale. And then, he will crack. No willpower will keep him whole because his brother, his little brother is dead and he has to face a future where Lucerys will not be a part of it.

He pushes his chamber door open with one shoulder, his mind blank of any thought; the encounter with his mother affected him deeper than he had anticipated, because even she is cracking and now is just him holding it together because he has to.

And then he sees her.

His wife sits before the hearth, so ethereal with the glow of the fire illuminating her face. Her head turns as soon as the door opens, and he immediately notices the red around her swollen eyes. At first he thinks she’s mourning, but she’s had her time to mourn and Jace knows she’s crying for him, crying because she feels the agony straining to break through his flesh. Just like they have felt each other’s every emotion for as long as they have lived, have anticipated each other’s words and read their thoughts. Connected by a bond that runs deeper than marriage, because they are of the same blood, come into the world together.

The last time he saw her before his departure, they had an ugly fight. Jacaerys had convinced their mother to keep her at Dragonstone rather than allow her to fly as an envoy, claiming they could not leave the fortress unguarded and with the larger dragons going in and out on their missions, they had to pile up their remaining strength. The Queen had agreed, and her word was final.

She could not argue with Her Grace, but she certainly made Jacaerys know how she felt about what she perceived as a betrayal and lack of trust in herself and her abilities. Jace pleaded with her to see reason, to see things from his perspective. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in her, he would never dare to doubt her strength. But he didn’t trust the men she would encounter on her journey, nor did he want her to risk taking a long flight on her dragon and run into danger. She, always the hot headed one, had called him every name under the sun and refused to see him off, choosing instead to sulk in her chamber. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, to leave on bad terms with her, but he trusted they would talk it out upon his arrival. That all would be well and their problems would be solved.

He stands silently before her, and for the first time he feels small. So small and diminished, unwilling to look her in the eyes. His gaze is fixed on the floor because the tears are winning the battle and if they do he will crack open like a dragon egg, but no great beast will emerge, only his insecurities and his failures.

His lower lip wobbles, and he bites it so hard he leaves the imprint of his teeth. His nails dig deep in his palms in his attempt to steady their accusatory trembling. He breathes in and out, slow and steady, his eyes squeezed shut as he feels himself losing control. He cannot allow himself to lose it, not in front of her of all people, not when he is supposed to be her pride, not her embarrassment.

He hears the sharp drag of the chair as she stands, the thud of the heavy tome she had been reading being thrown rather carelessly over a table. Her steps are slow and calculated as she moves across the stone, approaching him cautiously like he is some wild beast ready to lash out. Like he is some fragile thing, so fragile that a gush of wind could break him apart.

Her hands are soft and warm as they cradle his face, gently coaxing him to look up, to meet her eyes. But he can’t, he fears he will see disappointment in them, he will see accusation, he will see her blame him for Luke’s death, for forcing her to remain back when it was their little brother who needed his protection the most.

For failing the family.

He succumbs in the end, brown eyes gingerly rising to meet her own, bracing himself for the worst. But he sees nothing of what he expected. He sees no anger, no resentment, no pity. Just worry and tenderness, and a desolation that matches his own.

The first tears he has been holding back since Winterfell finally escape the barrier of his willpower and roll down his cheeks. He attempts to blink them away but they cannot be stopped, nor does he have the strength to stop them no more. His wife brushes some away with her thumbs, and smoothes back his hair in a tender gesture

“Jace.”

That little world, the call of his own name coming from her lips is all that it needs for the dam inside him to burst. The violent sobs rack his body, tears blurring his vision and he chokes on them, while also feeling like he’s breathing for the first time since that raven arrived at the Wall. He tries to hide his face but she won’t let him, and tears shine in her eyes too and that only makes the crying worse, because his wife is suffering and he cannot console her because he’s also suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His legs weaken and his stance falters. The same apology falls from his mouth, the small words tumbling over each other and getting lost in the incessant weeping. His knees falter and he drops down; his forehead rests against her body and his hands are on her hips, fearing he will lose her if he lets go. He sobs onto her dress, not caring anymore about being the perfect Prince and heir, about being the man everyone will respect and be proud of.

His wife drops to her knees too and holds him close, allowing his head to lay against her shoulder. The scent of her body fills his nostrils, aroma of camellias and toasted sugar. It smells of happy memories and easier days, and it evokes a sense of safety in him, of tenderness, of the happiest days of his short life. His cry doesn’t stop, but it is not only for Lucerys now. It is for his mother, for his younger brothers, for himself and for all the losses to come. He cries for his twin, his wife, for now the fear of harm coming her way has increased tenfold, and the mere idea of her being cruelly ripped from his side tears a gash on his heart.

He cries until he’s sure there are no tears left to cry. Until the weight has been lifted from his chest and he is sure he can breathe again. They remain there for what feels like mere seconds and a lifetime at the same time, locked in each other’s embrace. Her fingers card through his hair and her lips press tender kisses to his temple; his arms wrapped around her, hands pressed against her back to keep her close, as close as he can to his own heart. He would gladly stay there forever, spend the rest of his days encased in her warmth and basking in her love. But the moment is broken all too soon when a servant knocks on the door to let them know that courtiers are already gathering in the outskirts of the castle for the funeral.

Jace lets himself be guided by the hand like an obedient child to sit before her vanity. She moves around him silently; unneeded words would only break the feeble spell of calmness surrounding them.

She takes care of everything for him. Wipes his face clean with a damp cloth, presses a cool spoon to his eyes so they will not appear swollen and bloodshot. He changes into a fresh tunic, and allows her to comb his hair and powder his face to disguise the redness of his cheeks and nose.

They stand together before the ornate mirror, both of them dressed in matching red and black. She helps him pin the cloak onto his tunic, fastening it to his right shoulder with a silver dragon brooch. Jace holds her gaze in their reflection, hoping to convey with gestures the emotions words fail to do. She understands; she always does.

He is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek, and while it does not manage to coax a smile out of him, it fills his veins with a pleasant tickling warmth, the same he felt after their first kiss and the one he hopes to feel until his last breath.

Her fingers run up his arms gently, tracing the embroiders and trimmings of the doublet. They come to rest on his shoulders and gently push them back, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest. The right index continues the ascent, tracing the curve of the neck and the still sharpening line of the jawline before settling under his chin, pushing upwards ever so slightly to lift his head. Urging him to hold himself with pride. To unapologetically show the world that he is cracked, but not broken.

She comes to stand before him at last, smoothing down nonexistent creases from his clothes until nothing but pure perfection remains. They hold each others’ gaze for a few moments, before she reaches up to steal from him a gentle kiss.

“All ready, My Prince.”

This time, he smiles.

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jace velaryon x reader #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jace targaryen x reader #jace velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x twin #jace velaryon x twin #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #prince jacaerys velaryon #prince jacaerys #prince jacaerys targaryen #marsie writes

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eelliotss · 2 months ago

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— A Curse Between Us, part 1

Bound by a curse and centuries of longing, he scours the universe to reclaim the woman who once shared his soul, only to find her fractured by forgotten memories and a life that no longer includes him. As he fights to reignite their bond, you emerge—a black box of secrets and power capable of shattering the fragile balance of his kingdom and plan, a new variable that alters the balance of his life.

“I was supposed to be the last of us,” he breathed.

Will she always be his fate, or will your introduction into the picture tip in balance of his destiny?

**edited**

⚠️ : Spoilers to Sylus’ myth. PS. reader is not MC, and in this story, Sylus is still a dragon!

masterlist

The story of Sylus and MC, Milena Cross, was a tapestry woven from threads of love, survival, and shared memories. Their connection had been fierce and all-consuming, a bond forged in the crucible of struggle and sealed by a curse. That curse—an ancient, desperate act she had cast upon him before his life was extinguished by the injuries he had sustained trying to free her from the greed and cruelty of men—ensured their fates were irrevocably intertwined.

When Sylus opened his eyes again, flashes of their love, fragments of shared laughter and pain, and the echoes of her voice came flooding back like shards of light piercing a darkened room. Half of his soul still resided with her, tethering him to her existence. With this realization came an unyielding obsession: he would find her, no matter the cost.

He scoured the universe in a ceaseless hunt, toppling regimes, invading planets, and ripping through galaxies like a force of nature. Prisons could not hold him; armies could not stop him. His path was littered with destruction, each step bringing him closer to her. Finally, his journey led him to Earth—to the underbelly of human civilization, the N109 Zone. Here, amidst the corruption and chaos, he found her. His other half.

To ensure her safety, Sylus claimed the N109 Zone as his domain, establishing himself as its unrivaled ruler. If he was the danger, none could threaten her. From the shadows, he watched her every movement, biding his time, crafting the perfect moment to reintroduce himself. He envisioned a reunion as fiery and intense as the bond they once shared.

But before Sylus could act, she came to him. Yet, the moment he looked into her eyes, his heart fractured. She didn’t remember him. The love, the curse, the fragments of his soul that tied them together—she had forgotten it all. Worse, she despised him, her hatred a searing wound deeper than the sword that had once pierced his flesh.

He tried to reignite her memories, to remind her of who they were, but every effort only pushed her further away. The realization that she no longer knew him—no longer loved him—was a torment he couldn’t escape. And so, he resigned himself to wait, as he always had, enduring the agony of her absence even while she was near.

During her presence in the N109 Zone, she struck a deal with him: his assistance in gaining entry to an exclusive auction in exchange for something she had that he wanted: to resonate with him. Sylus agreed. After all, he would stop at no means to bring the world to his woman’s feet if that is what she wanted.

At the auction, he left her to attend to his business as soon as they entered the auction house. “Have fun,” he said with a smirk, handing her his card. “I bet you know how to be a good bait.” While she navigated the opulent chaos of the auction, Sylus was escorted to a private room by the staff. As he trailed, a nagging feeling of unease prickled at his senses, a faint presence trailing him like a shadow. When the door opened, he found himself in a room overflowing with treasures—jewels, gold, protocores, weapons. The room was occupied by a few other men, with staffs accompanying the VIP clients and striking exclusive deals. His eyes swept across the hoard, but his gaze snagged on a single figure standing amidst the wealth.

You were studying a pendant, your fingers brushing its surface as if trying to decode its secrets. Your black dress clung to your figure, flaring out elegantly at your feet. Silver and gemstones adorned you, shimmering like frost under the dim light, but it was you who outshone everything in the room.

Sylus felt a flicker of irritation. Your presence was unwelcome, but you weren’t his concern—at least, not until he recognized your aura. Dismissing you, he turned his attention to his target. “Hello, Thomas,” he greeted smoothly, his voice a low purr. “I think you know what I’m here for.”

Despite Thomas’ resistance, Sylus was able to handle his business quickly. With his objective achieved, Sylus was ready to leave, but the stranger caught his attention once more. Something about her presence unsettled him. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized her.

Then he saw them—your eyes. Midnight, ancient, brimming with power.

A chill ran through him, a primal instinct gripping his core. His sharp eyes narrowed, scanning you not just with his gaze but with something deeper—an ancient sense that stirred within him. There was something about your aura, a pressure that pressed against his chest, not suffocating but undeniable. It was the kind of power that couldn’t be disguised or dulled, no matter how much silver and silk adorned you.

“You’re…” His voice faltered, the single word caught between disbelief and awe as he took a step closer. It was then that he saw it, unmistakable now—a flicker of fire dancing in your midnight eyes, a glint of something ancient and untamed that no mortal could ever possess. The air around you seemed to ripple, almost as if the space itself was bending to your presence.

The realization hit him like a thunderclap. You weren’t just powerful—you were like him.

A dragon.

His breath caught. It was impossible. Dragons were supposed to be gone, their kind reduced to myth, memory, and him. And yet, standing before him was undeniable proof that he was not the last.

The eye contact brought as much of a shock to you as it did him. Wide eyes, hitched breath— it felt like the world stopped for a moment.

“I was supposed to be the last of us,” he breathed, the words heavy with a mix of wonder and dread.

The room felt smaller now, charged with an energy both of you have not felt in centuries. The air was pressing down on your lungs as adrenaline coursed through your body.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” you whispered. A frown quickly crawled up your face as you hurriedly turned away, dashing into the crowd. Before Sylus could react, a voice rang in his ear: “Sylus, can I use your card?” That small distraction was enough for him to lose you. Somewhat annoyed, he answered, “Don’t bother me with such trivial matters.”

In that moment, the Onichynus leader knew the balance of power had shifted.

This was no mere encounter. It was a collision of forces that would change everything.

The revelation was a shock to his core. Dragons were supposed to be extinct, or so he had believed. Yet here you were, standing in front of him, radiating strength. That strength set him on edge, and he dropped into a defensive stance, his instincts roaring to life.

You, once slipped away from his gaze, quickly returned to play your role. Your presence at the auction was merely business—on behalf of your father, the second-most powerful ruler of the N109 Zone. Few had ever seen you, and fewer still knew the extent of your abilities. But Sylus was no fool, and he could feel the weight of your power like a storm brewing on the horizon.

The room crackled with tension as the two dragons faced each other, their fates unknowingly beginning to intertwine.

Note: I gave MC a name because it just felt so weird simply calling a character mc. I want to make this a series, and hope you enjoy the plot as much as I do!

#sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lnds #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you

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andy-15-07 · 1 year ago

Note

Are your requests open??

I would love to see you where the reader/OFC is a concubine of Paul Atreides. She doesn’t get much attention from him but when she goes in to labor there is a complication and she becomes scared. Paul as the Emperor shows up to help her through the labor and starts developing a positive relationship with her and his child postpartum.

Thank you!! Please keep writing things you have passion for!! ❤️

Bonds Beyond Blood

masterlist ! pairing: Paul Atreides x reader

Dune Masterlist

Y/n lay on the ornate bed, her hand clutching the bedsheets tightly as pain wracked through her body. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her breathing shallow and labored. The midwives moved around her with practiced efficiency, but their words seemed distant, muffled by the intensity of her fear.

Paul Atreides, the Emperor, stood by the doorway, his expression a mask of concern. He had never been one to show much interest in Y/n, his concubine, beyond the duties of his station. But now, as he watched her struggle, something stirred within him.

"Is she going to be alright?" Paul asked the head midwife, his voice betraying a hint of anxiety.

The midwife glanced at him briefly before returning her attention to Y/n. "We are doing everything we can, Your Majesty. But there are complications. The baby's position is not ideal, and Y/n is exhausted."

Paul nodded, his jaw clenched. He couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness that washed over him. This was one situation he couldn't control with his political power or military might.

Y/n's cries filled the room, echoing off the walls of the chamber. Paul felt a pang of guilt deep within him. He had neglected her, taken her presence for granted. But now, seeing her in such agony, he couldn't ignore the bond they shared, however distant it had been.

Without a word, Paul crossed the room and took Y/n's hand in his own. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear and pain.

"Paul..." she gasped, her voice barely a whisper.

"I'm here, Y/n," Paul said softly, his tone soothing. "I won't leave your side."

Y/n squeezed his hand tightly, drawing strength from his presence. Despite their past indifference, she found solace in his touch, in the warmth of his hand against hers.

Minutes stretched into hours as Y/n endured the agonizing pain of labor. Paul remained by her side, offering words of encouragement and support. With each contraction, he whispered words of reassurance, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of her fear.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sound of a baby's cry filled the room. Tears of relief streamed down Y/n's cheeks as she held her newborn child in her arms.

Paul watched, his heart swelling with emotion, as Y/n cradled their child against her chest. In that moment, he felt a connection unlike any he had ever known before. It wasn't just the bond of blood that tied him to this child, but something deeper, something more profound.

"I never knew..." Paul began, his voice faltering as he struggled to find the right words.

Y/n looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears. "Neither did I," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft cries of their child.

In the days that followed, Paul remained by Y/n's side, helping her adjust to motherhood and caring for their newborn child. With each passing day, their bond grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity and nurtured by the love they shared for their child.

As they sat together in the quiet moments of the night, watching over their sleeping infant, Paul found himself opening up to Y/n in a way he never thought possible. He shared his fears, his hopes, his dreams for the future, laying bare his soul before her.

And in turn, Y/n shared her own hopes and dreams, her fears and insecurities, trusting Paul with her most intimate thoughts and feelings.

In the weeks and months that followed, Paul and Y/n's relationship blossomed into something beautiful and profound. They may have started as mere strangers, bound together by duty and circumstance, but now they were so much more than that.

They were partners, allies, confidants. And as they watched their child grow and thrive, they knew that no matter what the future held, they would face it together, united in love and devotion.

For in the end, it wasn't power or prestige that defined them, but the simple yet profound bond of family. And in that bond, they found the true meaning of happiness and fulfillment.

#paul atreides imagines #paul atreides x reader #paul atreides x female reader #paul atreides x you #paul atreides #paul atreides imagine #dune x you #dune x reader #dune imagines #dune imagine #dune part 2 #dune fanfiction #timothee chalamet imagine #timothee chalamet imagines #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet x you #timothee chalamet x reader

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idkyetxoxo · 18 days ago

Text

Aemond Targaryen - Good to You

Summary - Torn between duty and desire, she finds herself trapped. Aemond's dark, desperate longing pushes her to the edge, forcing a choice between loyalty and an intoxicating, dangerous love. In a world of power and betrayal, what will she sacrifice for freedom?

Pairing - Aemond Targaryen x reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2524

Masterlist for Aemond • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Loving someone with all the rawness of your heart is no simple thing. It is a surrender, a willingness to lose yourself in another, especially when that person belongs, in every sense, to another.

To be bound by fate to someone who is meant for another is an agony few truly understand.

Aemond watched from the shadows, hidden behind the gilded curtains of the grand hall, as Aegon paraded me like a trophy, dragging me from table to table at the feast marking the confirmation of our betrothal.

His hand never strayed too far from mine, as if to remind the world—and perhaps me—that I belonged to him now.

This union, forged by the will of our fathers, was a match they had dreamed of, two powerful families bound together for peace, prosperity, and the hopes of a joyful, loving marriage.

Their hopes, I knew, were not my own. They were the kind of hopes set to a rhythm, like the beating of a drum that echoed the predictability of fate.

I could feel Aemond's gaze, sharp and burning, from across the hall. His eyes caught mine time and again, filled with an emotion I couldn't quite name but knew all too well.

The clenching of his jaw, the way his hands rubbed aimlessly at his crossed arms, betrayed his frustration.

Aemond, so full of quiet rage, harboured a resentment he didn't bother to hide.

I knew what he felt: jealousy, bitterness, a bitterness that seemed to consume him whole as he silently cursed the union. He had prayed—perhaps even bargained with the gods—that this match would be his, but it was never to be.

The cruellest irony, though, was that for all his bitterness, Aegon always seemed to end up with what was desired, with what was better.

It seemed to be his fate, as though the universe itself favoured him.

As I sat beside Aegon, my fingers brushed my ears, and I gasped. The earrings I had worn for years, the ones my father had given me, were missing.

"I've forgotten my earrings," I said, touching my ears in vain, my eyes widening with the realization.

Aegon barely spared a glance as he shifted in his seat. "Does it matter?" he asked, disinterest in his voice, but I smiled despite myself.

"They're my lucky earrings," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "My father gave them to me."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconcerned. "I wish to wear them on this blessed day," I added, my voice tinged with something more than a simple request, something deeper.

Aegon sighed, reluctantly releasing my hand as I stood. "A servant can fetch them," he said with a dismissive wave, but I shook my head.

"No one but me can touch them," I replied firmly, and though I could see the annoyance in his eyes, he didn't argue.

I turned and walked away before he could protest further. The further I moved from him, the more I felt the weight of the distance settle in my chest.

Aegon was everything one might expect of a prince—handsome, kind in his own way, and courteous in his gestures.

But the deeper things that mattered most, those invisible threads that bind people together in ways far stronger than the superficial, he lacked them.

He lacked care. The care I craved. The care I had always known from my father, from those who truly loved me.

But I couldn't upset my father. I loved him with a fierce, unquestionable loyalty, and I trusted him in ways I couldn't explain.

He had always been my guide, my rock, and he believed in this match.

So, I would endure it, even if it meant quieting the voice in my heart that whispered for something more.

Aegon might not understand the significance of a pair of earrings, but I would bear that indifference silently, hoping that it wouldn't extend into our future.

After all, this marriage was not meant to fulfil me—it was meant to secure the future of our families. And in that, I would find my purpose.

Even if my heart, for now, had to wait.

I walked through the long, ornate corridors, the echo of my slippers bouncing off the cold stone walls as I made my way back toward the celebration.

My fingers fumbled slightly as I adjusted the delicate earrings, securing them carefully to my ears.

The simple gesture should have brought comfort, but it only seemed to deepen the knot of unease in my chest.

I hummed softly to myself, trying to calm my racing thoughts, my hands smoothing the fabric of my gown as I tugged at the skirts, ensuring they fell just right.

The quiet hum of the hall seemed far away, swallowed by the vastness of the castle, and for a moment, I almost felt like I could escape the weight of it all. But that illusion didn't last.

A sudden figure stepped into my path, blocking my way with effortless ease.

My breath caught in my throat as I looked up to see Aemond, his tall figure filling the space, his piercing gaze fixed on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Aemond?" I asked, my voice quiet but sharp, narrowing my eyes as I studied him, trying to read the storm behind his stare.

He didn't answer right away. He didn't need to.

Instead, he closed the distance between us, step by deliberate step, until he was so close I could feel the warmth of his presence, his breath just a whisper against my skin.

I took an instinctive step back, but he followed, his body caging me in, arms coming up to brace on either side of me against the cold stone of the corridor.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath, but his nearness sent a strange tremor through me.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, my voice betraying the tension that had taken hold of me.

I could feel the slight tremble in my words, but I refused to let him see the extent of my unease.

He had always made me feel as if I were walking on a razor's edge—close enough to feel the heat of him, but sharp enough that it could cut me in ways I didn't understand.

Aemond didn't flinch. His eyes darkened, the usually unreadable depths of his gaze now alight with something else—something almost desperate.

His brow furrowed slightly, and his lips parted as if to speak, but for a long moment, he remained silent, as though weighing his words.

"I don't want you to be with him," he finally murmured, his voice low and strained, like it was taking everything in him to say the words.

His gaze dropped to my lips for a heartbeat before returning to my eyes, and I could see the conflict there—the fierce, impossible pull of something he couldn't quite control.

"I'll be good to you," he said suddenly, his tone softer but still edged with that raw, insistent force. "I'll be so good to you, I promise."

The words sent a jolt through me, more powerful than I was ready for. There was sincerity in them, but there was also an edge of desperation—a longing that neither of us could escape.

It wasn't just a promise; it was a vow, one that seemed to come from a place far deeper than mere affection.

His hand, as if on instinct, reached out, brushing the back of my arm with a tenderness that made my pulse quicken.

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come.

There was too much to say, too much to untangle, and yet in this moment, I found myself paralyzed, caught between the pull of his desire and the loyalty that bound me to another.

Aemond leaned in closer, his breath mingling with mine, and for a fleeting second, I thought I might break.

Thought I might allow myself to lean into him, to surrender to whatever this was between us. But I didn't.

Instead, I drew in a shaky breath and met his eyes—eyes that no longer hid the longing, the fire burning behind them. "You don't understand," I said, the words barely above a whisper.

"I understand enough," he replied, his voice rough with emotion. "Enough to know that I would never treat you like he will."

I could still feel his breath on my skin, still hear the soft tremor in his voice as he spoke, and it was almost too much to bear.

My heart pounded painfully in my chest, my thoughts scattered, disoriented. He was so close, so intense as if nothing else in the world existed except for the two of us.

"I can't go against my father, Aemond," I whispered, the words coming out broken, fragile.

My father's will was the foundation of everything I knew. My loyalty to him was something unshakeable, something that I had spent my entire life building.

To defy him, to tear down what he had carefully constructed, would be unthinkable. My throat tightened at the mere thought of it.

Aemond didn't flinch, didn't waver. His gaze darkened, an unfamiliar fire burning within it, and he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper.

"You don't have to, darling," he said softly, so softly that I almost couldn't believe it. "I'll just kill Aegon."

I recoiled instantly, my breath catching in my throat, my heart hammering in my chest.

"What?" I managed to choke out, wide-eyed, my voice trembling with disbelief. The shock was almost too much for me to process.

Was he serious? Could he truly be suggesting something so dark, so... final?

Aemond's face was unreadable, though the intensity of his gaze burned through me. He was still too close, his presence almost suffocating, and I could feel the heat of his body in the air between us.

He wasn't threatening me—no, that wasn't it—but there was a hunger in him, a desperate, almost feral need.

A need for something I didn't fully understand, but one thing was certain: Aemond would do anything, anything at all, to make me his.

"He cares about me," I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them, my voice laced with uncertainty. "Aegon cares about me. And I... I care about him. Kind of."

The last part of my sentence hung in the air, unsure, uncertain. I didn't know what to feel, what to think anymore.

Aegon, for all his flaws, had shown me kindness— but the way Aemond looked at me, the way his words poured out, made it hard to ignore the pull between us.

Aemond nodded, but there was no sign of surprise in his eyes.

His lips twisted slightly, unimpressed as if my words didn't matter, as if I was just another piece of this puzzle he was determined to solve.

"You're wrong," he said quietly, the words slicing through the tension between us. "Aegon doesn't care about you the way I do. He's just... a distraction. A fool's attempt at keeping you in line."

I shook my head, trying to push past the rawness of his words, but his gaze remained unwavering, focused entirely on me.

"You should get a dog, love," he said, his voice taking on a mocking lightness now, though the edge of something dark still lingered beneath the words.

"I hear they share many of the same qualities—loyal, obedient, mindlessly devoted. But they're far less trouble."

I flinched at his words, a bitter laugh rising in my throat, but Aemond's face remained impassive, his eyes cold with an emotion I couldn't place.

For a moment, he stood still, watching me with an intensity that bordered on hunger.

"Is that what you want, Aemond?" I asked, the question coming out before I could stop it. "For me to just give in? To fall into your hands?"

Aemond's expression softened, though there was a trace of something desperate behind his eyes.

"I don't want you to fall, love. I want you to choose. I want you to want me."

His voice broke slightly, a tremor that betrayed the intensity of what he was feeling. It was strange, seeing this side of him—the side that wasn't filled with bitterness, the side that wasn't trying to hide the rawness of his emotions.

I had always seen Aemond as an untouchable, calculating figure—distant, icy, unreachable. But here, now, in this moment, he was laying himself bare before me.

And it shook me.

He took another step closer, his voice low and pleading, the words so sincere, so full of need, that I almost couldn't breathe.

"I promise I'll be good to you," he said softly, his eyes pleading with mine. "I'll do anything, anything to make you see. You don't have to choose him. You don't have to choose anyone but me. Just... let me love you. Please."

For a moment, I felt a pull toward him—toward the desperation in his eyes, the sincerity in his words.

But doubt still lingered, hovering between us like a thick fog.

Could I truly give up everything I had known for something uncertain, for someone so wrapped in shadows, in obsession?

The silence stretched, both of us caught in the weight of what had been said.

He was waiting for me to say something, to give him an answer, but all I could do was stare at him, unsure of what to do next.

I could feel his presence, his need, pressing against me like a storm waiting to break. His eyes never left mine, desperate, pleading, as though every part of him was silently begging for my surrender.

I wanted to say something—anything—but my heart was caught in a storm of its own.

Aegon, my father, the future I had been promised... it all seemed so distant now, as if a different life, a different world.

But Aemond, standing before me with raw sincerity, with that dangerous, intoxicating need, made something inside me shift.

"I'm scared," I whispered, more to myself than to him, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Aemond stepped closer, his hand brushing my cheek gently, the warmth of his touch grounding me.

"You don't have to be scared, love. I'll make it right. I'll make you feel seen like you've never been before." His voice was low, like a promise, and for the first time, I believed it.

I swallowed hard, the weight of everything heavy in my chest.

But as I looked into his eyes, I saw nothing but honesty, and for all his dark edges, there was something in him that called to me—a longing I couldn't deny.

In a moment of clarity, of reckless choice, I reached out, closing the distance between us.

"I choose you," I said, the words firm, though my heart was still trembling. "I choose this."

Aemond's lips curved into a faint, triumphant smile, but it wasn't just about victory—it was about relief, about understanding.

He pulled me into him, his embrace consuming, his hands shaking as if he, too, had been waiting for this moment.

And as the world outside the corridor seemed to fade into nothingness, I realized that I was no longer afraid of what came next.

A/n - 'I'll be good to you, I'll be so good to you, I promise' and 'You should get a dog, love, I hear they share many of the same qualities' are direct quotes from Aaron Warner because he truly is the blueprint (almost had her call him Aegon just for a little laugh if ykyk xx)

Aemond tag list - @darylandbethfanforever9 @lessdepressy @veesuguru @targaryendestiel

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #team green #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #prince aemond

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cookierunoutofideas · 2 months ago

Text

The Bride (Pure Vanilla x fem!Reader) [Part 1]

Corpse Bride AU, I choose you! Also, I can't deal with cookie anatomy, so we're pretending cookies have fingers and all that jazz. Possibly OOC. No beta, we crumble like Elder Faerie Cookie. One-sided PureLily.

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“Sigh any more, my friend, and the breath of life might escape you.”

"Light of Truth?"

"Correct! I apologize for my silence and for worrying you, but regaining my consciousness after Shadow Milk's interference was a bit difficult."

"After all, he was your original holder..."

"Wrong. I am the Light of Truth, my first and only holder is you, Pure Vanilla Cookie. The Light of Knowledge is no more."

Pure Vanilla Cookie doesn't answer, his mood still gloomy as he wanders through the odd woods of Beast Yeast. He knows he should believe his soul jam, or at least give it the benefit of doubt, but after the taunts from Shadow Milk Cookie, he finds it hard to simply accept.

And isn't that his greatest sin, anyway? To run away from what he is unable of accepting. To run away and allow for doubts to eat away at his pitiful will.

"My friend, the moment you allow his words to become your reality is the moment he has won," the Light of Truth warns him softly. "If you cannot trust me-"

"That's-"

"If you cannot trust me, and I understand why that is, then I ask you to trust your beloved White Lilly Cookie."

Unable to fake his emotions to his own soul jam, which has become a very piece of himself after so many years together, Pure Vanilla doesn't try to stop the faint blush that rushes to his cheeks. He remembers, long ago, complaining about the unseemingly shade it makes his dough... and the sweetest compliment from White Lily Cookie, to this day making the visage of his blush something to be endeared by instead of ashamed.

"Ah, there it is~" Sometimes Pure Vanilla wonders if the others are also close enough to their soul jams to be teased like this, or if his is just particularly playful. "Young love~"

"Not quite that young anymore, old friend."

"Nonsense, you're but a baby!"

A soft laughter follows the quip. The moon rises over the thick trees. He knows he shouldn't wander too far from the fae cookies and his friends, not only for their safety but his own, this is Beast Yeast after all, but the silence of the barely illuminated woods calms his mind. He needs some time for himself, some time to place his thoughts in place and his feelings in the deepest corners of his being.

There is no time for them.

Plus, out of all the suffering he knows he will inevitably face in the land of beasts, a broken heart is not one he is particularly looking forwards to. He has avoided it for so long now, it can wait one more adventure, specially one with an enemy so eager to use whatever he's given to hurt Pure Vanilla and his group.

With a heavy sigh, he finds a thick root under a big tree, the perfect height for a seat, and sits down, resting his staff on his shoulder.

"Your feelings will not leave if you sigh harder."

"I know, I know. I just... I can't help it..."

"... talking about them might help, however."

"What can I ever tell you that you don't already know?"

"Isn't it better, then? To already have the certainty I will not mock you no matter what slips past your lips?"

That... is true. One thing Pure Vanilla Cookie tries hard to keep to himself is the insecurity of having his honest thoughts and feelings mocked by those who truly matter to him. He can brush off most taunts quite easily, but to have his defining trait be invalidated by someone he cherishes is the same as having a millino needles go through his dough. It is agony.

Rather ironic that Shadow Milk Cookie isn't in that category, but the connection forged by their soul jams places the jester in a very peculiar place with Pure Vanilla. He hits the other great insecurity of the healer: the fear of not being enough.

The Ancient Hero who carries The Light of Truth, everyone. A being full of doubts and fears, not quite heroic as the fairytales he once heard.

"It certainly will help with that terrible habit of yours."

"Are you that tired of my thoughts?"

"Lying to one self is the biggest lie of all."

Knowing he won't ever be capable of winning against the Light of Truth, Pure Vanilla Cookie can only laugh under his breath before starting his monologue. He allows himself to return to his times as a student, a silly baby cookie with a big dream and bigger homework piles. A simpler time where his greatest objective was to find his best friend and bask in her presence. Make heart eyes at her as she poured over multiple books stolen directly from the reserved sections of the library. Feel his heart skip beats every time she graced him with a look and a smile. Hold her hand as they giggle their way to their secret place with more stolen books under their arms. Dream of a future where they face life after the Academy together as one.

"I still carry the ring," he tells The Light of Truth, pulling said ring from one of his many hidden pockets. "As foolish and hopeless as that dream is, I can't bring myself to simply let go of it."

"To think you were so close to proposing..." if The Light of Truth had lungs, it would be sighing heavily right about now.

"Not really proposing, it's more... a promise ring. White Lily Cookie is far too free spirited to settle down and I'd hate to become her ball and chain."

"Did you add that to your proposal-I mean, the confession speech?" Pure Vanilla ignores the jab, choosing to nod only, fingers carefully caressing the ring.

It truly isn't a proposal ring. He means it when he says he'd never take away White Lily Cookie's freedom, even if that meant giving up his early childhood dreams of settling down somewhere with a flock of sheeps and a beautiful garden. Becoming the king to an entire kingdom only fueled that resolve, for he learned fast how stifling the life of a royal can be.

(And if the knowledge that White Lily Cookie now has no choice but to stay in one place to keep an eye on the Silver Tree brings hope to his heart, he guiltly shoves it away.)

"I'm not sure, I wrote and rewrote it so many times. If I'm not mistaken, it goes a bit like...

"My dear beloved, you are the one in my heart and mind, from the very moment we first locked eyes. The nights I've spent watching the moonlight as it pales in comparison to your visage were endless, and will continue to be," Pure Vanilla raises the ring to the moon. It is a thin band of silver with a delicate vanilla flower that glints golden under the light of the moon.

"With this ring, I wish to seal our fates together, though never in a way that takes your freedom. No, this is merely a promise to always find each other no matter how lost we become. To always know the other stands with us no matter the distance between us. To always say goodbye with the knowledge it shall never be the last no matter how long we stay away," feeling bold like his younger self, he theatrically lowered his body in one knee, hearing his old companion laugh at his antics in his mind.

"With this ring, I give myself to you and selfishly ask you give yourself to me, so we may forever belong with each other. Will you accept it?"

Finishing his frankly embarrassing monologue, Pure Vanilla Cookie slips the ring on one branch of the roots. At the back of his mind, he notices that the branch looks like a finger and that it comes from a thicker branch that looks like a hand, however he is far too euphoric to truly pay attention.

He misses theater class.

No hands, yet he can tell The Light of Truth claps at his performance, making him laugh in a way he hasn't done in some time.

Still on his knee, he leans forward to take the ring back.

The roots of the tree shake, probably with the wind.

He gently takes hold of the ring.

The roots snap closed around his fingers, tugging him harshly towards the ground.

"I do."

#cookie run kingdom #cookie run #cookie run x reader #cookie run x you #pure vanilla cookie #pure vanilla cookie x reader #corpse bride cookie au

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kingdom-of-sins · 7 months ago

Text

Homelander x Reader

Homelander was told that you were gone, dead, never to return to him again. He just didn't know how big of a lie it was

Homelander stepped through the ruined doors of the lab, his presence an overwhelming force in the desolate space. The facility was a tomb of memories, the walls steeped in the screams of his childhood. This was where they had forged him in fire and agony, a place of sterile white rooms, needles, and cold, unforgiving hands. And it was here, too, where he had lost the only person who had ever mattered to him.

The floors were slick with blood, the bodies of scientists and doctors strewn about like broken dolls. He had hunted them down with methodical cruelty, each one meeting a brutal end under his unrelenting fury. They deserved worse, far worse, for what they had done—not just to him, but to her.

She had been everything to him back then. The girl with eyes that reflected the same pain, the same fear. Her ability to mimic the powers of others had fascinated the scientists, turning her into a living experiment, just like him. Together, they had endured the tortures, finding strength in each other’s presence. She had been his anchor, his one source of light in that pit of darkness.

But then, one day, she was gone. They told him she was dead, and something inside him snapped. That was the day he stopped being the boy with a name and became Homelander, the unfeeling weapon Vought wanted.

Now, all these years later, he was back. The lab was eerily quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of machines still running despite the carnage. He was ready to leave this place behind, to burn it to the ground and let it be consumed by the flames of his vengeance. But then, he heard it—a heartbeat.

Homelander froze, his super hearing honing in on the faint, rhythmic sound. It was coming from deep within the facility, far below the main level, where the most secret and secure rooms lay hidden. His heart pounded in his chest as he followed the sound, a flicker of something strange and unwanted stirring in the pit of his stomach—hope.

He reached a metal door, thick and fortified, sealed with a lock designed to keep out even the most determined intruder. With a single thought, he tore the door from its hinges, the steel groaning in protest before crashing to the ground. He stepped inside, his breath catching in his throat at what he saw.

There, on a medical bed in the center of the small, sterile room, lay the girl he had thought lost forever.

She was still, her body connected to an array of medical equipment. Tubes ran from her veins to machines that hummed with a sickening familiarity, and her skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh lights. But she was alive—he could hear her heartbeat, weak but steady, echoing in the small space.

Homelander’s chest tightened, a mixture of rage and grief crashing over him like a tidal wave. They had lied to him. They had kept her alive, hidden away, draining her of whatever they thought she could give them. And he had been too blind, too consumed by his own darkness, to see the truth.

He moved to her side, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch her face. Her skin was cool beneath his fingertips, soft and fragile, and for a moment, he feared she might shatter under his touch. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek, tracing the delicate line of her jaw.

She was still as beautiful as he remembered, but there was something different now—an emptiness in her that hadn’t been there before. She looked like a ghost, a shell of the vibrant, resilient girl he had known. And it was all because of them, the people he had just slaughtered, the people who had kept her in this hell.

A tear slipped down his cheek, an unwelcome sign of the emotions he had buried for so long. He wiped it away quickly, his expression hardening. There was no time for weakness now. He had to get her out of here, had to save her, even if he didn’t know if she could be saved.

Homelander began disconnecting the tubes and wires from her body, his movements slow and careful. Each piece of equipment that fell away felt like a chain being broken, a step closer to freeing her from this nightmare. He lifted her into his arms, holding her close to his chest, her head resting against his shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve got you.”

He walked out of the lab, carrying her as if she were the most precious thing in the world, his grip firm but gentle. The night air was cold against his skin as he emerged into the open, but he barely noticed it. All he could focus on was her—the girl who had once been his only source of light in the darkness.

He flew to Vought Tower, faster than he had ever flown before, the world a blur around him. He couldn’t lose her again. He wouldn’t.

When he arrived, he stormed into the medical wing, barking orders at the staff to get the best doctors, the best equipment. The scientists scurried like frightened mice, too afraid of the wrath that radiated off him to question anything. They worked quickly, setting her up in a private room, hooking her up to machines that would monitor her vitals, but Homelander never left her side.

He watched as they worked, his eyes never leaving her face. He didn’t trust them, didn’t trust anyone with her life except himself. But he knew he couldn’t save her alone. Not this time.

As the night wore on, he sat by her bedside, his hand gently holding hers. He could feel the warmth returning to her skin, hear her heartbeat growing stronger, but she still hadn’t woken up. He prayed, silently and desperately, to whatever gods might listen, that she would open her eyes, that she would come back to him.

For hours, he stayed there, refusing to leave even when the doctors assured him she was stable. He couldn’t leave her, not again. The sight of her lying there, so still and fragile, filled him with a fear he hadn’t felt in years. The fear of losing her all over again.

As dawn broke, casting a soft light through the window, he finally allowed himself to hope. Her breathing was steady, her heartbeat strong, and though she was still unconscious, he could see the signs of life returning to her.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice filled with a determination that had carried him through countless battles. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, the first real sign of tenderness he had shown anyone in years. As he pulled back, he saw a flicker of movement in her eyes, a twitch of her fingers, and his heart leaped in his chest.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “Please.”

And for the first time since he had found her, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she would.

#homelander #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander x y/n #the boys #the boys imagine #homelander imagine #homelander one shot #homelander fanfiction #the boys one shot #the boys fanfic #the boys fic #the boys fandom

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itsabouttimex2 · 4 months ago

Note

Can we get an eclipse King's continuation does y/n wake up?

Eclipse Kings

Part Two: Barbed Dusk

(Part One: Mountain Monkeys) (Part Two: You Are Here) (Part Three: Wild Dawn) (Part Four: Sweet Little Star) (Part Five: Constellations)

(Extra One)

(You are a ragged little thing, unfit for luxury or lavishness. “Thankfully”, Macaque sees to curating your hygiene.)

They are covered in scars.

The Six-Eared Macaque; golden eyes dimmed in frustration and impatience, is now bereft of his crown. It had borne him a striking silhouette, each wicked spike on the circlet fashioned from gold.

You could not have known it yourself, and the shadowy king would never admit it to one whom he deigned a necessary pest as most, but… he had commissioned it only a week after losing his beloved Xiaotian.

With tear-stained cheeks and gouges torn into his fur from constant scraping, the simian had wobbled down from the mountain and into the nearest smithy, then threw down a glittering heap of golden coins. His only request had been; spoken brokenly, for “something that would hurt”.

The blacksmith had been hesitant at first. The request was unusual—not for the opulence offered, for he had forged again and again petty trinkets to sooth a lord’s ego. No, it was the pain. The simian’s trembling voice and sunken eyes spoke of a sorrow too vast to comprehend, but the blacksmith had seen enough grief bite down any questions. Instead, he had worked through the night, the rhythm of hammer on gold ringing out in the silence, a somber requiem for the monkey’s fresh loss.

So the blacksmith had fashioned him a twisted crown from that heap of treasure, taking what little was left as payment after beating the metal into a branching circlet that splintered out into harsh thorns, then plated it with rhodium to darken and reinforce the malleable gold underneath.

“It’ll hurt,” the man had reminded him, touching the crown only with his thickest gloves.

The look in Macaque’s eyes had told him enough- “I want it to,” spoken through his hollow eyes and gaunt frame and torn fur, but left unsaid on trembling lips.

And Macaque had taken it with his bare hands, punishing his treacherous fingers for “allowing” his son to slip through them.

He had not allowed his agony to end there.

The sharp tips bit into his scalp, drawing thin rivulets of crimson that trailed through inky fur, leaving raw furrows through its heartless embrace. He hadn’t winced or cried or paused, instead pressing it down further and further, lips curling into a grimace that might have once been a smile, his heart brittle and sharp like fractured glass.

It would hurt, but never as much as losing his son.

An unassailable grief, incapable of transmutation into vengeance or betterment.

Until you.

Until you had wandered into their stately pagoda, wandering through the lavish halls and snatching their food, leaving the trail of an all too familiar scent in your wake.

Until you had ran from them in fright as so many had years ago, twisting through woods just as jagged and thorned as the crown that Macaque had finally pried from his forehead, smashed and discarded at the empty grave they had fashioned for their found son.

You had led them back to him.

That thought alone keeps Macaque’s hands gentle as he lathers a thick sponge with fragrant soap, wetting it and rolling the squashy corpse* against your forearms.

His mate, holding his own sponge, tends to your legs with a manic smile- it hasn’t dropped even after a full night of sloppy celebration and utter destruction. Every last little memorial and shrine they had created now lay in pieces around the pagoda, only sparing what little the prince himself would have use for- the clothes and toys they had left on these altars as gifts that would have been now resided in the boy’s room-

“It’s Y/N’s room, too,” the little one had insisted, forcing them to make arrangements appropriate for both a demon toddler and a mortal… whatever age you were. Folding screens and an extra mat.. but nothing else. Not from malice, though- they simply hadn’t quite learned what else to put in “your” room.

There was no need to separate what was his from what was yours- you simply didn’t have anything at all. Every little luxury you had accumulated in that muddy rattrap was all for your brother.

The boy’s bed, piled high with plush animals and soft quilts, had been eagerly pushed closer to yours, left with “only” a few pillows and a single blanket as he excitedly prepared to sleep in warmth and safety for the first time in years.

(Only was not a word you knew. There was no “only” in the life of one who owned nothing.)

“You had enough of a nap on the way here,” Sun Wukong sighs. “So stay awake a little longer. We can’t let you go to bed filthy or injured.”

You want to protest. To scream and cry and plead for them to take their hands off of you, to let you return to that familiar; if squalid, hovel, to let you- and your brother- go back to the only home either of you had ever known.

But words die on your chapped lips, too exhausted to be parted for begging.

You just lay there in the tub, head held aloft by one of Wukong’s muscled hands, completely incapable of moving or protesting. You just… sit there, and accept the reluctant doting.

MK (“Qi Xiaotian”), the kings and all their soldiers and maids say. You don’t think there’ll ever be a moment that you’re used to that. ) sits next to the tub with worry in his little black eyes, trying his hardest to focus on the book he was gifted by his fathers- hand-drawn pictures of him decorate each page, detailing his growth from baby to toddler. Supposedly it would “stir his memory”, but the effort seemed futile- he had simply been too young to remember anything before you.

Neither of you were truly “home” in this pagoda, no matter how they tried to push you into believing that.

MK would adjust, definitely. He would come to enjoy plush toys and doting maids and loving fathers, ample food and warm water. He could grow to love silk pillowcases and wool blankets. He could grow to love warm halls and loving fathers.

He hadn’t lived like you had. No, MK had spent his time safely inside that wretched dump, playing with whatever toys you could scrounge for him, chasing little bugs and cooing at the occasional rabbit or squirrel that came in for shelter.

This was going to be harder for you.

The warmth of the water feels unfamiliar, outright alien in its softness . You are too used to icy streams that prick at your skin, the dry rasp of dirt and grime. Here, the milky water cradles you like a cloud.

Help.

You are being helped .

And you know what that means. Help comes at a cost. A leering smile from a vendor who would try and tail you through the woods. A begrudging shove of stale bread into your hands after a trade. Mumbled curses about a “pest” under the breath of a housewife giving you a chunk of too-ripe fruit.

What price will this cost?

The thought churns uneasily in your gut as Sun Wukong tilts your head upward, his golden eyes studying your face. They gleam like the sun, but there is no warmth for you.

(Not yet.)

They’re calculating, cataloging each bruise, each scrape. Every pale white line scarred deep and unremovable. The truth of agony is plain on your skin, a map of suffering written in purples, blues, and scabbed reds.

It does not miss him that his son is, in turn, totally unblemished.

Admiration without love. Gratitude without familiarity. Respect without want.

You have done him a greater favor than any other being could provide- you are owed praise and repayment, that much the vaunted kings know.

You are deliverance from grief and agony and a haunting eternity of wondering “what could I have done to save him?”.

But you are not his child.

The golden king’s hands are steady as he finishes rinsing the soap from your hair, the last traces of filth swirling down into the bathwater, which drains into a little bamboo pipe leading outside.

One of them, you don’t care to see which, wraps a towel around you. It smells faintly of mint and ginseng- things the rich put in their soaps and lotions.

The silence stretches, broken only by the soft lapping of water and the occasional creak of the tub as one of them shifts. You think you should feel safer in this moment, surrounded by warmth and covered neck to ankle, but the unease still roils in your stomach, a highly coiled spring just waiting to snap.

The unease is not lost on MK, who cuts through it like hot butter.

Y/N!” He cheerily calls, catching your attention. You turn your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. He’s holding the book up for you to see, a wide, gap-toothed grin plastered across his face. “Look! This is me! When I was a baby!”

The drawing he points to looks almost too real, imperceptible from reality aside from the lightly yellowed edges. An infant demon with wide, curious eyes, bundled in blankets, his tail peeking from the swaddle You glance at the page, then back to MK, who looks at you expectantly.

You don’t know what he wants you to say.

You don’t even want to speak.

But you manage a “It’s cute,” voice cracking from disuse. It’s the first thing you’ve said since they brought you here, and it feels strange. “ Very cute, kiddo.”

The silence grows tenser for your words, winding further through the room and forcing it into unease. And, like before, MK keeps going in spite of it.

“You’re gonna get sick if you don’t wear something warm,” MK fussed, tugging on the towel with one little paw. “You need to put some clothes on! And you need something to drink!”

“Your Baba can get them something to wear,” Wukong coos, tapping one clawed finger against his son’s rosy snout. “The maids sewed up some nice clothes for the two of you.”

“Moonlight, if you’ll get the paste, I’ll run and grab what they made.”

Macaque nods and releases you to sit alone on the floor, turning to scrounge through his lavish cabinets, each one stocked with a costly product that you couldn’t put a name to, paired to a price that would make your eyes water if you heard it spoke aloud.

You sit motionless on the tiles, towel wrapped tightly around your bruised shoulders. The plush fabric is too heavy, too soft. It’s not comforting—it’s suffocating. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run , but… to where? To what ? There’s no dirty stream to lose your scent in, no puddle of mud to smear yourself with for camouflage. There is no place left but here .

As you think on escapes, Macaque’s shadow coils- like a wispy vein of smoke- along the floor, and for a moment, you swear it’s alive, flickering toward you like a snake.

But you blink and then it is still, unshifting and steady.

You don’t imagine things often. You can’t bring yourself to think that this was one of those rare circumstances.

…he’s even more dangerous than you had believed, and with that dawning revelation a little spark of hope is squashed in your chest.

The sable king turns to you with two glads jars, both smelling of fresh herbs even through their seals. One he sets on the wooden rim of the bathtub, and the other he brings to you- the contents glow from within, faintly white and luminescent, as though moonlight itself had been processed and bottled.

“This is going to sting,” the king warns, dipping his claws into the glittering paste to scrape out a generous, gelatinous lump. “But it’ll keep you from getting infections.”

Everything hurts, and you are tired. So, so very tired that your eyes smear the colors of the world all around, incapable of perceiving fine details. All the embroidery of Macaque’s kingly robe, purple and black and silver, blend into a dark blob as he approaches, as he kneels, peels away the top of the robe, and begins to smear the paste across your upper body.

The searing sting is immediate , sharp enough to make you gasp, breath catching in your throat. It feels like fire crawling across your skin, burning out the grime and decay that had wormed under your flesh. It hurts, worse than icy waters soaking your feet in winter, worse than all the hounds that bit at your heels as you leapt fences, worse than all the beatings you had taken when your thieving was thwarted.

Throughout all your life, only one thing has brought worse pains- hunger. But even that feels like a distant memory now, boiled away by the sensation of prickling, running through your skin in a steady march.

Macaque pulls away with a little huff, shrugging his shoulders as you twitch and writhe in place.

“Be grateful. That stuff costs an eye and a half.”

It’s strikingly casual for a demon of his status, speaking almost like a…

Maybe he had spoken like this to MK once.

Maybe he was settling back into it, with his son back, and simply didn’t think to harshen his tone with you, given his preoccupation with unscrewing the second jar.

“This is something we’ve been trying to spread in that mortal village of yours- a paste blend to scrub teeth with. Mint, ginseng, and some rock salt…”

“…why, um. Why is it… why just for mortals and not demons, too?”

“Yaoguai grow their teeth back once they’re damaged- doesn’t matter if they rot out or get snapped. A new one grows in after the old. Mortals need to take care of what they’ve got. So one of our, ugh “Sworn Brothers”- with a real soft spot for squishy little mortals - worked to make this stuff with another of our “brothers”. He even gave us a crate for our own citizens.”

“…he seems nice,” you remark, thinking on the existence such a benevolent immortal. “I hear most demons just eat mortals.”

“Most yaoguai do,” he snaps, eye twitching at the term you used. “And those yaoguai have tried to break into our village before, and my mate has always protected all of you, even before I came in and married him. Now we protect all of you from yaoguai together.”

(…if he weren’t twice your size and equipped with claws and fanged canines, you might’ve seen fit to call him something mean.)

“Now, open your mouth.”

“…excuse me?”

“It’s an herbal paste. For your mouth. You wet it with clean water and scrub it over your teeth- it scrapes out filth, and there’s not much else you brought with you into our pagoda.”

“Hmm, almost like I didn’t bring shit because-“

Snapping through the air like a whip, he interjects with a snarled- “Language .”

Macaque’s eyes are narrow, golden irises flickering with a dangerous edge that makes your stomach churn. He leans closer, looming over you, and you’re suddenly reminded - and quite vividly- of the disparity in your sizes, in your positions. His shadow shifts, darker, heavier, wrapping around your silhouette in a way that feels utterly suffocating .

Your mouth clamps shut instinctively, a primal reaction to the unspoken threat. A dozen instincts claw at you: run, fight, scream—but there’s nowhere to run, no fight you can win, nothing. So, you simply sit there, jaw tight, avoiding his gaze, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

The shadow king exhales sharply through his nose and leans back, his oppressive presence retreating as he composes himself. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, though still sharp enough to make you flinch.

“You’ve had it rough,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. “I get it. But you’re under our roof now. Which means you obey our rules. Watch your tongue, brat.”

Submission is a bitter taste you’ve rarely sampled- rare is it that you lie down and grudgingly accept a losing lot. But there is no choice now- he is stronger, faster, smarter. You have lost without even making a move.

“You haven’t been here a day, and you’re already biting a hand that hasn’t had time to feed you.”

“I didn’t ask to be here”, is what you want to say, to scream about the unfairness of being ripped away from a home that you were at least familiar with… but you’ve been cowed, and thus, simply open your mouth.

Reluctantly, you open your mouth.

“Good,” he says, his tone softer now, though still carrying that edge of command. He dips a soft-bristled tool you hadn’t noticed before into the herbal paste and scrapes up a small amount, before lightly dipping it into a small jar of water, then maneuvers that unfamiliar tool into your mouth with some small measure of gentleness.

The first bristles touch your teeth, and the sensation is strange. Foreign. Not painful, exactly, but intrusive. You flinch, more out of instinct than anything else, and Macaque pauses, his eyes narrowing just slightly.

“It won’t hurt. Or taste bad. Azure made sure none of this would be unpleasant for a mortal.”

You try to nod, though it’s awkward with the tool in your mouth. Macaque takes it as a cue to continue, brushing your teeth with a deliberate circular rhythm. long. But, true to his word, the paste doesn’t sting or leave an acrid aftertaste- instead, it’s cool and herbal, with a faint sweetness from the mint. The bristles tickle more than anything, and after a moment, your teeth start to feel… bare.

Stripped of grit and mud. Of moldy leftovers and bits of sand.

The grime that’s been built up after years of poor living is stripped like bark is peeled from a tree, in that all that is left under the coating is a smooth, soft white. The sensation is uncomfortable in its newness, leaving your mouth feeling raw and exposed. Your tongue darts along the surface of your teeth, licking again and again at the lack of filth.

“There,” Macaque huffs, pulling back as he dips the brush into a bowl of water to rinse it clean. “Clean enough that you don’t have an excuse for getting sick.”

You swallow thickly, avoiding his gaze. You don’t feel like thanking him. Not after everything.

Instead, you glance toward MK, who’s still engrossed in his book. He’s watching you through the corner of his eye, waiting for some kind of signal. You don’t know what he expects from you—a smile? A reassurance?

It seems like you’re as much a stranger to him as he is to you, despite your efforts to keep him safe all these years.

A demon prince hailing from the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain, heir to the throne.

To you, he had only ever been a sweet little brother.

Did you realty know him at all?

The thought alone is too much.

The warmth of the bath, the suffocatingly tight towel, the newness of your teeth, the watchful eyes of a being so much stronger than you. It’s all too much. You sit down and draw your knees up to your chest, clutching the towel tightly, a silent plea for space that you will not receive.

The tension in the air again grows palpable, but before it can thicken further, the golden king reappears, his arrival announced by the clink of glittering beads against tile. Sun Wukong strides in with a bundle of neatly folded clothes in hand, his gaze flicking between you and Macaque.

“I can take over from here, moonlight.”

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere Sun Wukong #Yandere Macaque #MK #Monkiefam #Eclipse Kings #Not The Beloved #3k

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littelovelunette · 23 days ago

Text

Vengeance (ft. Ambessa Medarda)

Important note: I don't write for Ambessa Medarda yet, but I WILL open the request slots and start writing fics for her soon.

~ @zthebean27 reblogged my initial post of Vengeance saying they need one like that with Ambessa, and reblogs help writers. Since you helped me, I'll help you <3

The air was thick with the scent of iron.

Your blood soaked into the silk sheets, a deep crimson stain spreading across the once-pristine fabric.

Your breaths were shallow, each one dragging fire through your lungs. You had managed to kill the assassin—his body lay crumpled on the floor, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. But not before his blade had found you.

Pain throbbed in your side, sharp and relentless, the warmth of your own life pooling beneath you.

The world swayed, the edges of your vision blurring, dark spots creeping in like shadows waiting to claim you.

The heavy stomp of boots echoed down the marble hall. Controlled. Powerful. Unhurried.

You knew that sound. "Ambessa..." You whispered the name, but your voice died before it could issue from your lips.

The doors to the private quarters were flung open with a force that made the walls tremble.

Ambessa Medarda stood in the doorway, framed by the flickering torchlight, her golden eyes burning with something dangerous. She took in the scene—the ruined bed, the dead assassin, the blood. Your blood.

Ambessa's blood ran cold.

For the first time, you saw something flicker across her face. It was gone in an instant, buried beneath years of discipline and war-forged control, but you had seen it. A crack in the unshakable foundation.

She crossed the room in three strides. The scent of steel and spice clung to her, familiar and grounding.

A gloved hand seized your chin, tilting your face up. Her thumb brushed over your cheek—soft, just for a second—before she dropped to her knees beside the bed.

"Who?" Her voice was low, dangerous.

You forced a smirk, though it felt weak. "Didn't stop to ask." You managed to gesture at the tangles of what you left of the assassin.

She huffed a breath through her nose, unimpressed. But there was something in the way her fingers flexed against your skin, like she was restraining herself from gripping too hard.

Her gaze dropped to the wound in your side. Without a word, she tore off her gloves, hands moving with practiced efficiency as she pressed down on the injury.

White-hot agony lanced through you, and you gasped, fingers curling into the sheets.

"Stay awake." A command. No room for argument.

Her grip was firm, steady, keeping pressure on the wound as she reached for the dagger at her belt.

With a swift motion, she sliced a strip of cloth from your ruined nightwear, winding it tightly around your waist. It was rough, brutal, but effective.

"Get me more later." You whispered with a small breathy giggle. "It was my favourite set." You pouted a little despite the searing pain.

"You should have been more careful."

A reprimand, but there was an edge to it—one that wasn’t entirely anger.

Your lips curled into a faint, pained smirk. "You almost sound worried."

Her jaw clenched. "You're my wife." The words were clipped, precise. Like stating an undeniable fact. "No one touches what is mine."

Ambessa lifted you effortlessly into her arms, holding you against her broad chest as if you were something fragile—something worth protecting.

Her heart beat steady beneath your ear, strong and unwavering. And for the first time since the attack, you felt safe.

Ambessa carried you like you weighed nothing, her grip unyielding but careful, as if the very idea of dropping you was inconceivable.

Her body radiated warmth, a grounding presence amid the pain and blood loss clouding your mind. You could hear the sharp commands she barked to the guards as she strode through the Medarda estate.

“Lock down the premises. Find any other threats. If they breathe wrong, kill them.”

Her voice was steel, but the way she clutched you was something else entirely.

By the time she reached the estate’s private medical wing, exhaustion threatened to pull you under. The moment she laid you down, her big hands hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before pulling away. The loss of her warmth sent a shiver through you.

The medics swarmed in, but Ambessa didn’t leave your side.

She hovered, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching every movement with the lethal focus of a warrior on the battlefield.

When the lead doctor hesitated, she snapped, "If you let her die, I will personally ensure you regret it."

The pressure of bandages, the sharp sting of antiseptic—it all blurred together. But through it all, Ambessa was there, her presence an unshakable force.

By the time the medics finished, the pain had dulled into a bearable throb. The room had emptied, leaving only you and her.

You forced your eyes open, searching for her in the dim light. She was sitting at your bedside, elbows resting on her knees, her head bowed slightly.

The usual ironclad mask she wore had cracked, just enough for you to see what lay beneath.

Concern.

Relief.

Love.

When she realized you were watching her, she exhaled slowly and leaned forward, her fingers brushing against your cheek.

It was the softest touch you had ever felt from her—warm, steady, reverent.

"You scared me," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, caught off guard. Ambessa Medarda didn’t admit weakness.

Your lips twitched into a weak grin. "You? Scared? The great warlord of Noxus?"

Her hand shifted, trailing down to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing gently over your pulse. "I would burn the world to the ground for you."

The weight of those words settled between you, heavier than any blade, sharper than any wound.

"You’re not losing me that easily," you murmured, tilting your head into her touch.

She huffed, something like amusement flickering in her golden eyes.

"Good. Because if you had died, I would’ve had to drag you back just to scold you for being reckless."

You chuckled, wincing slightly, and she immediately pressed a kiss to your forehead—a rare, intimate gesture that sent warmth spreading through your chest.

"Rest, love" she murmured, fingers threading through your hair.

"I’ll be here when you wake."

#arcane #ambessa lol #ambessa x you #ambessa x reader #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda #ambessa league of legends #ambessa x y/n #ambessa the chosen of the wolf #ambessa arcane #ambessa angst #ambessa fanfic #ambessa fluff #ambessa fic #ambessa chosen of the wolf #arcane medarda

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ponderingmoonlight · 4 months ago

Note

Hello!!! Would it be possible to write for hatori sohma from fruit basket childhood friend to lover with a some angst and fruff at the end of

Thank you😊

aww okay we NEED to do this 🥹

Hatori Sohma realizing you're more than a friend to him

Pairing: Hitori x reader

Word Count: 3,5k

Synopsis: You were around since he can remember. You, the only sunshine in his life, that woman he never gets tired of looking at. It takes Hitori too long to finally confess his feelings to himself. And then he's about to ruin everything...

Warnings: hurt to comfort, friends to lovers, this is sooo fluffy hehe

Hatori Sohma is not a man who easily surrenders to the urges of emotion. The weight of his family’s curse, the pain of his own heartache, and the gravity of his responsibilities have forged him into a man who exists with quiet detachment in the shadows since that one fateful day. And yet, as you sit across from him at Shigure’s dinner table, laughing softly at one of Shigure’s ridiculous remarks, Hatori finds himself lost in thoughts he was never prepared to face.

You’ve been his friend for years - a steady presence in his life, like the moon hanging quietly in the night sky whenever he needs it. While others come and go, bringing chaos and change, you’ve always been there, offering your unwavering kindness and support. A warmth he has leaned on more times than he’d care to admit.

Still, he didn’t even dare to think about you as someone other than a friend. He’s always been careful to sort his feelings when it came to you, forcefully avoiding that little skip of his heart whenever he saw you.

Especially after Kana. Loving her, only to have the curse of the Sohma family destroy what both could have been, left scars he’s not sure will ever fully heal. He buried those wounds deep, vowing not to allow himself the vulnerability of love again. Not when it always means agony. Not when he’ll never live a normal life like all those other men walking around the world.

But lately, his heart has been betraying him, and today, watching Shigure lean a little too close to you while you laugh, it stings in a way he doesn’t know how to rationalize.

Earlier in the day, it was Ayame who started to chip away at the walls Hatori keeps so carefully constructed.

“I must say, Haa-san,” Ayame had declared, lounging dramatically on one of Shigure’s couches, “it’s almost tragic how blind you are to your own emotions.”

Hatori sighed, pushing up his glasses. He had little patience for Ayame’s theatrics at the best of times, and today was no exception. Why again this talk?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, denial,” Ayame said with a flourish, “the first stage of awakening!”

Shigure, who had been scribbling something in a notebook, looked up with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“What Ayame means, Haa-san, is that you’re rather obvious when it comes to a certain someone.”

Hatori froze in place. Shigure and Ayame exchanged a knowing glance that made his stomach twist. Were they talking about…you?

“If you’re going to make a point, do it quickly,” he remarked, his tone colder than he intended.

Ayame smirked, unbothered by the sudden change of tone. Even though he’s so convinced no one knows, everyone saw the way Hatori looked at you earlier with that slight smile forming on his lips. Every one knows about that picture of you he keeps well hidden in his purse.

“The point, dear Haa-san, is that your little friend has managed to do something extraordinary.”

“And what’s that?” Hatori inquired, already regretting engaging in the conversation.

“She’s gotten under your skin. (y/n), I mean”, Shigure interjected smoothly.

“In a good way, of course. You’re different around her - softer, more… alive.”

Hatori frowned, hating the way his heart skips a beat how it always does when someone talks about you.

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it?”

Shigure leaned back in his chair, a sly grin tugging at his lips that usually means nothing but trouble.

“You’re a careful man. But I think even you can’t deny that she means something more to you. The question is, are you going to do anything about it?”

Before Hatori could respond, Ayame clapped his hands together.

“Oh, this is so romantic! The brooding doctor and his steadfast friend, bound by years of quiet affection, only to realize the depth of their feelings amidst life’s trials! It’s like something out of a novel!”

Hatori pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You’re both insufferable.”

Now, hours later, Hatori finds himself replaying their words. As much as he wants to dismiss their observations, there’s a nagging truth to them that he can’t ignore. He does feel different around you. You have a way of making the world seem a little less heavy, of making him feel seen in a way no one else does. Even though you know about his curse, despite the fact that you’ve seen him and other Sohma’s turn into animals countless times by now, you never changed your soft attitude towards him.

Just the thought of losing you, even to something as harmless as Shigure’s playful flirting, fills him with an ache he doesn’t fully understand.

“Earth to Hatori,” Shigure teases, waving a hand in front of his face.

“You’ve been staring at your plate for the past five minutes. Is something on your mind?”, you add with your brows furrowed in that way that glues his eyes onto yours in an instant.

Hatori shakes his head, brushing off the question. But when he glances up, he sees you watching him with a quiet concern that makes his chest tighten.

“Are you feeling okay?” you ask softly, your voice laced with genuine care.

“I’m fine,” he replies, his tone measured. But the truth is, he feels anything but fine.

The evening continues, with Shigure and Ayame carrying most of the conversation. You join in here and there, your laughter like a melody that Hatori finds himself clinging to. He stays mostly silent, his thoughts too tangled to untangle.

It’s only after dinner, when Shigure retreats to his study and Ayame bids an overly dramatic farewell, that you and Hatori are left alone in the living room. The atmosphere shifts, quieter, more intimate. You’re seated on the couch, your legs tucked beneath you, while he stands near the window, his gaze fixed on the garden outside.

“Hatori,” you say gently, breaking the silence. “What’s on your mind? You’ve been quiet tonight.”

He hesitates, the weight of your question pressing against him. How can he possibly put his feelings into words when he’s still struggling to make sense of them himself?

“It’s nothing,” he says finally, though the words feel hollow.

You frown, clearly unconvinced. “You know you don’t have to keep everything to yourself, right? I’m here if you need someone to talk to.”

Your words are a lifeline, and for a moment, he considers taking it. But vulnerability doesn’t come easily to him. Instead, he deflects. “Shigure was particularly annoying tonight.”

You laugh softly. “He’s always annoying. That’s part of his charm.”

Hatori’s lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile, but it doesn’t last. The conversation lulls, and the silence that follows is heavy with unspoken words.

After a moment, you rise from the couch and cross the room to stand beside him. The proximity is both comforting and disarming. You don’t press him further, but your presence alone feels like an invitation—to let down his guard, to let you in.

“Do you ever think about the past?” he asks suddenly, surprising even himself with the question.

“Sometimes,” you reply, your tone thoughtful. “But I try not to dwell on it too much. It’s easy to get stuck in what-ifs.”

He nods, his gaze still fixed on the garden. “I envy that about you. Your ability to move forward.”

“You can, too, you know,” you say softly. “It’s not easy, but it’s possible.”

Your words settle over him like a balm, your voice so comforting that he forgets that numb feeling in his stomach for a second. He turns to look at you, really look at you. The way your eyes meet his, full of understanding and something else, something he’s afraid to name, something he’d never speculates about, makes his heart stumble.

“I’m not sure I know,” he finally admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, and it’s the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through a storm.

What if you get hurt though?

Hatori can’t help but shake his head, breaking his gaze away from you. No, he can’t allow that to happen. He can’t come this close to you. What if he hurts you? Or what if you don’t feel the same way about him? Why would someone like you fall for him in the first place? You, known and loved by countless people, secretly admired by someone like Shigure as well. There’s no way you’d actually fall for him, right?

“You don’t have to figure it out alone.”

Gently, you place your hand on top of his. But instead of welcoming the warmth of your palm, he jerks up in his seat and leaves without saying another word.

The days following the incident were unbearable - for you and for Hatori, though he would never admit it out loud. He avoided you with a determination that bordered on cruelty. Every time you tried to reach out, he found an excuse to slip away. He didn’t answer your calls, didn’t allow you to visit him, didn’t even text you back when you begged for a single sign of life. Not even Shigure and Ayame were able to drag him out of this hole. Hatori hated himself for hurting you, for pulling away when all he wanted was to be close to you. But the fear of losing you, of ruining your life just like Kana’s, was just too much to bear.

It’s for the best, he told himself so often that he lost count on that little walk alone. Staying in his apartment meant getting reminded of all the times you visited him and sat on that one chair while sipping tea out of your own personal mug no one else is allowed to use. He needed to get out there, needed some fresh air to calm his mind.

Not even this warm summer day is able to comfort him, though. Not when every beautiful flower on his way reminds him of you, not when he imagines you in all those dresses displayed in the shopping windows.

Not when you’re standing just a few feet away from him with Shigure by your side.

Shigure and…you?

There you are, walking beside Shigure, holding an ice cream cone and laughing at something he said. The sound of your laughter, so free and light, hits him like a punch to the gut. Shigure, ever the charmer, leans in closer than necessary, his expression playful as he licks his own ice cream.

Hatori’s heart twists painfully, hands balling into tight fists on their own. He doesn’t have the right to feel jealous, no right to claim you when he’s done nothing but pushing you away.

But watching Shigure, so at ease with you, stirs something primal in him, feelings he tried to drown multiple times already. The thought of losing you - to anyone, but especially to Shigure – becomes unbearable.

Like in trance, he steps back, away from the scene that might make him lose his mind. No, he can’t feel like this about you, he can’t allow himself to be jealous when you’re not even his. All he did those past weeks was pushing you away. You’re not his, you’ll never be.

Hatori slams his door shut harder than necessary before gliding down the cool wood.

What is he supposed to do now?

-later-

You’re sitting in your small apartment, trying to distract yourself from the ache in your chest. The ice cream with Shigure had been nice, a kind effort of him to break you away from your train of thought, but it doesn’t erase the sadness you feel over Hatori’s sudden distance. What went wrong? Was it something you said, something you did? Was it because you tried to cheer him up by holding his hand that one evening? You didn’t really think about it twice, just tried to cheer him up when it was clear that he’s upset…

You can’t understand what went wrong. And it hurts more than you want to admit.

A knock at your door breaks through your thoughts. Did Shigure forget something or is he here to look after you. Maybe Tohru wanted to pay you a visit-

“Hatori?” you breathe out, your voice laced with surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything while you try to process the stinging fact that he’s really here. He simply looks at you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find the courage he needs.

Then, in a voice thick with emotion, he mutters, “Can I come in?”

Your mind goes blank, lips not able to move. He’s really here. He didn’t forget about you. He wants to…talk?

Like in trance, you step aside, letting him enter. The air between you is heavy with tension as he stands in your living room, his tall frame seeming out of place in the cozy little space you can afford. You wait, unsure of what to say, as he struggles to find the words himself.

Finally, he turns to you, his gaze intense.

“I owe you an apology.”

“For what?” you mumble softly, though you already know the answer.

“For avoiding you. For pushing you away. For being…a coward.”

His voice is steady, but you can see the vulnerability in his eyes, the way his hands clench at his sides.

“I thought I was protecting you. From me. From my life. But I see now that I was only protecting myself.”

Your heart aches at his words. Is this really how he feels about everything? Does he really think he’s a threat, a burden for you?

“Hatori, you don’t have to-”

“I do,” he interrupts, his tone firm.

“Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending that I don’t…”

He trails off, taking a deep breath.

“That I don’t feel something for you. Something I’ve been too afraid to admit for a long time.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Is he trying to say that…

“Hatori…”

“I’m in love with you. I have been for longer than I care to admit. But I was so afraid. Afraid of hurting you. Afraid of losing you. Afraid that you couldn’t feel the same way”, he suddenly blurts out.

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. This can’t be real, right? Did he really ignore you because he thought he’d hurt or lose you. Did he really just say that he loves you? Him, the man you’ve kept your eye on for years by now?

“You thought I didn’t feel the same?”

He hesitates, the doubt still etched into his features.

“Why would you? You could have anyone. Someone without all the…baggage I carry.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you step closer to him. Just the thought of him feeling this way, of him suppressing his feeling because of something like that…

“Hatori, you’re the one I want. You’ve always been the one”, you reply with trembling voice.

For a moment, he simply looks at you, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Then, slowly, he reaches out, his hand brushing against yours before taking it in his own.

“You…really mean it?”

“Of course I do!”, you breathe out while clinging onto his hand for what feels like dear life.

“But I didn’t want to rush you, especially after those past weeks. I felt like you don’t see me that way. And after what happened to Kana, I wasn’t sure if you’d give me a chance…”

“I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you. I don’t want to run anymore. I want to be with you, if you’ll have me.”

You smile through your tears, wrapping your arms around his arm the way you always imagined. Even though you’re not able to hug him the way he’d deserve it, you pour your heart and soul in this little moment. That moment you’ve been imagining in your head over and over again. That moment that fell apart in your mind those past weeks.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

Hatori buries his face in your hair as the weight of his fears finally lifts. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he can breathe. And as you stand there together, he promises to himself that he will do whatever it takes to make you happy, to protect the love you’ve both found.

Because with you, he knows he can finally heal. Now he finally knows you're more than a friend.

Dividers by @saradikagrafics 🤍

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batboysanonymous · 1 month ago

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Bound by Flame

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Summary: Eris Vanserra was fire itself, untouchable, burning, dangerous. But when the weight of centuries finally lifted, when the last chain binding him shattered, he ran to you.

Years ago, you had been a maid in the Autumn Court palace, a shadow in the halls of polished wood and gold.

You had known who Eris Vanserra was before the bond snapped into place—everyone did. The heir to the Autumn throne. The male of fire and arrogance, untouchable and cruel.

Or so you had thought.

You still remembered the moment it happened. You had been kneeling in the grand dining hall, wiping a spill before Beron returned from a hunt. Your hands were raw from the cold, your body exhausted from a day of endless commands, when it struck.

A force. A pull. A golden thread in your soul, twisting, tightening, making it impossible to breathe.

You had looked up—and there he was.

Eris, standing frozen in the doorway. His amber eyes wide, his body stiff as if something had shattered inside him.

You.

Your mate.

The silence stretched, unbearable. Then, slowly, he turned on his heel and walked away.

You had not been able to move for minutes. Had barely been able to breathe.

For days, you saw nothing of him. You thought—perhaps he would reject it. Perhaps he already had. But then, one evening, he had found you in a quiet corridor, his scent wrapping around you like fire and cedarwood.

He didn’t speak at first, just looked at you, his chest rising and falling like he was at war with himself. And then, in a voice so quiet, so unlike him, he whispered, “Beron can never know.”

You had nodded. Because you knew.

A High Lord’s heir, shackled to a maid?

Beron would sooner burn you alive.

So it had started—the hiding. The stolen glances. The nights where Eris would slip into your chambers, where he would press his forehead to yours and breathe you in like he was starving for it.

And then the agony of watching him in court, of standing back as he played his role. Watching as he let others believe he was heartless, cruel—when you knew the truth.

The waiting. The wondering. The bruises he hid when Beron’s rage turned to him.

And the terror of knowing, deep down, that it couldn’t last forever.

And now, it was over.

The world smelled of smoke and iron.

You stood on the outskirts of the battlefield, the taste of blood sharp on your tongue, your hands trembling even as you tried to still them. The night was endless, the stars above struggling to pierce through the heavy veil of war, of death. But none of it mattered. None of it compared to the ache in your chest, to the desperate pull in your soul, the bond inside you thrashing, crying, howling.

For him.

Eris.

The male who had been forged in flame, sharpened in cruelty, yet had somehow, impossibly, become yours.

Your mate.

The battlefield was eerily silent now, the screams of war fading into something almost sacred. A breath held, a world waiting. And then—

Footsteps.

Fast. Desperate.

And then he was there.

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn, no longer a prince shackled by Beron’s rule, no longer forced to bow to a monster. His armor was dented, streaked with blood that wasn’t his own, his red hair wild, his amber eyes frenzied. But it was his hands that stole your breath away—shaking, reaching, grasping as they cupped your face like he was afraid you’d vanish.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. His mouth opened, then closed, as if the words caught in his throat. And then, finally, a whisper, raw and broken—

"It is over."

A shuddering inhale.

"We are free."

Your lips parted, your vision blurring with something thick, something unbearable. And then, without thought, without fear, you surged forward, crashing into him.

His arms were already there, already encircling you, already anchoring you to him. He clutched you, pressed his forehead to yours as if he could stitch himself into your very skin. His body shook—gods, he was shaking.

And you realized then—he was crying.

Eris Vanserra, the male who had never been allowed softness, the male who had been forced to bite his tongue, to endure, to survive—was weeping in your arms.

You pressed your hands to his face, brushing your thumbs along the sharp angles of his cheekbones, feeling the dampness of his tears. Tears. For you. For him. For the life you could finally have.

The words cracked open something inside you.

A sob tore from your throat, and before you knew it, you collapsed into him.

Eris caught you, arms locking around you, pulling you so close you could barely breathe. His body shook—gods, he was shaking.

Your fingers tangled into his hair, his blood streaking across your skin as he buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he would never get enough.

“I thought I lost you,” you choked out.

His grip tightened, his lips pressing against your temple, your jaw, your throat. “You will never lose me. Never again.”

His hands were everywhere—fisting into the back of your tunic, pressing against your spine, memorizing you. And you let him. You let yourself sink into him, let yourself feel the warmth of him, the unshackled, unburied truth of your love.

When he pulled back, his eyes were wet, his breath uneven. “We can have it now,” he murmured. “A life. Without hiding. Without fear.”

Your throat burned, but you nodded. “Yes.”

Eris exhaled sharply. His hand brushed over your lips, your cheek, his gaze hungry and desperate in a way that had nothing to do with battle.

And then he kissed you.

It was not soft. Not sweet. It was fire, burning, unrelenting—a claim, a vow, a plea. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to consume you, trying to undo the years of stolen moments, the agony of pretending, the lies, the pain.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands curling into his tunic, pressing yourself against him so tightly you swore you could feel the frantic beat of his heart.

The taste of him flooded your senses—smoke, embers, Eris.

When he finally pulled away, his breath came in uneven pants, his forehead pressed to yours.

His hands were still on your face, his thumbs stroking along your cheekbones, his eyes searching yours like they held every answer he’d ever needed.

“You are mine,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “And I am yours.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in him, in this moment.

“You always were,” you whispered back.

A breath. A truth. A love unburied.

Eris swallowed hard, then pulled you to him again, his lips ghosting over yours, his body pressing close.

And this time, neither of you let go.

Taglist: @fanficscuziranout, @willowpains

Want to join my tag list? Drop a comment or check out this link to submit a specific series you would like tagged in! (Or if you just don't want to comment, that's okay too)

#eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris x reader #the autumn court #acotar #x reader #acotarxreader #angst #reader insert #slow burn #tension #x you #fem reader #female reader #imagines #imagine #one shot #fanfic #Spotify

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aphroditelovesu · 1 year ago

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Hello! Can you do a yandere Hephaestus with 🦄?

❝🦄❞ - ‘’I... I really can't let you go.’’

❝tw: mention of kidnapping, obsessive behavior, loneliness, self-loathing.

Was he really that bad? Hephaestus wondered, as he watched you hesitantly. Was he really the monster everyone said he was?

The forge god clenched his hands, feeling his body go numb with pure agony. He had been in agony for days, your refusal to recognize him, to talk to him, to accept him made him furious and sad at the same time.

Why couldn't you see that you belonged together? He may not be the most beautiful of the gods or the most powerful, but Hephaestus loved you. He had a lot of love to give and he wanted to give it all to you. It wasn't right to bring you here without your consent, but he couldn't stay away from you any longer.

Hephaestus approached cautiously, trying to contain the emotions that were roiling his being. His eyes reflected the pain of being constantly ignored and rejected by the one he loved most. But something inside him persisted, a spark of hope that urged him to keep trying.

With a heavy sigh, he approached you, seeking the courage to explain his side of the story. "I'm not the monster they say I am", he murmured, his voice choked with sadness. "I made mistakes, yes, but my love for you is genuine. I tried to create something unique for us, something special..."

The god of the forge reached out his hand, trying to touch yours, begging for a moment of understanding, but you just shrank away, afraid of the god's touch.

"I know my approach was misguided, but my heart belongs to you. Please allow me to show you that I can be more than the label I was given. I love you more than words can express."

The agony in Hephaestus' eyes was evident, a mixture of pain and longing to be understood. He hoped that maybe you could see through the stories and legends, and find the truth behind the mask the world had imposed on him. Slowly, you looked into the god's black eyes, your stern face and your lips pressed tightly together.

With your voice slightly shaking, you found the courage to speak, "Please... Let me go."

The once gentle and warm gaze quickly turned cold and filled with suppressed fury, Hephaestus growled, "No." You flinched at his angry voice. These mood swings were something that terrified you. One moment he was being kind and another he acted in an explosive and hateful way.

The tension in the environment increased abruptly, and you found yourself caught between the desire to get out of that situation and Hephaestus' intense reaction. Your heart accelerated when you noticed the change in his behavior, and the feeling of fear intensified. If fear had a smell, it would be emanating from you right now.

With a lump in your throat, you tried again, begging more firmly, "Please, I need to go. I can't stay here against my will." Every word was filled with anguish and determination.

But Hephaestus, still in a volatile mix of emotions, seemed determined not to give in. His eyes sparkled with stubborn determination and an authoritative tone crept into his voice, "You can't leave me now. I can't bear the loneliness any longer. I need you here with me."

Silent tears began to fall and your cheeks became hot and clammy. The god's hard gaze softened and he gently crouched down to you and carefully wiped away your tears.

Pressing his forehead against yours, Hephaestus whispered, "I... I really can't let you go."

You closed your eyes, trying desperately to stop the tears that threatened to continue falling. Hephaestus was either too caught up in his obsession to notice, or he just didn't care. For all he did was pull you into his crushing grip and try to calm you down in a rough way.

You would never leave him.

#yandere greek mythology #greek mythology #yandere greek gods #greek gods x reader #hephaestus x reader #yandere Hephaestus #yandere Hephaestus x reader #emoji #emoji prompt

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h5eavenly · 9 months ago

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Fallen Star┃Jake Sim

fourteen - Why didn't you take me? warning: detailed description of anxiety, mentions of death, angst, and smut.

Masterlist ✶ prev ✶ next

(a/n: special thanks to @stargirl-gigi for giving me strength when i lacked it. i know you're not the biggest fan of enhypen but i still hope you'll like this cus if it weren't for you my brain wouldn't have been able to form this many words <3)

Jake learns that the world is unjust early on in his life. Even supposing for the preponderance of his few first moons he’s adjudged lucky not to be on the receiving end. Nevertheless, he finds himself appertained to an all-familiar watching crowd. With impertinent eyes and forged pity, they’ll watch as lives fall apart in front of them. They’ll never help but prate about how bad they feel.

Jake wasn’t on the receiving end for a long time, but he recalls being a perpetrator.

He is seven years old. It was a warm summer afternoon; he was running around with fellow students in the classroom. Despite being apprised a little more over four times to not do that. Jake was born obdurate; it wasn’t something that came with time. Conceivably it might have grown, became something that is unwillingly part of his skin. Nonetheless it was always there, and it is still the reason his hip ends up colliding with the teacher’s table, knocking over her vase of flowers and he watches with wide eyes as it tumbles to the ground and shatters into diminutive bits.

When his favorite teacher with disenchantment imprinted on her features asked who did it. His heart trembled with the trepidation of getting reprimand and so he ends up blaming someone else. throwing the guilt of his wrongdoings upon someone else’s shoulders to carry. He watches as his superiority sides with his luck. Being the most liked kid in his class aids his lie and every student lies with him, for him.

Jake ruminates on the situation a lot more than he would like. It comes to him on random days of his life, and it comes to him when his supply of luck runs out. The day he ends up on the receiving margin of life. He’s on his knees. Agony sneaks its way onto every atom of his being and before he could even breathe – it draped itself over him.

More often than not Jake feels like he had lived four lives, yet he bides not even past his mid-twenties. His first ends with him starry eyed, floating in a pipe dream. That despite his insidious mind he could still make it work in Paranoia. It only lasts for fleeting moments before it all crumbles. Anxiety is a searing ache, it’s in perpetuity coursing through his veins. No matter how hard Jake locks the door, with indomitable force it breaks it down, it travels through the window until he’s tied together by threads of unpreventable dread.

His second life passes by in a colorful daze, an emptiness in his chest that’s scarcely filled with pills on his tongue and poison in his blood. It’s all blurry fragments of him on stage, staying in the studio until every bone in his body ached and him trying to find meaning in pages of his lyrics.

With his third life he’s watching his mother’s dead body being lowered into her grave. His heart is now nothing, but a gaping scar and it pulsates with agonizing affliction every time he breathes. The flashes of cameras feel like knives being stabbed repeatedly into his body. In a fugitive breath he recalls that day when he was seven years old, and he ponders on if this was his punishment.

Why didn’t you take me?

In another world, one where life is impartial, his mother lives and Jake dies, with no blood on his hands.

By his fourth try he no longer feels human. Rather a floating revenant watching down upon the creature who’s etched with misery and a colossal amount of anxiety. He’s constantly overtaken by calamitous emotions. There’s no time for his wounds to mend when he’s so busy trying to control his thoughts, to keep them at bay. Placate them with rehearsed fortitude just so he could have room to exhale. However, his questions remain. They plague his mind; it beleaguers him and then at night it all interposes into questions he can’t seem to find a remedy to.

Why didn’t you take me?

What’s the point of anything?

“Jake?” He hears you calling him, disquiet lacing your voice. He blinks, his eyes that have been zeroed in on a random spot in the mirror finally move, landing on yours instead.

“Yes?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Sorry, do you mind repeating that once again?” he sighs, rubbing his temples warily. Missing the way, yours linger on his face with worry etched on them.

“Okay.” He’s met with a few moments of silence as you scroll up through your ipad “The Vogue team reached out again and they’re hoping to redo the interview you never got to finish a while ago,” your eyes flick to his for mere seconds, ephemeral although more than enough to skim across his features, perusing his scrunched brows “do you want that?”

“If they’re actually gonna show up on time then sure.”

“Okay.”

“Make sure to tell them that.”

“You want me to tell Vogue they better show up on time?”

“Yes bunny,” despite his raised brow and the look in his eyes that straight up calls you stupid. You grow somewhat relieved that bits of his usual self are back on the surface.

A pout draws on your lips as you type away on the screen of your ipad and his eyes fleet to them a tad too long to be deemed appropriate. He is apt to be swayed by deviant desires, yours seem to feed his ardour.

“Can I get you anything?” You speak suddenly and it takes him back to his reality, gaze shifting away and you, too busy to notice.

“An energy drink would be nice.”

“What kind?”

“Whatever is available.” With a nod sent in his direction you leave with a brush of your hand on his shoulder blade. It’s delicately discreet. In the same way your lashes flutter whenever he looks at you and the warmth of your palm doesn’t stay long but it has him trifling.

Not inordinately scalding but rather a soothing touch that eases the thorns picking at his heart.

With a sigh he leans back in his seat and checks his phone. The tightness pulling at his ribs comes back, intensifies by his messages to Soojin being left unanswered. And it all makes itself discernible once he starts bouncing his leg on the floor. His demons swarm by his feet and inchmeal, they creep upwards, almost as if they’re melting onto his flesh.

“Is Soojin still coming?” he asks Jay – who is sitting on the couch not too far away - with concealed fret. The latter looks up from his stack of papers, glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose.

“As far as I know yes. Why?”

“She’s not answering my texts, so I was wondering.” regardless of his inefficacious attempts to remain composed Jay has spent what feels like a lifetime by his side, every moment was more than enough for him to commit every mannerism of Jake into his memory. Seeing through his façade is a practice he mastered.

“I’m sure she’s okay man. She probably has it on do not disturb or something.”

“Yeah,” Jake replies absentminded. A fraught silence settles and despite Jay’s words that portray themselves as a touch of gentleness on his being. His striving to calm down the storms that are threatening to take over him.

It starts off palliate with slight tugging at his chest, puncture just to be annoying. The logical wheels in his mind turn, giving meaning to Jay’s words to him and finding solace in between the letters. He busies himself with turning all of Sunoo’s makeup products with the label upfront. It earns him a slap on his hand and a glare.

“Can you fuck off Jake? I have other clients to work on.” Sunoo spits and he only huffs in response, sinking in his seat and checking his phone once again.

No Notifications. He never hated anything more than those two words. The tugging grows relentless and before he gets to think he’s already picking at the skin around his nails.

Jake’s anxiety is too fickle of a creature to ever just leave him in seclusion for far too long.

It already seeped into him and clung itself on his bones. It is more than just a part of him but rather who he is. Like A winding coil that finally snaps. his head is bombarded with frightful images and every bad thing that could have happened to Soojin flashes in a moment. His heart skips three beats at once and panic travels through his veins.

The logical wheels come to a halt so abruptly.

What if something really bad happened to her? What if she’s hurt? What if she got into an accident on her way here to see him? It’s his fault, isn’t it?

“Are you okay Jake?” His head swivels towards Jay who somehow has made it to his side without making much noise or getting his attention.

“Yeah um- “he clears his throat “do you think you could call Soojin? See where she is?” The worry that starts filling Jay’s eyes is what he was hoping to avoid seeing. He knows it’s nowhere close to pity, knows no matter how much blood his heart spills, Jay will never look at him with ruth.

And yet Jake has grown an immense hatred for every possible way that people look at him, somewhere between sleepless nights, how vacant his chest remains and his constant reminder to breathe- he yearns for normality and if it’s something he isn’t meant for, his unyielding covet to be invisible overtakes his will to live.

“Of course.” Jay like always doesn’t question him, a tender smile settles on his face “I’m sure she’s okay, alright?” he assures, and Jake could only nod mutely in response, his throat is tightening and an all too familiar knot is forming.

With Jay walking away from to make a call, you’re back. His promised drink between your hands.

“Here.” You place it in front of him and when Jake doesn’t even look at it, his peculiar silence is enough for you to take notice of the shift in the air. Your words hanging heavy, and Jake’s agitation is avidly pellucid, as crystal as running water.

Your eyes shift when Jay walks back to you two, with downcast eyes.

“She’s not picking up. Should I call her manager?”

“I guess?” Although Jake’s voice is unmodulated edged with an imperturbable expression, your eyes remain on the way he keeps picking at his skin. With a mute nod Jay leaves you two alone once again

He glances at you when your fingers wrap around his wrist to halt his movement, with imbedded delicacy. Even your touch plea rather than order and if Jake’s mind wasn’t already clouded with webs of consternation. He would notice it.

“Is this about Soojin?” You purse your lips right after the question slips from your mouth, as if you didn’t mean to ask and really if Jake wasn’t so busy worrying about the wellbeing of his friend right now, he’d be snorting at you.

Alternatively, his state remains stoic.

“Yeah.”

“You seem to care about her a lot.”

“Because she’s my friend?” He side-eyes you, sharp enough to again call out the lack of your intelligence with a glance and it renders you mute. Walking away from him just in time for him to roll his eyes, checking his phone for the third time.

Your absence doesn’t last long, in fact it doesn’t last long enough for him to click his phone shut before you’re shoving a stack of papers in his face with a minacious lustre in the flickers of color in your eyes.

“Can you help me count these folded pages?” you smile at him, imbued with inimitable docile that only seem to find home in you, and in between his sheets.

He prances between you and the papers in almost suspicion yet stays quiet and despite the way he fights the urge to roll his eyes at you he still takes them from you, only because it is welcome enough of a hindrance to combat against his fatalistic mind.

“Sure.”

As a tranquil silence descends upon the two of you. It takes mere moments for comprehension to swim its way to his head, amidst the crashing waves of overbearing disquietude, he finds your kindness. Like a shore he finally gets to rest on after swimming for so long, he’s choking on the water clogging his throat pipe, yet you manage to exist as a stroke of color amongst his grays.

He remembers it so well. Seeing you this morning counting these same papers.

Were you trying to distract him?

He pauses, and you catch his eyes promptly. You don’t make him wait and his brain fizzles out for a second, a silence he doesn’t get to linger in enough to appreciate, as his eyes rake over your features, your eyes manage to exist in screaming color while the rest withers away, uncompromising. And then ever so slightly, the corners of your lips turn upwards in a smile that isn’t inundated with sympathy for him. Instead, you’re everything that you ever are, sugary sweet and nothing like his forget me nots. You’re akin to cherry blossoms that sprout throughout spring.

So scintillating, too exorbitant he’s obligated to tear his gaze away from you.

Jake had long discarded his deficient organ - so called heart. It is nothing more than meritless and it died the day his mother left this world. It only ever subsists to awaken him once it slips his mind that he is alive, he is present if not that, it’s here to remind him he is made of his anxiety.

Right now, an interval of many years that feels closer to decades than anything, his heart skips a beat, not out of trepidation.

However, it being so unwonted does not give it any more sprinkle of an eminence, it persists in being counterfeit. It disintegrates the moment your own heart picks up speed, the moment a blush starts to bloom high on your cheeks because the softness glazing his features is never directed at you.

It is completely foolish, how hope remains an adherent wavering spirit, and it crumbles in the blink of an eyes, right when his eyes shift to somewhere behind you.

“Soojin..” he mutters and your expression falls.

Jake never gets to see it cause he’s out of your sight as soon as her name leaves his mouth. Getting up from his seat and abandoning the papers he had between his hands and you with them, as you look down at them, it’s ironic how your blush subsides, instead you feel as inconsequential as a piece of paper. Trifle.

“Soojin! Fuck are you okay?” He asks once he’s in front of her, hands on her shoulders and his eyes etched with concern as they dart over her figure in a rapid search for any visible wounds, any evidence to pack up his growing anxious feelings but he finds nothing but puffy eyes and a breathy yawn.

“Gosh I was so tired I ended up falling asleep in the car. Sorry for being so late.” She chuckles sheepishly and despite the smile clinging to her ravishing face it isn’t enough to estrange his ghosts, they stay like foreboding shackles tightened around his ankles, dragging him down.

He almost stumbles, shoulders slumping as his overwhelming feelings transform themselves into pure enervation, it is enough for Soojin to take notice of his all-knowing telltale signs of his anxiety and this time she’s the one who holds him, as if she’s ever able to keep pieces of him together.

“Hey, hey I’m okay Jake.” Despite the nod he gives her, his unfocused eyes are an indication of how he’s not actually listening. His worry only starts to melt when she brings his palm right atop her pulse, pressing his fingers right where life beats “I’m okay,” she whispers softly.

“you’re okay.” He repeats, more to himself yet she nods incessantly.

“I’m here. I’m okay.” Her fingers intertwine with his, laced with a pledge to bring ease into his jumbled-up mind and when she squeezes, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he needed to release.

He is constantly overshadowed by exhaustion. And you sit in a corner, gaze locked on their hands, it only irks your uncertainties -akin to his monsters- to raise to the surface. A feeling you’re so inured to stirs in the middle of your chest, it’s not pleasant and it feels like callous hands have made their way inside, clutching it until you feel like you can’t breathe. Not when she’s here.

You pack your papers and leave the room with an unyielding grip, a heavy emotion sits in the Indeterminate territory between you two, your body is colliding against these walls and it’s all too familiar jealousy.

why why why

Jake only notices when he’s calmed down enough, with furrowed eyebrows his eyes scanned the room looking for glimpses of you.

“Good job everyone! That’s all for today!” one of the staff members yells, a cluster of ‘Good job’s is being thrown around, staff walking around to pack a mess the photoshoot had left behind.

Jake slumps in his chair with a sigh, an ache is starting to spread throughout his body, specifically his shoulders. Despite not having a long day of work unlike his usual days he just feels so exhausted. Soojin stands close by munching on a mini croissant, his mini croissant to be specific.

“You could have asked,” he remarks and Soojin only snorts in response.

“I could have,” she shrugs with a smirk tugging at her lips and Jake’s eyes are already rolling “but I didn’t feel like it.”

He finds nothing to say back, instead his eyes are lolling to you, who’s a few steps away from him, writing something down with enormous potency it’s almost comical. You’ve been a little off ever since his little episode earlier today. Avoiding his eyes and only talking when you’re talked to. Truthfully, it’s how Jake wished you to be, but he knows your proclivity for chatter, for loud laughter to know that you’re not okay.

“Bunny.” He doesn’t get a respond.

“yn.” this time you look up, glancing at him with an empty expression.

Ah so you are upset.

With a raised brow and his index finger beckons you to come over, you sigh, making a show of dragging your feet to him.

“Yes?” you ask when you’re in front of him, looking down at him with faux emptiness clinging to the tips of your lashes.

“Could you get me my phone? I left it in my dressing room right on the vanity.” You nod mutely and just as you’re about to leave Soojin speaks up “Oh! I left my phone there too could you grab it please? It’s the one with the red phone case!” she claps her hands together in a plea, a sweet smile spreading across her face and yet an almost eerie silence fills the air as you turn your head to face her.

“You’re talking to me?” there’s an edge to your tone that makes Soojin’s expression fall, her mouth opening and closing a couple of time.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” She trails off, bewildered.

Your lips separates, ready to spit a response and Jake knows the look in your eyes cannot be anything good and so he stands up, walking past you with a demanding “Follow me.” voice laced with enough venom for your words to dissolve on your tongue and you saunter behind him.

Once you’re in his dressing room, the door is locked, and he faces you with crossed arms. The room is leaden with stillness that has your heart picking up speed, your eye contact falls into a familiar dance, lead by tension, vexation and then something that tastes akin to abhor.

“Are you okay?” he asks and despite the shaking of your soul you stay as frigid as stone. The way your eyes flit behind him in avoidance starts to annoy him right away but he pulls on his composure.

“I’m perfect,” sarcasm drips from your voice and his own teeth sink into his bottom lip, thinking of the right words to say.

“You seem pretty upset.”

“It’s your imagination.” The sneer on your face is cruel enough to expose your lousy acting and he only sighs, his hand falling to rest at his hip.

“If you’re tired you can take the rest of the day off, bunny.”

“I’m perfectly fine Jake.”

“Are you sure? I’m just asking because I assume you’re still worried about your brother so you can leave, or you can take the next few days off.” He attempts to lean down, closer to your height in grappling tries to catch your eyes, his words dripping with odd tenderness, it feels foreign in his mouth.

“Oh!” an extravagant widened gaze takes over your face, your feigned coldness is washed away by the heat of your emotions , profoundly.

“I’m sorry if I’m disturbing your little reunion,” this time you’re not running away, this time your hardened stare melts his softness right off him “you’re trying to get rid of me now?”

“What’s with this attitude? Huh? I'm only trying to help." His benevolent demeanor is already fleeing, replaced with stoicism.

“I don’t have an attitude.”

“Yeah, you do. You’re acting like a fucking brat yn.” you breathe out through your nose, you feel your bones shake from within with licks of anger, it matches the fire setting his eyes ablaze.

“How am I acting like a brat?”

“Do I have to spill everything out for you every single time?” he spits, indignation seeping into every word.

“So, when I treat you the same way you treat me, I’m being a brat?”

“So, you do know what you’re doing.” He raises his eyebrow at you in mocking provocation while your eyes start to escape his anew.

“If you’re gonna ignore me then don’t be mad when I do the same.” You mutter in a much smaller voice, and maybe because you sound frangible, curling into yourself as if that will help you appear smaller, shrinking under his gaze that his annoyance subsides for a moment.

He sighs, demolishing his aggravation for a moment.

“I’m sorry bunny I didn’t mean to ignore you. I was just relieved to see Soojin.”

You don’t foresee an apology tumbling out his lips and when it happens it leaves you foundering, not sure how to deal with this mess between you two now. You fall into a discomfiting silence, with callow stubbornness you rake your brain to find something to throw at him, something to blame him for, something that will help quiet down the voice inside of you. yet you come back empty handed.

“Are we good now?” he asks, and you swallow, eyes darting between him and the wall behind him, a yes nor a no wants to find place on your tongue. At the lack of response from you he turns to leave.

You feel foolish as a misplaced proprietorial desire drapes over you when you mutter your next words; “of course you’re going back to her.” A part of you wishes he didn’t hear you, it’s too hideous of a truth for you to admit yet when Jake turns to face you with a twisted expression. Fulfilment engulfs you, knowing you aren’t the only person who cares enough to be drowning in anger.

“Are you jealous?” he jeers.

“I’m not jealous.” Your glare is a flimsy barrier against your veracity.

“You better not be. You and I both know exactly what this is.” He says, pointing at the space between you and him and when your eyebrows scrunch together, he is only grows confused at your anger, doesn’t quite understand what triggered it.

“With the way you keep treating me it’s hard to fucking forget.”

Jake was never really an angry person; he did get annoyed about a lot of things, and many might have considered him sensitive towards a lot of things as well. The list of adjectives to describe him is long and angry isn’t even in his top ten. Yet you, with a flame-like personality and piercing eyes as deep as oceans he only ever sees in his dream, manage to make rage his utmost emotion. You have it rushing through his veins and it’s moments like these when he’s standing in front of you, he feels like nothing but a hurricane of rage and every dark emotion in between.

In an inhale of harsh anger, he has you against the wall, caging your body with a palm flat next to your head, he tilts his head to regard you with a narrowed gaze, doused with wrath that has your knees buckling.

“I’m so sick of having this fucking conversation with you.”

“We don’t have to talk.” You sneer.

“I’m not doing this with you.” he scoffs in disbelief at your words and your eyes only grow harsher with disdain.

“what’s wrong? You can’t fuck me when your dear Soojin is outside?” you mutter atop his lips, your eyes fliting between his mouth and eyes, and the scowl that crawls over his face looks delicious “no. I’m not fucking you because you’re feeling insecure and you don’t know how to deal with your emotions.”

One thing about you, is you’re always as translucent as glass, despite your futile attempts at standing your ground, the way you try to keep your stare as bitter, it all crumbles in front of him and he sees past it all. It’s in the way your eyebrows drop ever so slightly, the way your lips separate with a slight breath as if you felt his words grazing the surface of your heart.

“Keep lying to yourself Jake.”

How do you manage to still get on his nerves? He’s not sure anymore. Even when he cups your face with one hand, denting your cheeks with his fingers.

“Shut the fuck up. You’re pissing me the fuck off.” He spits through gritted teeth, eyes flashing in warning, yet you don’t relent.

“Make me.” you whisper, a smirk curling your lips upwards.

He doesn’t kiss you like he knows you want him to, it’s so evident in the way your eyes fall lidded with hunger, your lips falling open with breaths as you involuntary lean forward with a want for a taste of him. The glint in your eyes, resembles the moon is enough for him to snap, igniting the flame of desire within him and he groans, flipping your body and pressing your chest to the wall, with your wrist between his grip and pressing them into your lower back, a gasp shooting from your lips as you attempt to look back at him.

“Jake what the fu-“

“Shut up.” He growls in your ear, laced by displeasure and overtaken by lust.

Your short skirt gives facile access to his thigh when he nudges it between your legs and against your clothed cunt, an inadvertent shiver courses through your body, every comeback you had conjured up flees your mind and instead a barely audible whimper escapes your lips.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he presses his chest against your back “like the fucking brat you are, so you better take it.” He tells you darkly, his words looming over you and your silence lingers, hanging your head pathetically and he wants to scoff.

For someone who talks so much you fall apart easily every single time.

With a glare set on the back of your head, as if his eyes are bullets that can break through your skull, you shiver when you feel his cold hands remove your underwear. His fingers brush against your folds and wetness meet his hands, a breath of belittlement escapes him, burning the entirety of your face bright red.

“Does pissing me off really turn you on that much?”

You force a swallow, your head lolling into a haze of arousal and your vigour for a quarrel dissolve becoming one with the floor.

“that’s not it-.” You attempt to reply, your words are cut off by a gasp forcing its way out of you when he presses you further against the wall, your cheek centimeters away from it “didn’t I fucking tell you to shut up?” your sanity collapses along with your common sense, intoxicated by his voice “why the fuck are you talking huh?” he taunts and this time you don’t answer, your chest heaving with the proximity.

His fingers loosen from around your wrists, but you keep them where they are, daunted by retribution. They throb, matching the beating of your heart against your ribcage. He leaves behind reddening marks, residue of a rage that only you are able to inflict on him. He moves quickly to remove himself from the confines of his pants.

You turn your head to the side slightly, stealing a glance at him with an idiotic hope that it’s unobtrusive yet they stumble upon his frighteningly nimble.

“Face the wall I don’t want to fucking look at you.” with a scowl plastered across his face, his voice doused enmity has you whimpering, melting the metal of malignant insults right off your brain as you turn to face the wall again.

your body tenses at the feeling of him lining his cock up with your entrance, his hands rough against the skin of your body and when he sinks into you, he doesn’t give you much time to linger for breathing, setting a pace that is nothing less than brutal, one of his hands inches upwards and wraps around your throat driving you to the brink of insanity, you’re constantly fighting against a losing battle and your moans spill endlessly.

“J-jake slow down.” You cry out, your hand reaching for his hips to somehow impede them.

“Quiet.” He hisses, his tone shaking with a groan and you’re even more turned on by his gravel voice “if you make another sound, I’m gonna stop and leave you like this, do you understand?” you could only whimper in response, a piteous sound that feels revolting as it falls upon your ears, you wish to block it yet a prodigious wish takes over, you hope he takes it as enough of affirmative.

He picks up speed, grows harsher with every thrust, not caring if this whole thing is turning vengeful more than anything else, your teeth sink in your bottom lip, banishing your sounds of pleasure and your eyes roll back, you hang your head, exhilaration taking your mind through a whirlwind, your pain and ecstasy tangling together into a song of nothing but sin and loathing.

At a particular harsh thrust you’re launched forward, your cheek pressing against the cold surface and you’re falling apart, eyes falling open lined with tears, and you lock gazes with him unintended. He is not sure if it’s the whine you let out, or your rapture soaked expression, it’s probably your tears shining like specks of glitter on still water. Whatever it is, it has him by his throat, within reach and his anger is lost in between your arousal as he leans forward and takes your lips for his.

Imprisoning you in a curse of passion with his kiss and you let out a wanton moan against his mouth, as if you were dying to feel his lips upon yours.

He fucks you through your orgasm and his.

As soon as the smoke of lust clears up, a contrasting tension fills the heavy breaths between you two. He moves away from you in silence, his limbs filling with aversion towards you and himself for giving in to you. More than anything he’s congested with disenchantment that he hopes his eyes covey when he looks at you.

“you’re acting the same way you acted the first time this happened.” You ridicule, hurt creases your glance and he lets out a humorless laugh that has you frowning.

“I’m still fucking pissed at you.” he’s flooded with disbelief “did you think I was gonna fuck you and then everything was going to be fine?”

You fall silent, lips pressing together and really there you go again, igniting the flame of prickling rage within him. It has him wanting to pull at his hair, he doesn’t understand you, constantly confused by the way your mind works, the emotions swimming in your eyes aren’t close to aiding anything and it only waters his disappointment. Plunges it further into dirt the more he recalls the events of the day.

You blend with everyone else, everyone who sees him as a shiny toy to play with, to ease their inquisitiveness. After that he is nothing.

“Jake-” You start and your words are once again snatched away from you, a knock on the door purloins his attention away from you.

“Jake? Are you still coming to the store opening with me?” Soojin’s voice reverberates from behind the door, like a blade flung at your chest, your fist clenched.

“I’m coming.” He replies, moving to tidy himself and you splutter, hands going through your hair nervously “y-you’re leaving? Just give me a few minutes to sort out myself-“

“You’re not coming with me.”

“What? But I always go everywhere with you.”

“Not this time.”

You mouth opens and closes a couple of times, suddenly your resentment flees your body like a breath of air, nerves taking their place just as quickly, building all the way to your throat.

“I understand you’re mad at me but at least let me do my job.”

“Your job is to listen to me,” his icy eyes flit to your convoluted ones “I’m telling you I don’t need you so you’re not coming.”

He doesn’t give room for your answer to exist, he leaves the room with despondency clinging to his ankles, a headache is already starting to form and his heart is loaded heavy with conflicting emotions that only ever exist because of you. Disappointment slithers its path throughout his being and he’s growing frustrated for letting himself kneel into hope in the first place. How stupid. The feeling lingers even when he’s in the car with Soojin next to him, her concerned eyes glued to him.

"Are you okay?" She asks, her palm envelopes his with warmth and he doesn't have courage to tell her about the emotions that are breaking him down.

He can't tell her.

You’re just like everyone else.

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dee-writes-anime · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 2: A Caged Beast

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY The King of Curses sits upon a throne carved from fear and death, his gaze sharp enough to unravel the soul. In the labyrinthine halls of his estate, survival is not granted—it is earned, one calculated step at a time.

CONTENT WARNINGS Includes detailed descriptions of death and mutilation, particularly during Sukuna's execution of the villagers, heavy focus on the oppressive atmosphere of the estate and the power dynamics between characters, vivid imagery of bloodshed and carnage in the aftermath of Sukuna's actions, includes themes of survival, control, and intimidation within a menacing setting.

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The estate loomed like a shadow carved from stone, its presence oppressive even before it came into view. The path to it was not one meant for the living; it was narrow and twisted, lined with jagged rocks that jutted like broken teeth. The trees here grew too close together, their gnarled branches entwined as though conspiring to keep intruders out—or to trap them within. The air hung heavy, damp and cold, carrying the faint scent of iron and decay.

And then the forest fell away, abruptly and without warning, as though the earth itself had recoiled from what lay ahead. The estate rose from the ground like an ancient wound, its black stone walls gleaming faintly under the pale light of the moon. It wasn’t a place built by hands; it was a place wrenched from the very bones of the earth. Its architecture was jagged and imposing, with towers that clawed at the sky and windows that stared like hollow eyes.

The wars had left their mark here too. While the estate stood as an unshaken monolith, the scars of conflict lingered in its edges. The gates were wide open, though they looked as though they had been wrenched apart rather than designed to welcome. Their iron bars were twisted and blackened, warped by some unimaginable force—perhaps a battle fought long ago, when those foolish enough to defy Sukuna brought fire and fury to his doorstep. The ground beneath the gates was scorched, as if fire had swept through here and left the earth scarred, unable to heal.

Beyond the gates, the courtyard stretched vast and empty, its cracked ground littered with ash and faint traces of what might have once been bones, ground to dust by time and tread. It was hard to tell where the battles had ended and where time itself had simply worn the place down. The wars had not only bled the land dry; they had carved themselves into every stone and shadow here. And yet, the estate endured—unyielding, unbroken. A testament to Sukuna’s power.

The air here was thick, almost viscous, pressing against the skin like a warning. It carried no breeze, no sound save for the faint hum of something unseen, something alive. It wasn’t silence—not truly. It was the absence of life, a void that swallowed sound and left only the pulse of the estate itself, thrumming faintly beneath the surface like a heartbeat. It was as if the estate itself had been forged in the same crucible as the wars—a place that thrived on conflict, not peace.

The walls of the fortress were smooth and seamless, their dark stone interrupted only by red banners that hung limply in the still air. Their fabric was tattered, fraying at the edges, but the sigil upon them was unmistakable: the mark of Ryomen Sukuna. A jagged, curling symbol that seemed to writhe when looked at too long, its meaning as ancient and unknowable as the man who bore it.

The entrance to the estate was grand in its simplicity, a single arched doorway flanked by carved statues that stood twice the height of a man. They were grotesque figures, twisted and monstrous, their faces contorted into expressions of agony or rage. Their stone hands gripped weapons dulled by time, yet they seemed to watch with an intensity that made the air feel colder. Perhaps they had been placed there to guard against the very wars that had once ravaged this land—or perhaps they had simply borne witness to them.

Inside, the estate was no less imposing. The corridors stretched endlessly, their walls lined with torches that burned with a strange, unnatural flame—pale and cold, their light casting shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. The floors were polished stone, dark and reflective, and the faint echo of footsteps seemed to linger longer than it should, as though the space itself remembered every movement within it.

The air was heavy with the scent of something faintly metallic, mingled with the bitter tang of incense that burned from tall braziers placed sporadically along the hall. The smoke curled upward, clinging to the vaulted ceilings like restless spirits, their shapes shifting and twisting in the flickering light.

Every corner of the estate whispered of power. It wasn’t just the architecture or the opulence, though those were undeniable. It was the way the walls seemed to hum with energy, the way the very air seemed alive with something unseen but undeniable. This was not a place untouched by time or conflict—it bore the weight of both, layered into its very foundations. It wasn’t simply a home. It was a monument to survival, a fortress forged by war and steeped in death.

This was not a place that housed a king. This was a place that devoured one.

The corridor leading to the throne room was unlike the rest of the estate. Where the halls before had been wide and echoing, this one narrowed, the walls pressing closer together as if funneling everything toward a single point. The torches lining the way burned brighter here, their pale flames casting sharper, deeper shadows that danced with the flickering light. Each step forward felt heavier, as though the very air were growing denser, pressing down with a palpable weight that made it harder to breathe.

The door at the end of the hall was massive, towering high enough that it seemed to scrape the vaulted ceiling. It was carved from dark wood, its surface etched with intricate patterns that twisted and coiled into shapes that defied logic—symbols that seemed to move if looked at for too long. In the center of the door was a sigil, larger and more ornate than any I had seen elsewhere in the estate. It pulsed faintly, as though alive, the light within it shifting between deep crimson and molten gold.

The guards stationed on either side of the door were statuesque, their faces obscured by black iron masks. Their armor was angular, sharp enough at the edges to cut, and their weapons glinted faintly in the torchlight. They didn’t move as we approached, their stillness unnerving, but the energy emanating from them was unmistakable—a warning, a promise of violence should the boundary be crossed without permission.

Elder Kazu faltered, his steps slowing as we neared the door. I could see his resolve unraveling in the set of his shoulders, the tremor in his hands as they gripped his staff tighter. But he didn’t dare stop. Not now.

The doors creaked open with a sound like grinding stone, the sigil at their center glowing brighter as they parted. The light spilled inward, revealing the throne room in all its terrible grandeur.

The space was cavernous, its sheer size making it feel more like a cathedral than a room. Tall, narrow windows lined the walls, their stained-glass depicting scenes of violence and chaos. The light that filtered through them was muted and blood-tinged, casting streaks of red across the black stone floor. Thick pillars rose to the ceiling, their surfaces carved with grotesque reliefs that seemed to writhe and shift when caught in the corner of the eye.

At the center of it all, raised on a dais of blackened stone, was Sukuna’s throne. It wasn’t crafted with beauty in mind; it was a thing of raw, brutal power. The base was a jagged mass of dark rock, its edges sharp and uneven, as though ripped straight from the earth. The seat itself was polished smooth, its surface gleaming faintly like obsidian, and behind it rose a tall, curved back adorned with spines that arched outward like the ribs of some great beast.

The throne room wasn’t silent—not truly. There was a hum here, low and constant, vibrating in the very air. It wasn’t the hum of life; it was something darker, more primal. It was the resonance of cursed energy, so thick it felt almost tangible, curling against the skin like the touch of an unseen hand. Every breath carried the faint metallic tang of blood, a taste that lingered long after it was drawn in.

Sukuna sat at the throne’s center, his posture deceptively relaxed, as though the very act of ruling required no effort at all. His robe of black and crimson pooled around him, its edges trimmed with gold thread that caught the faint light. His head tilted slightly as his gaze swept over us, his four eyes narrowing with something that was neither approval nor disdain but something in between—a cold, calculating curiosity.

The air grew heavier as his attention landed on me, the weight of his gaze pressing down with the force of a thousand hands. He didn’t speak, not yet, but his silence was as sharp as a blade, cutting through the nervous shuffling of the villagers behind me. They bowed low, their foreheads nearly touching the ground, as though proximity to him required submission.

I stayed standing.

“Is this what you bring me?” Sukuna’s voice cut through the air, sharp and low, dripping with disdain. He didn’t bother hiding the edge of mockery in his tone, his words rolling out slowly, as if he were savoring each one. His four eyes fixed on me—two half-lidded, bored, and the other two razor-sharp and assessing. His grin, faint at first, curled into something more menacing, exposing teeth that gleamed just a little too brightly in the muted, blood-tinged light. “This... is the great danger that plagues your pathetic little village?”

Behind me, Elder Kazu’s knees hit the ground with a dull thud, his forehead scraping against the stone floor as he groveled. “My lord,” he rasped, his voice trembling, “she is a witch—a blight upon our village! She curses the land, poisons the air, and brings death to our children. The sickness, the famine—it is her doing! We beg for your judgment!”

Sukuna didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on me, unblinking, dissecting. Slowly, he leaned forward, his lower hands gripping the jagged arms of his throne while the upper pair rested lightly on his knees. “A blight,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a near-purr. “You don’t look like a blight.”

I kept my chin high, refusing to let his presence swallow me whole. “And you don’t look like a king.”

The room stilled, the air thickening under the weight of my words. Behind me, I could hear Kazu’s sharp intake of breath, the shuffle of the villagers as they recoiled from what they thought might be my death sentence. Even the guards by the door shifted, their hands gripping their weapons more tightly.

Sukuna chuckled. It was a low, sharp sound, empty of warmth. He leaned back in his throne, the motion casual yet impossibly commanding. “You’ve got a mouth on you,” he said, his grin widening. “That’ll make things more interesting—for however long you last.”

I didn’t waver. “If you think that’s a compliment, you’ll have to try harder.”

His lower right hand twitched against the armrest, his grin fading into something more predatory. “Do you know what you’re doing, little witch?” he asked, his tone softening—not with kindness, but with the kind of cold curiosity one might reserve for an insect about to be crushed. “Do you have any idea where you stand? Who you’re speaking to?”

“I know what you are,” I replied evenly. “A monster who’s built his throne on the backs of cowards and corpses. A king only because no one dares to stop you.”

The tension in the room crackled like static, and I felt the weight of his power grow heavier, pressing against my chest like an iron hand. The villagers behind me let out faint whimpers, their fear spilling into the stillness.

Sukuna stood, his movements deliberate and slow, all four arms shifting with a grace that was almost unsettling. He descended the steps of his throne, the sheer size of him casting a long, looming shadow across the room. When he stopped in front of me, the distance between us was barely a breath. His eyes bore into mine, the lower pair gleaming faintly in the dim light.

“And yet,” he said, his voice a low growl, “here you are. Tied up, dragged to me like an offering. And still, you run your mouth.” His grin returned, sharp and humorless. “Is it bravery, or are you simply that stupid?”

“Call it what you like,” I said, forcing the words out past the pressure on my chest. “But I’ve seen what fear does to people. It makes them small. And I’m not small.”

His grin faltered—not in anger, but in something colder, more calculating. He tilted his head slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, like a predator deciding when to strike. His lower left hand moved suddenly, gripping the rope around my wrists. His fingers brushed against my skin, deceptively light, as though testing the strength of the bindings.

“You’re bold,” he said, almost to himself. His tone carried no admiration, only observation. “But boldness without power is nothing but noise.”

“Then it’s a good thing I have both,” I shot back, ignoring the sharp sting of the rope tightening under his grip.

His laughter returned, sharp and biting, echoing off the stone walls. “You think so?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery. “Then tell me, little witch, how long do you think that power will last? A day? A week? Will it keep you breathing when I grow bored?”

I swallowed, the weight of his words digging deeper into the air between us. “That depends,” I said, my voice steady. “How long do you think you can keep me entertained?”

The grin that spread across his face was almost inhuman, his sharp teeth glinting as his upper arms crossed over his chest. “Interesting,” he murmured, the word a quiet threat. He turned away from me, his lower right-hand gesturing toward the trembling villagers. “But you’re not the only one who needs to be taught a lesson.”

Sukuna’s grin sharpened, the flicker of amusement in his expression fading as he turned his gaze from me to the quivering mass of villagers behind. The air grew heavy, suffocating, and I felt the shift before anything happened. It was like the world itself paused, holding its breath in anticipation of something inevitable.

“You bring this mess to me,” he said, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the chamber. “You waste my time with your whining, your begging.” His lower right hand twitched, and the hum of power in the room spiked, crackling in the air like static electricity. “Let me remind you what it means to stand before me.”

The shift was immediate. It wasn’t like a storm gathering—it was the storm itself, unleashed in an instant. The air seemed to implode, drawing in a soundless gasp before erupting outward with a force that made the stone walls tremble.

The first scream was choked off before it could reach its peak. The elder nearest me—Kazu—was the first to fall. His body jerked violently, his hands clawing at his chest as though trying to hold himself together. Blood sprayed from his mouth in a thick, wet arc, splattering the stone floor in a dark, steaming pool. His knees buckled, and he collapsed face-first into the growing puddle, his eyes wide and glassy, staring into nothingness.

The others didn’t fare any better.

One man clutched at his throat, his fingers digging into his skin as if he could stop the blood from pouring out of the deep gash that appeared as if from nowhere. He let out a strangled, gurgling sound before his legs gave out, and he hit the ground with a dull, lifeless thud.

A woman shrieked, stumbling backward as her arm twisted unnaturally, the bones inside snapping with a sickening crack. Her scream was cut short as her chest caved inward, the sound of her ribs shattering echoing through the room. She crumpled like a broken doll, her head lolling at an angle that no living body could sustain.

The last villager tried to run, his legs pumping in a desperate, futile attempt to escape. But he didn’t make it more than three steps before his body jerked to a halt, suspended in midair by an unseen force. Blood burst from his eyes and ears in thin, crimson streams, trailing down his face as his body convulsed violently. With a sharp, wet snap, his neck twisted too far to the side, and he dropped like a stone, his body hitting the floor with a grotesque squelch.

The room was painted in red. Blood pooled across the black stone, steaming faintly in the cold air, its metallic tang thick enough to choke on. It streaked the walls, sprayed in arcs that told the story of each gruesome end, dripping down to join the growing rivers at my feet. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint hiss of cursed energy dissipating into the air.

Sukuna turned back to me, his four eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction, his grin unbothered by the carnage around us. A single crimson droplet clung to the edge of his jaw, stark against his pale skin. He wiped it away with a lazy motion of his lower left hand, smearing it against the black and crimson folds of his robe without a second thought.

“You see,” he said, his voice cutting through the stillness, “this is the difference between me and the rest of you. They beg. They grovel. They die.” He gestured to the broken bodies at his feet, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “You should be grateful. I haven’t decided to do the same to you—yet.”

The room smelled of blood and death, the heat of the carnage still lingering in the air. My chest tightened against the oppressive weight of what I’d just witnessed, but I didn’t flinch. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

“You’re not what I expected,” Sukuna said finally, his voice softening into something almost thoughtful. The grin that returned to his face was as sharp and cruel as ever. “Come, little witch. You’ll live—for now.”

He turned and strode toward the corridor beyond the throne room, his steps slow and unhurried. Blood trailed in his wake, soaking into the black stone, as though the estate itself were feeding on the chaos he left behind.

I hesitated only for a moment before following, my feet carrying me over the warm, sticky remains of what had once been my captors. My wrists ached against the bindings, but I felt none of the sharp pangs of guilt or pity that should have accompanied the sight of their mangled bodies. They had chosen this fate the moment they turned on me.

The King of Curses was no savior. And now, neither was I.

The corridor beyond the throne room was long and dimly lit, the pale torches casting flickering shadows that seemed to stretch and twist as I walked. The oppressive hum of power that had filled the air moments ago lingered, like an echo that refused to fade. Sukuna’s footsteps were silent despite his size, the only sound the faint rustle of his robes as they trailed across the stone floor. My own steps felt unnervingly loud in comparison, the echo of my bare feet against the cold floor following me like a second shadow.

It was then that I saw them.

They appeared as if from the darkness itself, stepping out from a side corridor so fluidly that I almost didn’t register their presence until they were fully in view. Uraume. The name struck something faintly familiar in the back of my mind, whispered in fragmented rumors I had heard over the years—a shadow that followed Sukuna, his most loyal servant, and something far more dangerous than they seemed.

They were tall, though not as imposing as Sukuna, with an elegance that bordered on the unnatural. Their features were sharp and precise, the kind of symmetry that drew the eye and demanded attention. High cheekbones framed a face that was pale and smooth, almost porcelain-like, but their eyes—cold and calculating—were what held me. They were a pale, frosted hue, like ice over deep water, and carried a faint gleam of something unreadable, something dangerous.

Their hair was long and white, pulled back into a single braid that fell neatly down their back, contrasting sharply with the dark, muted tones of their clothing. Their attire was simple yet immaculate—a layered robe of deep gray and black, trimmed with faint threads of silver that caught the dim light as they moved. It was the kind of clothing that spoke of authority and precision, tailored perfectly to someone who needed neither extravagance nor ornamentation to command respect.

Their hands were folded neatly in front of them as they stepped closer, their movements smooth and deliberate, like water flowing over stone. There was no hesitation, no wasted effort—everything about them was calculated, controlled. Their presence wasn’t loud, like Sukuna’s. It was quieter, colder, and somehow just as oppressive.

“My lord,” Uraume said, their voice soft yet firm, with an edge that suggested authority without overstepping. It carried a faint echo, as though the stone halls themselves reverberated with their words. “I see you’ve brought… company.”

Their eyes flicked toward me, sharp and assessing, and I felt the weight of their gaze almost as keenly as Sukuna’s. Unlike him, though, there was no mockery in their expression, no grin tugging at their lips. There was only cold, quiet scrutiny, like they were dissecting every inch of me in their mind and filing the information away for later use.

“She’ll be staying,” Sukuna said simply, not sparing them a glance as he continued walking. His tone was casual, as if declaring someone’s fate was no more significant than commenting on the weather.

Uraume tilted their head slightly, their gaze lingering on me for a moment longer before they turned and fell into step beside him. “As you wish,” they said, their voice devoid of any trace of surprise or disapproval. It was a statement, not an argument, delivered with the kind of deference that came from years of servitude tempered by unwavering loyalty.

Their hands remained folded as they walked, their steps matching Sukuna’s with practiced precision. There was something unnerving about the way they moved, as if they were an extension of Sukuna himself—silent, deadly, and ever-watchful.

“You’ll want to prepare a room for her,” Sukuna added, his lower left hand waving dismissively toward Uraume. “Something… adequate.”

“As always,” Uraume replied smoothly, their tone betraying nothing. They glanced at me again, their frosted eyes narrowing faintly. “Will she require supervision, my lord?”

Sukuna chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a chill down my spine. “She’s bold, not foolish,” he said, his grin returning. “She won’t try anything—yet.”

Uraume didn’t respond immediately, their gaze shifting back to the corridor ahead. “I will see to it,” they said finally, their voice as measured as ever.

Though they spoke to Sukuna, I could feel their attention on me, subtle but unyielding. It wasn’t suspicion, exactly. It was more like the watchfulness of someone who had seen too much to be caught off guard, someone who calculated every risk and every outcome before it could unfold.

They were unlike Sukuna in many ways—colder, quieter, less openly cruel—but their presence was no less commanding. If Sukuna was the storm, Uraume was the ice that followed, slow and creeping, freezing everything in its path until there was nothing left but silence.

Sukuna slowed his steps, glancing over his shoulder at me, the faintest flicker of amusement still tugging at the edges of his grin. “I’ve seen enough for now,” he said, his voice low and dismissive. “Follow Uraume. They’ll see that you don’t get lost or... cause trouble.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. The weight of his words pressed down like the snap of a chain, the finality of his tone leaving no room for argument. Without another glance, he strode ahead, his broad shoulders and flowing robes disappearing into the darkness of the corridor.

Uraume stepped forward smoothly, their movements precise and quiet, the faint rustle of their robe the only sound as they gestured for me to follow. “This way,” they said simply, their voice cool and controlled, neither welcoming nor hostile.

I hesitated for only a moment before stepping into place behind them. The air was heavy with the faint metallic tang of blood and the lingering hum of Sukuna’s power. My bare feet moved silently over the cool stone floor, though every step felt loud in comparison to Uraume’s, their movements so fluid and practiced they seemed to glide through the dimly lit corridor.

The estate was a labyrinth. The corridor stretched endlessly ahead, its high, arched ceiling supported by columns of dark stone etched with faint carvings. The designs were intricate but worn, their meaning long since lost to time, though they seemed to shift faintly in the flickering light of the pale torches mounted along the walls. The flames burned unnaturally steady, their pale, ghostly light casting shadows that stretched and twisted like living things.

“Your defiance,” they said suddenly, their voice breaking the silence without warning, “is not something we often see in this place.”

I blinked, surprised by the observation. Their tone wasn’t accusing or mocking—it was observational, almost neutral. “I’m not here to bow,” I replied carefully. “That much should be clear.”

They glanced at me over their shoulder, their pale, frost-colored eyes narrowing slightly. “It’s clear,” they said, their tone as cool as ever. “But clarity is not always an advantage here. Sukuna values strength, yes—but he values control far more. You would do well to remember that.”

There was no malice in their words, but there was a warning, a quiet, measured truth that lingered in the air between us. I didn’t reply immediately, letting their words settle as we turned another corner. The halls seemed endless, each one blending into the next with their dark stone walls and flickering torchlight.

“And you?” I asked finally, my voice breaking the stillness. “Do you value control?”

Uraume didn’t answer right away, their head tilting slightly as though considering the question. “I value survival,” they said at last. “Control is simply a means to that end.”

We turned a corner, the corridor opening into a vast hall that stretched upward into darkness. Massive banners hung from the high ceiling, their red and black fabric tattered at the edges but still bearing Sukuna’s jagged sigil in stark, unmistakable contrast. The walls here were lined with alcoves, each holding a stone statue of a figure twisted and grotesque, their faces contorted in agony or rage. Some clutched weapons, their stone blades dulled by time, while others seemed to reach outward, their hands frozen mid-plea or accusation.

“This is the Hall of Conquest,” Uraume said as we passed, their voice steady but carrying the faintest note of reverence. “A monument to the victories Sukuna has claimed—and the warnings he leaves for those who think to challenge him.”

The statues seemed to watch as we passed, their empty eyes hollow and accusatory. The air in the hall was colder, each breath forming faint clouds that lingered before dissipating. I kept my gaze forward, though the weight of their stares pressed against my back like a silent accusation.

“Do you enjoy serving him?” I asked suddenly, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

Uraume stopped, turning their head slightly to glance at me. Their pale eyes narrowed faintly, though their expression remained unreadable. “Enjoyment is irrelevant,” they said. “I serve because it is necessary.”

Their response was calculated, guarded, but there was no hesitation in their words. It was as they had said, it wasn’t loyalty for the sake of devotion—it was loyalty for the sake of survival.

We continued walking, the corridor narrowing again, the ceiling dropping lower as the walls grew closer. Here, the torches burned brighter, their light illuminating faint carvings etched into the stone. The patterns were intricate and chaotic, twisting and coiling like vines, though closer inspection revealed shapes hidden within—faces, claws, teeth, all blending into the design as if they were part of the stone itself.

“This place is alive,” I said quietly, more to myself than to Uraume.

“It is,” they replied, their tone matter-of-fact. “And it remembers. Every victory, every failure, every death—it’s all here, etched into the walls, the floors, the air. Sukuna ensures that nothing is forgotten.”

We stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, its surface dark and worn but polished to a faint sheen. It was unmarked save for a single carving at its center—a jagged, curling sigil similar to the one that adorned Sukuna’s banners, though smaller and less ornate. Uraume pushed it open with a single, fluid motion, stepping aside to let me enter first.

The room was modest but far from unpleasant. A low bed rested against the far wall, its dark wood frame sturdy and adorned with thick blankets of muted crimson and black. A small table stood beside it, a single candle flickering atop its surface, casting faint shadows across the stone walls. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of incense, though its source was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s sufficient,” Uraume said, stepping inside behind me. Their tone was as measured as ever, but their pale eyes lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary, sharp and assessing. “You’ll rest here until you’re summoned.”

I turned to face them fully. “You seem certain I’ll last long enough to be summoned again.”

They tilted their head slightly, their expression still calm but unreadable. “That remains to be seen,” they said. “But should you prove capable, it would not be... unwelcome.”

There was a faint weight to their words, a subtle shift in tone that made me pause. It wasn’t a promise or even an offer, but it carried a seed of something that might grow into respect if nurtured.

“Do you always speak so carefully?” I asked, folding my arms.

Uraume didn’t answer immediately. Instead, they stepped back toward the door, their hands folding neatly in front of them once more. “Careful words keep one alive in this place,” they said finally. “You’d do well to learn that.”

With that, they turned and stepped out into the corridor. “The door locks from the inside,” they said over their shoulder, their tone carrying the faintest edge of warning. “Use it.”

The door closed with a soft thud, leaving me alone in the flickering light of the room. The shadows cast by the single candle stretched and twisted across the walls, like echoes of the estate’s living memory. I sank onto the edge of the bed, the faint hum of the estate still pressing against my senses. Uraume’s words lingered in the air, their quiet warning and subtle weight weaving into the silence.

Respect wasn’t given here, but perhaps it could be earned.

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE back at it again with another chapter of this series! I've been having fun finally getting this out of my head and into a doc. Fun fact though, I am not a writing god. Meaning I am not writing 10,000 plus words in two days, but rather, these posts are scheduled for certain days of the week! I only wish I was that fast at editing. T-T

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#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sorcerer #gege when i catch you gege #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jjk ryomen #jujutsu sukuna #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen x reader #jjk #king of curses #witch reader #witch #witchcore #witch aesthetic

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