#//something something forged in agony

[last-solarian]

Let’s say, somehow, you could pick any of the Solarians, Sols, various Legion machines/soldiers, viruses, or other abominations that have accounts on this website, but only 3 of them. You are able to spend a day with each of them, one day, one on one, with these three days being in succession. Who would you pick, which day, and what would you do with them?

At least one of them would be Ji, since I've long since figured out he's a fellow immortal (if MUCH older than I am), and that'd be an interesting conversation, probably (which I REALLY feel like his immortality is THE worst kept secret of all time, or am I reading the room wrong?)

Other than that, no clue, to be honest- I'm pretty used to solitude (...At least nowadays)

Also I'm pretty sure the Tianhuo could hear me if I spoke into one of the flowers here, so I'm not counting them for this hypothetical (...it?)

[celestial-spectre-shuigui]

Sleep, hah. What an odd construct. It is not soemthijgn one who is not organxic such as I have to worry abour

Whar

No

[tiny-space-platypus]

A King and a Prince

Danny screamed.

He screamed and screamed, using his ghostly wail until his voice shattered and his throat was raw with the echoes of his own agony. He wailed even after the battle was won. After the last of the GIW had fallen, even after Vlad’s final, gasping breath had faded into silence. He wailed as Amity Park crumbled around him, as the last flickering lights of his home were swallowed by ruin.

It didn’t matter.

No one was left to hear him.

No one left to be farmed by his despair.

He had outlasted them all—the Guys in White, Vlad, even Pariah Dark himself. He had survived, clawing his way through blood and betrayal, only to realize, too late, that survival was the cruelest fate of all.

He had lost everything.

His home—reduced to rubble. His friends—gone and buried beneath the wreckage of the school. Their last standing ground from the GIW's control or maybe blissfully scattered to the winds. His family—torn apart, mom and dad dead by his hands. Not purposely but they had picked their side. Jazz dead by theirs attempting to protect him. Their laughter, the happy family they were, now just a ghost in his hollow chest. His city, his obsession, his afterlife—all ashes, all dust. And what had he gained? A crown of thorns, a throne he never wanted. The title of King Phantom, ruler of the dead, sovereign of a graveyard empire.

He built a council. He forged a government. He crafted a system that could run without him—because he could not rule, not when every decree tasted of blood, not when every whisper of his subjects sounded like the voices of the lost. Not when he was so lost.

So he vanished.

Not in triumph, not in secrecy—but in surrender. He would sleep. Finally really sleep. He would sleep for centuries, for millennia even, until the worlds forgot his name. Until the stars themselves burned cold. Until even the memory of his suffering was nothing more than a sigh in the dark. And maybe, just maybe, if he slept long enough… he would forget, too.

Fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Danny awoke to crying.

Not the wailing of the long-dead, nor the hollow sobs of forgotten spirits—but the raw, shuddering pleas of someone new. A voice too young, too broken, gasping between tears:

"Please—"

"Dad, I’m sorry—"

"B, you promised—"

Danny blinked slowly, his limbs heavy from his long sleep. His mind swam in fog, his body sluggish, as if moving through deep water. But the sound, a sound too familiar to ignore, pulled him forward, guiding him through the mist of his own exhaustion until he found the source—a boy.

A small, bloodied thing in a torn costume of green and red and gold, hunched over his own grave.

Danny’s chest ached.

Oh.

A newly dead. A child. One so much like him, once. Danny watched him for awhile. Days maybe? It had been such a long time since he had needed to keep track of time... He stepped closer, his voice soft as settling dust. "Hey."

The boy jerked upright, his masked face streaked with inky tears. "You—you can see me?"

Danny huffed a quiet laugh. "Oh, so he does talk."

The boy stared, trembling, his breath hitching. Danny knelt—not too close, not too far—and tilted his head. "My name’s Danny. What about you?"

The boy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "My name? My name is… My name is…?" His voice cracked, panic rising like a tide. "My name—my name—?" He didn't remember. Not many ghostlings did.

"Hey, hey," Danny murmured, reaching out—not to touch, but to offer. With a thought, he summoned a little blob ghost, its form wobbly and bright, and placed it gently in the boy’s lap. The creature nuzzled against him, purring like a gooy contented cat. The boy’s hands stilled. Then, hesitantly, he began to pet it.

Danny smiled. "A name doesn’t have to be a name," he said softly. "It can be anything you’d like."

The boy swallowed. "...Robin," he whispered. "I’m Robin."

"Robin," Danny repeated, like it was something precious. "It’s good to meet you, kid."

A beat of silence. Then, small and scared:

"Am I dead?"

Danny’s core clenched. He let himself float just a little, settling cross-legged in the air, making himself smaller, lesser. "You are," he admitted gently. "I’m sorry, Robin."

The boy—Robin—choked on a sob. "Is that why Dad wouldn’t—why he didn’t—?" Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Robin crumpled.

Without thinking, Danny reached out and gathered him close, tucking the boy against his chest the way Jazz had once held him so very long ago—after bad nights, after bad fights, after the world had been too much. "I know," he murmured, rocking him slightly. "I know. It sucks. It’s not fair. But you’re not alone, okay? Never alone." Robin shuddered, his tiny fists clutching Danny’s cloak of stars. Danny felt the threats forming, a soul bond. He had had one will Elle, with clockwork, with few others. A bond of trust.

Danny didn’t hesitate. He let his ecto unwind, warm and golden green and royal, and carefully, so carefully, began to mend the fractures in Robin’s soul. The pain, the fear, the jagged edges of a death too soon and too violent. The death of someone trying to be a hero—he took them into himself, replacing the hurt with quiet, with safety. Slowly, Robin’s breathing evened. His weight grew heavy against Danny’s shoulder.

Asleep.

Not that ghosts needed sleep. But children did. Danny exhaled, looking around the graveyard—at the other small, lost shades watching from the shadows. His chest tightened.

…He could help them.

Just for today. Just for now. He could make Gotham a little lighter. And maybe, just maybe, it would help Robin, too—to have something familiar.

Robin followed Phantom like a shadow—or, more accurately, like a small, determined firefly, darting after the king’s trailing cloak as he moved through Gotham’s gloom. Honestly the child was a little beacon of light. Bright like a little firefly.

At first, he simply watched.

Phantom moved like a whisper between worlds—guiding lost shades toward peace, nudging lingering spirits toward unfinished business, even coaxing the living, stubborn bleeding-hearted vigilantes, into just the right places at just the right times. They never knew they were being helped, of course. But Robin saw.

And slowly, he began to copy.

A nudge here—a whisper there. A flicker of movement to draw a grieving widow’s eye to a hidden letter. A gentle tug on a cape to steer a batarang just wide enough to avoid a fatal blow. Gotham, ever so slightly, began to brighten.

And so did Robin. So much brighter than the dead boy Danny had met. He had even taught the boy to change his form from his one in death to a Robin in life. He was so much brighter not covered in blood and debris..

Phantom watched, warmth curling in his core, as the boy—his little prince—blossomed. Robin laughed as he flew, spinning through the air like a fallen leaf caught in the wind. He chattered to the other ghosts, coaxing even the shyest shades out of their hiding spots. He guided lost souls with a patience that belied his age, his voice soft but steady—"It’s okay, you’re safe now"—and when they finally faded into peace, he turned to Phantom with stars in his eyes.

"Did you see! I did it on my own!"

Phantom ruffled his hair. "Yeah, kid. I saw."

And oh, the way Robin glowed.

He was happy here. Happy to help, happy to fly, happy to tuck himself under Phantom’s arm after a long night and murmur about all the things he’d seen, all the people he’d saved. Gotham was still dark. But now, there were pinpricks of light—like stars or tiny, stubborn sparks—where before there had been none. And at the center of them all, brighter than any ghost light, was Robin.

[griddleharkbrainrot]

I’m currently thinking about how John and Co. refused to call Alecto by her name. They named her fury and vengeance but could not acknowledge what made her thus. They call her Annie Laurie, reducing her to her looks, those so inhuman and frightening yet beautiful all the same. John gave her the name Annabel Lee, naming her existence as a tragedy in that she was his love lost. In both instances the literary references reduce the woman mentioned to nothing but set dressing for the man of the story and it truly betrays John’s thoughts on Alecto for as much as he claimed to love her, he sees her only as the stepping stone for his own story. “For John so loved her that he had made her she. For John had loved the world.” And that is the crux of the matter, John had loved the world but she is not the world, she is its fury. John wanted her to be calm beaches and lapping waves, he wanted a wife, sister, mother, and daughter all in one, but instead, he got 7 million silenced voices crying out in agony, furious at the injustice done to them. I think subconsciously he understood that when he named her Alecto, fury of wrath from Greek Mythology. But even if he had called her Gaia she would still be furious, for was it not Gaia who gave her children the scythe to kill her husband? Was it not Gaia who roared and shrieked to the depths of Tartarus when her children were torn from her arms? The first bearer of prophecy was forged from the grief and rage of an anguished mother; the earth has always been furious. John’s fatal flaw was that he could not comprehend that the rage was for him. He who promised love and safety but cut and stripped her soul stole her children and butchered her corpse. John could never truly comprehend that what he deemed his perfect creation could resent him the way she did. He took her away and reforged her into something she could never be. John denies the resentment Alecto feels for him and we can see this reflected in how he refers to her. John is the sort of man who thinks that if he sees a woman as nothing but her looks, he can make her lesser. To him, she is Annie Laurie of beautiful bust and a personality nonexistent; To him, she is Annabel Lee, a woman so pure and lovely that the angels stole her away from him. Subconsciously, the lyctors have adopted this as well, calling her these names out of fear and not realizing the implications of what they are doing. Even in writing, she is A.L. to them because somewhere deep down they know that to name her wrath is to invite it and invoke it. John believed that if he could compress the Earth into a beautiful shell then he could control it. The Earth has been around for far longer than he could ever truly comprehend, and she is furious.

For @commanderbabygirl thoughts?

I did not realize just how many opinions I had on this until I started typing

[toms-cherry-trees]

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.

[sv3t1ana]

Thinking about Husband!Sukuna with his stupid little wife. (739 words)

Sukuna is a king. Grumpy, ancient, borderline-sadistic, a being whose name alone would send entire nations into panic. He once ruled entire regions with a flick of his clawed finger. Of course, his sanctum still stands with sprawling halls and servants who keep their heads down unless spoken to. His throne has seen more executions than conversations.

And now he’s married to you.

You, his absurd little wife.

The thing is, Sukuna’s interacted with humans his whole life. He’s bathed in their blood, cursed their lineage, swallowed them whole.

But you were something else entirely. You came into his life one day like a raccoon through a doggy door, all chaotic, demanding snacks, and absolutely fucking impossible to get rid of.

-

Like clockwork, he settled into bed beside you after a long day of doing God knows what (Tending to the cursed realm? Massacring a clan?) He sighs, muscles relaxing as he’s pulling the silk covers over his tired frame.

And then his entire body goes rigid.

“I told you─no eating in bed.”

You glance up at him, pout already in place. “But I was hungry earlier.”

He throws the covers back as if they’ve betrayed him. The bed, his bed, is now a wasteland of crumbs, evidence of your rendezvous of whatever snack his era would consider garbage. He stares, expression that of a man who’s just been told his empire was conquered by ants─and that wasn’t really so far off from the truth.

“This is sacred,” he hisses. “This is a fortress of slumber.”

You just crawl into his lap and kiss his cheek, already forgiven in your mind.

He’s slaughtered kingdoms for far less. But for you, he’ll only seethe in silence before getting Uraume to change the sheets.

-

Then there are moments where your behavior is so detrimental to his legacy he begins to question whether binding his soul to yours was truly a wise decision.

“You used an enchanted dagger to open a box of Pop-Tarts?”

You’re sitting cross-legged, happily chewing on a blueberry pastry and barely sparing him a glance. “It was really hard to open, ‘Kuna.”

“That blade was forged in agony. It has been blessed in blood. It howls when drawn.”

“Yeah, it did kinda make a weird noise when I stabbed the foil.”

He’s silent. Processing.

“Anyway, please tell Uraume to get more of this flavor. I don’t like the weird brown sugar ones.”

He mutters something in a dead language as he turns away, mentally tallying the amount of shrines that needed a good burning to cleanse your disrespect. But later that night, you’re asleep in his four arms, legs tangled with his while his cursed energy pulses low and steady around you both like a purring furnace.

And yes, Uraume does return (rather quickly, as per his request) from their next mission with another six-pack of blueberry Pop-Tarts.

-

However, one of his lowest moments was when you finally convinced him, after two whole years, to get a smartphone.

You nearly cried when he unboxed it. He scowled at it like it was a cursed relic. “Foolish woman,” he muttered, trying to press the screen with fingers better suited for ripping out ribcages.

-

One day, post-battle and freshly showered with his wet hair cascading down his back, you did the mistake of saying his hair looked slay.

“…Who must I slay?”

“No no, slay, like, slay queen.”

“There is no queen. She has been devoured for centuries.”

You just giggle, pressing kisses into his chest.

-

And then there’s the drama recaps you give him.

You’ll sit beside the King, dressed in one of his ancient robes, face deadly serious as you recount the horrors of online beef.

“…So she soft-launched her situationship with the dude who used to date her sister, but then her sister hard-launched a new guy like five minutes later. Twitter was in shambles.”

Sukuna stares at you like you’ve just spoken in tongues even he doesn't know.

“Bring me this ‘Twitter.’ I shall slaughter him myself.”

-

But despite everything, the memes, the crumbs, the cursed dagger Pop-Tarts, and your insistence on calling him “babygirl” when he walks into the chambers shirtless, he adores you.

His chaos gremlin.

His wife.

He may rule over death, but only you rule over him.

It wasn’t even two weeks after the phone arrived that he looked you dead in the eyes and said,

“You burnt the cookies, woman. I ratioed you.”

You blinked. He blinked in response.

He’ll fold for you every time. Even if you eat hot chips in bed again or call him “my little meow meow” in front of the servants.

He’s yours.

So fully, tragically, and unironically yours.

more husband!Sukuna hcs here

[eelliotss]

— 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!

[idkyetxoxo]

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

[andy-15-07]

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.

[cookierunoutofideas]

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.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

“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."

[kingdom-of-sins]

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.

[itsabouttimex2]

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.”

[ponderingmoonlight]

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 🤍

[littlelovelunette]

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."

[ac-liveblogs]

The one thing really sticking out to me is Galahad's contract with Lilith.

Lilith got summoned without a Master on the Bleached Earth. She was going to die alone, but Galahad formed a contract with her, thereby saving her life.

Galahad was intended to serve as the Gatekeeper to Antarctica. He was being used by Marisbury to summon more Servants (the Foreign Apostles), and would've had to fight us. Prior to Ordeal Call 4, that is a fight we would have lost.

But, Galahad and Lilith got dragged into Metatron's singularity. And a new opportunity appeared - for Mash to grow beyond Shielder, to reject Ruler, and become Shielder Paladin. Galahad wanted her to be a Ruler; Lilith wanted her to languish in agony as Shielder. Instead, Mash forged her own Saint Graph - something that required her to understand herself, and what she wanted to fight for... and what she wanted to fight against. And even more importantly, why.

She needed Ritsuka and Habetrot and her friends so that she could understand this... she needed Lilith for that as well.

Like Galahad said in Lostroom, the world was doomed. Daybit Sem Void wanted to unleash ORT to stop CHALDEAS plan, and Galahad thought that even Goetia's scheme would have been a better outcome than the unpreventable future set to come.

Until now. Until Mash became Paladin. A brand new possibility that could not have been predicted has appeared, and now Chaldea has a chance - something they didn't have before this moment - to stop CHALDEAS and reverse the bleaching.

So now, there's a chance. There's a chance the world can be saved. Because Mash saw her destiny and said "no, I will not follow the two roads that are laid out for me. I'll pave my own."

But also because Galahad, just like Ritsuka, saw a dying girl and reached out to her.

Why would Mash ever lose faith in Galahad? In the moment where it counted, he made the exact same choice that Ritsuka did.

[prettyshinnythings]

The Offering. Chapter 5

Story Idea: What if Sauron had been successful? What if he'd taken all of Middle Earth and obtained everything he ever desired? What if he still desired something more?

Warnings: This chapter is 18 plus. Contains smut, language, and an arranged marriage.

Chapter is unedited!

Pairings: Sauron x Reader

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5:

I awoke in agony.

Covered in sweat and exhaustion.

My eyes opening quickly and without a moment to adjust.

A gasp falls from my lips when my eyes open as I come back to life once more. A flood of memories flickers in my mind as I come to. Images of what happened flash across my mind in quick succession, my body overstimulated with how much information that pulsates through me.

There had been an attack on my husband... The spear destined for him I had taken in his place.

'I should be dead.'

I think to myself as I recall the pain I had felt the moment the pointed end had pierced my body. I feel the phantom pain move through me right where the blade had gone through my chest. The pain worsening when I sit up from the bed I had been laying in. Absent mindedly my left hand reaches out to touch the spot on my chest, feeling the bandage that now covered where I had been struck. It is a good sized bandage, white cotton that binds my chest together. It is so tight that I feel as though the bandages alone are what are keeping me together at this very moment. I breathe in a shallow breath, unable to breathe any deeper because of the pain. I glance down at the bandage again and that is when the silver band on my ring finger catches my eye. It is a beautiful ring, silver with a red oval stone centered on the band. It is elegant and unlike anything I have ever seen before.

"I made that for you little one."

My husband's voice sounds from somewhere within the room. I had been so focused on my pain and the memories that brought me to this moment that I had not properly taken in my surroundings. Slowly, I peer up from the ring and find him standing mere feet away. He stands straight, his eyes studying me closely. I cannot read the expression on his face nor the tone of his previous words. I look at him in caution before pulling my gaze from his to the room we are currently in. Wherever we were, it was a room that I had not yet seen before this moment. I recognized the stone work of Sauron's castle and the gothic architecture of his home, but this must have been a room I had to explore in my few days as his wife. My eyes meet the firelight across the room, the fire of a forge. My husband's forge was beautiful, so beautiful that I knew it could rival that of Lord Celebrimbor's forge from the second age. I knew nothing of my husband's craft, but I could appreciate the beauty of the room. Momentarily I wondered if he had placed the bed in here to watch over me as he worked.

There is a silence that hangs between my husband and I as I dare to look upon his handsome face once more. His expression still unreadable. I open my mouth to speak, but he puts his hand up to stop me.

"If you ever think about putting yourself in my path to stop another assassination attempt on my life again I shall punish you thoroughly."

He scolds me and I cannot help the confusion that flickers across my face and the instant frustration the builds within me. Was he seriously angry with me for defending him? For risking myself to save my own husband? I see red as I look at him.

"Are you truly angry with me for saving you? I did it out of love Mairon."

The tone I use with him is foreign and I can tell by the glint in his eyes that he does not know what to make of my outburst. I was a compliant wife. A quiet wife. But at this moment I cannot understand how he could be mad wih me. For a moment he mentally debates on how he will respond to me, eyes looking me up and down. After a moment more of consideration he strides across the room, bridging the gap between the both of us. Only stopping when he has reached the side of the bed.

"I understand why you did it little dove. But do you have any idea what I would do if I ever lost you. I am a Maia, we are much harder to kill, but elves..."

He pauses looking away from me, his jaw tight and his eyes filled with devastation.

"... Elves are easier to kill and I do not want a world that does not have you in it."

My breathing hitches at his words. The frustration that had built up within me is extinguished with a few words. Instantly, I feel bad for immediately reacting with anger. I had not considered how he would feel if I died. I guess a part of me thought he would replace me with another wife. There was nothing about me that was extraordinary, but it appeared the he truly did care for me. Reading my mind, he shakes his head and sits beside me on the bed, his hands in mine.

"I more than care for you (y/n). I would do anything for you. I would set this world aflame if you asked. I would give up everything I had worked so hard to build if you asked. What we have is more than love, there is not a word the fully captures the complexities of what we have."

He finishes speaking with desperation in his eyes. A desperation for me to understand him and the way he felt. The way I knew I would feel if I ever lost him. It was the very reason I had pushed him away from the spear and took it in his place.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you. I love you Mairon, I just wanted to protect you."

He gives me a smile, the lines by his eyes crinkling. He gently rubs his fingers along mine as we hold each other's hands. He leans in to kiss my forehead as his fingers toy with the ring on my finger.

"There is mithril in this ring, it is was once healed the great tree of Valinor. I made sure to infuse it with the metal I used for your band. It is what healed the last of the infection that you have been fighting. The poison on the spear blade got into your blood and clung on for dear life as you fought against it. The nurse maids used all sorts of elvish medicine to get the infection out. They got most of the infection out, but after a fortnight I knew there was only one other option I had to get the rest of it out. So I made this ring and I'll ask you not to take it off in case anything like that ever happens again. Promise me?"

I mull over his words, my brain moving a million miles a second as I realize he had said I had the infection for a fortnight. Which meant I had been out of commission for over two weeks at this point. I could not believe the time I had lost nor the bitterness that I felt deep within me. I had two weeks of my life taken from me.

"I promise."

Is all I can say as I dare to look back at him, our eyes locking together. He sees the devastation on my face and I know that he feels for me. I see his chest heave up and down as be breathes a deep sigh, pulling me in against him. Wrapping me in an embrace whilst he rests his head atop mine. He is warm and comforting and I am beyond thankful that he saved me.

"Do not fret my darling wife. The elf responsible has paid or maiming you..."

His voice is darker when he says this. It is a sharp contrast to the softness of his touch.

"... He was publically excuted for all to see. Burned like a witch at the stake. A warning to anyone who might think of harming you and I. He shall never harm you again little dove."

There's an underlying tone of madness in his voice. Something that should have concerned me, but it did not. All I could think about was how much I believed that the elf had gotten what was coming to him in the end. He attacked his king and queen so he suffered he consequences. And though a part of me mormally would have felt bad that a death of any kind had occurred, I could not bring myself to care.

If someone wanted to harm my king then they deserved to burn for it. And next time I wanted to be the one lighting the match. The thought causes my husband to chuckle darkly as he holds me tight.

"Careful darling..."

 He rasps before pulling back to look at me, his lips mere inches from mine. Something about the way my dark thought excites him and I can see it in his eyes. There is a touch of darkness within me that he is fascinated by, a thread he wants to pull on so he can see me unravel.

"...Thoughs of revenge can lead to corruption."

My breathing hitches when he whispers the words. His eyes a few shades darker than they had been before. How was it that he could arouse me so thoroughly without making a move? I felt as though we were connected within our minds in a way that was stronger than it had been before I had been injured. As if my action had proven my loyalty and now he was willing to fully let me in. I cannot help but smile at the thought, my hands reaching out to touch either side of his face. Normally I let him initiate the touches we shared as if he would deny me if I did not wait for his initiation. But this time I felt braver, more comforable with the man before me. He does not pull away when I touch him, instead he leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed as my fingers trace along his jawline.

"My love, you corrupted me the second you fucked me with your cock."

I whisper the vulgarities in a sweet breath, my eyes fixated upon his face. I note the smirk that tugs at the corner of his lips when I say this. His sweet compliant little wife daring to utter such naughty words. I feel as hough I am seeing him for the first time, his clean shaven face is soft underneath my fingertips. I find myself inching closer until my lips are against his, slowly we kiss as if we are afraid that I might break into a thousand pieces. A gasp falls from my lips as his hands find my hips. He is gentle as he manuevers me where he wants me, my legs on either side of his hips, his covered cock directly below my covered sex. Intentionally cautious, he breaks the kiss and leans his head against mine. His breathing is uneven and hungry for more.

"We should not keep going. You are still weak from the attack. I cannot take advantage of you when you are still healing."

He sounds so sweet when he says this, his words are a clear contrast to his body. He holds me to him, his bulge straining against my sex. We both know what we want, injuries be damned. 

"I want you Mairon. You are not taking advantage of me if this is what I want."

My voice maintains its whisper as we stare at each other in quiet hunger. Our breathing still uneven. I can see that he wants to protest, but I can also see how badly he wants this as much as I do.

"Please."

I ask as sweetly as I can muster, my hands moving from his face down to his chest and then lower. His eyes more intense with every movement that my hands make lower along his body. My hands stop at the top of his trousers, my fingertips tracing over the button of his pants.

"You little minx. How am I supposed to do what is right when you ask so sweetly?"

I keep my wide-eyed gaze as I undo the button. He lifts his hips when I pull the fabric of his trousers down, his cock freed from their confines. I cannot help the smile that plays on my lips when I see how hard he is. In hesitance I look up at him to make sure that it is okay for me to do what I suddenly feel compelled to do... Put his throbbing cock in my mouth. He looks at me and really thinks it over, contemplating whether he wants us to continue or if he means to shut this down before it goes any further. I can feel him in my mind as he probes around before making his decision.

He does not say a word aloud before nodding for me to continue. Maintaining eye contact I shimmy down his legs so I have better access to his cock. It is only once I am comfortable that I lean forward, tongue lightly licking up the length of his member. I am slow as my tongue toys with him, licking up and down before guiding him into my mouth. His hands move to my hair and a low groan brushes past his lips as I take him as deeply as I can. My tongue darting over his swollen tip, tasting his pre-cum as I work my mouth.

"(y/n)."

My name comes out of his mouth in a heated moan, I watch him closely as he leans his head back against the headboard of the bed. His eyes close and a look of bliss overtakes his handsome face. This was the first time I had ever been brave enough to do something like this with my husband and now that I have seen his reaction, I knew I already could not wait to do it again. He seemed competely at my mercy in this moment. Vulnerable and powerful at once. When I lick over the tip of his cock once more, his jaw clenches and his hips buck up. He thrusts himself deep into the back of my throat as I continue sucking him. A few times he thrusts himself so deeply into my mouth that I gag, but it only turns me on more. His hands move to lace themselves in my hair, gently tugging at the strands as the two of us fall into a rhythm. My mouth is all to happy to match his movements and I can feel that he's nearly ready to fall over the edge.

"I am going to cum (y/n) and I want you to swallow every last drop."

A chill moves up my spine when he speaks, his tone cold calculating. A deviation from the softness in his eyes as we stare each other down, neither of us stopping what we are doing whilst we do this. I cannot verbally response, but he can see my response in the way that I look at him. That I am hungry for whatever he wants to give me. His thrusts are deep, in my mouth. As far as I can handle, but he is cautious with me as if I will break if he moves any quicker. But I just focus on the ways my tongue can tease him, my tongue tracing over the veins in his cock as he finally spills over. His cock twitches as he coats the inside of my mouth with his spent seed. I swallow and lap every drop that twitches into my mouth until there's nothing left, only then do I release him from my mouth.

He pulls me in against him, his hands on either side of my face as he studies me. I am suddenly very tired and the energy I had seems to have been depleated. My eyes feel heavy and my mind suddenly feels as if it is world's away. He studies me closely and I know that he can see the new wave of exhuastion that has fallen over me.

"I will make sure to give you as generous of reward once you have more energy. I am not to be outdone by my sweet little dove."

I smile at his nickname for me and lean forward to lay my head on his chest. He allows me to get comforable before running his hands through my long (y/h/c) loose locks. I feel the pain in my chest that I had forgotten all about when I had been distracted moments ago. He breathes with me when he can tell that I'm feeling the pain once more, his hands continuing to stroke my hair.

"Why do you call me little dove?"

I whisper, my eyes heavy. Unable to keep them open my eyes flutter closed and I breathe him in.

"In some cultures doves mean beauty, fertility, and love. But when I was a young Maia doves were a symbol of peace. When I first saw you I felt a peace that I had never known before. You have been my peace from the moment you entered my throne room."

I cannot fight the smile that forms on my lips when he says this. And though eyes are still closed, I can imagine the look upon his face. He gives the top of my head a tender kiss before whispering;

"Now rest my love. You may ask me anything your heart desires when you awaken."

My body is too weak to fight against the sleep that overtakes me. I did not want to sleep when I have only just awoken, but I could not fight the dream like state I entered into moments after he starts to hum me a melody.

-

It is almost another fortnight before my husband allows me to do anything for myself. Too caught up in making sure I had regained enough strength to do simple tasks like walking from one end of the room to the other. But his tenderness did not bother me, instead it made me thankful. For my entire life I had never had anyone who took care of me like this. He made sure I ate, had enough blankets, helped me wash, and would lay in bed with me whilst he read a book aloud. He was tender and kind something I had never known before.

But tonight he finally decided that I was ready enough to take a walk around his castle with him. With one arm locked with his we walk along the outside of the castle breathing in the night air. The wind carried a smell of rain with it as it lightly breezed, blowing some of my hair out of my face. We walked amongst the stars, the moonlight bright and beautiful. He walked alongside me, his arm linked with mine whilst watching me. Fireflies dance along the trees of the forest. They dance in time with the sound of crickets chirping as if their melodies were the sweetest song. I could confess to myself that this part of Mordor was a sharp contrast to the desert along the Southern end of my husband's lands. Here, at home in the castle and within the grounds, one could forget the harsh realities of the enslaved beings my husband ruled over. But I tried not to dwell on those individuals. Instead, I focused on my husband and the way it feels to have him hold me as he guides me through the garden that nears the forest edge. Tonight I wear an emerald green dress that flows along my body, with beautiful golden leaves embrodiered along the bodice before cascading down the skirt of my dress. He eyes the way the dress is tailored to me with a satisfied smirk.

"It is good to see you outside of our make shift bed in the forge. I am sorry it took me so long to let you go out of bed. I just wanted you to be more healed before I let you out for all to see."

When he says this I catch the small group of his courtiers sitting at table in the garden indulging in some sort of sweet pastry. When we walk past them they stand and bow to their king before doing the same to me. They look scared of my husband and I cannot help but wonder why. Before his courtiers all seemed happy to be chosen as close members of his court. Now they seemed weary. I look to my husband and see the look in his eyes as he watches them bow. Seemingly assessing their form and deciding if he found it acceptable or not. He does not speak when he looks away, head held high as he guides us away from them.

"What was that about?"

I ask only when we are out of earshot of his courtiers. He peers down at me through a sideways glance, his body still tense.

"Members of my court and my guards were slain due to their regrettable oversight in keeping my kingdom safe."

My brow furrows at his words, my eyes lookin from his to our linked arms. Members of the court and guards were killed because they had, either willingly or unwillingly, allowed that elvan assalant into our home and it almost resulted in the death of their king. I could see how Sauron would want to punish anyone willing to allow such an uprising. He had to snuff out any and all fires as they appeared if he wanted to maintain his power. It is no secret that my husband did not care if he had to scorch the Earth to keep what he wanted safe. He had worked too hard to lose what he had built.

"I see. And now they are afraid of you?"

I whisper more to myself than him. The complexities of ruling a kingdom and the complicated relationships he had to maintain were not enirely lost on me. My parents had been the leaders of our small village and I knew what they had endured to maintain their own little bit of peace. I loose myself in thought for a moment. So much so that I do not pay attention to where my husband has been guiding us down the outdoor corridor, each step carrying us further and further away. It is only when I see the exterior second door to the throne room that I realize where he has taken us. Neither of us speaks when he opens the door and we tuck ourselves safely inside. The throne room is empty, illuminated only by the candle lit chandeliers.  It was a massive room any time that I had been inside of it, but it seemed even more vast with only the two of us inside it.

"Why did you bring me here?"

I ask, my eyes taking in my surroundings. Nothing had changed from the masquarade that had occurred well over three weeks ago. Everything as it was, only more chaotic from the attack. Chairs were knocked over, tables, glasses, and cups strewn about like the castle had been abandoned. My eyes pause upon the floor where black soot mars the floor. The longer I look at it the more it seems to grow, whatever had happened here was horrific. Whoever had been standing here had been scorched into oblivion. I cannot help but think back to what he had said moments ago about his court and guards being slain. My mouth parts at the realization, my eyes moving from the floor to where he stands. There is no apology in his eyes and I do not desire one. He was reacting to being attacked and he had the right to respond, but I am in awe of the destruction. Weeks ago I would have mourned the loss of life that had occurred here. Elves did not enjoy loss of life, but something within me has changed. I could feel it the moment I had awoken. It was as if the poison that had tried to kill me had been successful to a point. I am not the elf I was before the attack. Now all that was left was a void. A void that only my husband seemed to fill.

"Is this where it happened?"

Breathless, I murmur the words into existence. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips whilst we study each other. The same dark fascination with my own darkness intices his him. His strides to my side are big enough that it only takes a few steps to reach me. His taller frame stands behind me, his hands on either side of my shoulders as he admires his craftsmanship.

"Yes. After the intruder who harmed you had been safely detained I felt it necessary to teach the others a thorough lesson of what would happen to them should they be neglent again. It is safe to say that any doubters of my rule were taken care of. Or as you so wonderfully put it 'scorched'."

A chill moves up my spine when he whispers my internal observation aloud. My breathing hitches as his lips trace my ear lobe, my body instantly on edge. Why did the thought of him being angry enough to harm another on my behalf turn me on? It should not. This went against everything I had been taught to value.

"What is happening to me?"

I ask breathlessly as he chuckles darkly in my ear. His lips kiss beneath my ear, ghosting along my neck as I lean into his touch. My eyes flutter closed when I feel his teeth graze my neck. I did not know if he intended to bite me as he had the night of my attack, but if he did I would not complain. The thought amuses him as he breathes me in.

"Do you know how hard it is to survive being struck with a dark blade little one? A blade infused with a Mogul-blade. The blade had been fashioned into an arrow at some point, but the magic inside remained just as strong. When you were stabbed darkness took root within you, a poison that took weeks to cure, but even with the ring I made you on your finger the poison still managed to find a way in. Small as it may be, it is there and I can feel it within you. Calling for my own darkness as well..."

His voice drifts for a moment whilst he kisses my neck once more, tongue lightly brushing over my skin.

"... I really did try to fix it, but a wound like that never fully heals."

My body feels as though it is on fire within his arms. The hunger of my own darkness calling for his. I feel at war with myself and the notions of what has been versus what now is. I still feel twinges of myself mixed into the foreign entity residing inside of me. A part of me that had become twisted and tortured into this new version of myself.

"Do you like me better like this?"

I ask while a wave of dread overtook me momentarily. The thought my husband might only be all too happy to see this shift within me. I could feel a change in his touch as if he was no longer afraid of breaking me. I'd already proven I was stronger than he thought, what would he make of me now? My own insecurities plague my mind, but only for a moment before he pulls back. His lips leave my skin and he pulls his hands from my shoulders. In less than a second he is before me, his hands now finding my waist as he pulls me in against him.

"I love you in every way that you have been and I will love you in every way you will be."

He is sincere when he speaks the words and I know instantly that there's no falsity to be found within him. His smile is sweet even with the mischeif that is in his eyes. I look upon his face and wonder why that it was that he chose now to show me this. Why he chose now to tell me this. Why had he waited weks to inform me that the elf I had been before was different from the elf before him now. These questions bounce around in my head in rapid succession, his eyes trained on me as he listens to my thoughts.

"I told you now because you've gained more of your strength. I did not want to frighten you little one. But when I saw my courtiers in the garden I knew that I could no longer wait for an answer."

His explanation makes sense, but I wonder what all of this means moving forward.

"And my response to your parlor tricks was all you needed to know that something about me was different?"

I ask, my tone darker as I peer up at him through my lashes. He raises his brows at this statement, more the shock that his sweet little wife could ever compare his abilities to parolr tricks. No, he knew he was the most powerful being in this world and he wouldn't let me get away with saying such a thing. He would punish me for it, just like I wanted him to.

He does not speak when he pulls his lips to meet mine. I hear a faint growl in the back of his throat, gutteral and cruel. He has me up against the pillar mere feet behind where we are standing all without moving his lips from mine. He touches me like a man possessed, his fingers tugging at the fabric of my gown. I think of how he is pulling it apart and which he would stop because I liked this dress.

"Oh don't worry darling, I shall get you another one."

He rasps against my lips followed by the sharp sound of fabric being ripped from my body. I gasp at the sensation of the cold air of the throne room touching my skin. Every rip of the fabric exposing me more and more to him. My eyes flutter closed when his lips move from mine down to my throat and along the valley of my breasts. My fingers are entangled in his hair as he wages war on my flesh, marking me up with every swirl of his tongue. I am so blissfully entagled in his touches that I do not realize when I feel light stubble along my skin. My brows furrow at the sensation, my husband was normally clean shaven...

I peer down at him and gasp. His normally long blonde locks are replaced by beautiful dark brown hair that comes down past his chin. Not as long, but long enough. He senses that I have had my attention is no longer wrapped up in sinful lust. He knows that I am enraptured by his new appearence. He looks up at me, his eyes now green and the stubble on his face gives him more of a rugged look. He no longer looks like the elf form he paraded around in to mock the elves he has enslaved. No, this form is that of a man and he is hauntingly beautiful. In hesitance I reach out to touch his face, traces of his other form are hidden beneath the surface, but he looks like an entirely new person.

"Still find my skills to be parlor tricks love?"

He asks, his voice mimicking that of a Southlander. I swallow hard and stare back at him in awe.

"You're magnificent."

I whisper unable to hide the amazement I feel burning deep within me. My words cause him to chuckle, his hands reaching out to cradle my face as I cradle his. He looks smug as my eyes take in every new part of his face. The long robe he had been wearing on our walk has been replaced by clothes often associated with low men. Not that it bothered me in the slightest, this form aroused me as much as his other form.

"I can feel you (y/n). I can see your mind and I know how much seeing me like this arouses you..."

He pauses, his hands moving to rip the remaining fabric from my body. He leaves me naked before him, the fabric of my gown falling around me. I never bothered with undergarments any more. Not when I hoped he would take me whenever he saw fit. For a moment his eyes flick down to my sex, the smirk on his face growing as he lifts his hand up. His fingers lightly toy with my clit, his gaze never moving from me as he lightly strokes me. I breathe in a sharp breath when he uses his index finger to collect some of my arousal before inserting his fingers between my soaked folds. Through the new guise of his form he watches me closely and watches my every move without hesitance. Instead, he seems to look at me as though I too have taken on a new form. He pumps his finger in and out of me at such a slow pace that it is almost cruel. Fast enough to tease me but not fast enough to fully get me off.

"... Would you like me to stay in this form while I fuck you? Hmm, love?"

He whispers, his accent somehow stronger while he looms closer. Again his lips are nearly against mine and I am nearly seeing stars. The only response I can muster is a faint 'hmm' while moaning shamelessly. His finger moves a little faster while he studies me closely in quiet fascination.

"The last time I took this form I was called Halbrand. That is what I want you to call me tonight."

I nod feverishly, quick to give him anything that he requested. Whatever I needed to do to get him to do more than simply pump his finger in and out of me. He can sesne I am desperate to give him whatever answer he desires and I know that amuses him. Without warning, his lips meet mine and his scruff is rough against my skin. Rough but terribly delicious. I felt like I could cum from his kiss alone, my body doing eveything it can to fuck his finger. He does not let me get too much friction going before he pulls me from the pillar onto the ground beneath us. The cold tile firm against my back, my husband straddling me with a rougish glint in hs eyes. Somewhere in the shifting of positions he had magicked away his clothing, his naked body formed against mine like we were two piece of a puzzle. In this form he has hair on his chest, which I run my fingers through as he peers down at me.

"Halbrand please."

I whimper, his gaze darkening when I say the name. He liked the way that it sounded on my lips. He rolls his hips against me, his cock brushing along my soaked sex. The sensation is unlike anything else. In his other form his cock was impressive, but in this form his cock was thicker. He felt different against me and I wanted him inside of me.

"You like my cock in this form, wife? Hmm, I shall keep that in mind the next time I take you to bed."

There is an amusement in his voice when he says this. An amusement that does not quite match the darkness in his eyes. Without another word he uses one hand to pin both of my hands above my head and the other to hold himself up when he leans his chest to mine. He does not give me a warning when he pushes the head of his swollen tip into the enterance of my sex, but when he starts to push in I feel myself hold my breath.

How was he going to fit?

The thought flashes through my mind and earns another amused chuckle from my husband.

"Do not worry love. I will fit and then I will ruin you."

If it was a threat I could not bring myself to care. I wanted him to ruin me. To rip me apart even if he had just spent weeks putting me back together. Anything to chase this high that I was on. He slides further in, my walls accomodating to his thicker size. He is slow and cautious when he does this as if I will truly break apart. He does not stop his slow descent inside of me until he is as deep  inside of me as he can go. Only then does he still his actions and wait for my body to fully adjust to his size.

"Please Halbrand. Please ruin me."

I beg when my husband looks down at me expectantly, knowing full well that all I want to do is for him to take me then and there. A genuine smile moves to his lips before he rolls his hips into mine and a new sensation flickers through me. He hits new nerves all at once with his thicker length. Nerves that he had hit before, but never like this and never at the same time. My hands instantly strain against his one hand holding me in place. I want to touch him, but realize that isn't going to be an option tonight. So instead I lay there and focus on how good he is making me feel. His slow thrusts only last as long as he feels that I need to fully warm up to his newer length. After a few moments, he starts thrusting harder. Erratic and animalistic as he lays waste to my body below him. My boobs bounce against his chest when he starts thrusting faster and his lips find mine in the candle lit throne room. I find myself kissing him back with everything I have inside of me. I feel the need to keep up with him and his hunger. I wanted him as badly as he wanted me.

"Tight little cunt. All mine, in this form and any other I shall take. You are mine and mine alone."

His words comb through my mind when he says them. The sounds of our bodies fucking filling the room around us. Skin on skin and raw desire echoing off of the walls. I moan and he groans, our bodies slowly matching eachother's paces. Halbrand might be more of a dirty fuck, but that did not mean that I would not keep up with him. And I do keep up with him, my body mirroring his. The both of us riding a high unlike any other. 

We remain in this cruel race until both of us start to reach our own individual releases. He can feel it in the way that my walls clench around him. Halbrand's mouth moves from mine, his green eyes locking with mine when he starts to thrust more aggressively.

"I am going to fuck an heir into you (y/n)."

I moan at his words, a part of me hoping that he does. That this is a promise that he follows through with. I strain against his hands once again as he pushes me to new heights.

"Cum my love. Cum and I will fill you with my seed."

The aggressive thrusts deepen and I am powerless to not give him what he desires most. What I desire most... A release.

"Fuck, Halbrand."

It is the only thing I can say as my walls clench around his cock, my peek reaching at the same time he reaches his. We cum together and I feel his seed shoot deep inside of me. He keeps himself lodged deep within me and with every twitch of his cock a apart of me hopes it will take. I wanted to give my husband everything he wanted. I wanted to be the best wife and mother. I wanted to do whatever I needed to do to keep him happy.

When he pulls out of me he kisses the top of my head. Still in Halbrand's form he lays down next to me on the cool marble floor. I catch his smile before he draws me in against him. I place my hand on top of his chest, my fingers toying with the hair on his chest.

"I love you."

I whisper. The smile on his face grows, the warmth in his face infectious when he reaches out to tuck some of my hair behind my ear.

"I love you as well little dove."

We breathe together in our quiet bubble of bliss, but after a few minutes I feel my husband stiffen beside me. I look to him and wonder what could be bothering him. Reading my mind he lets me know what is the matter without me even having to utter a single word.

"There is an army of traitors gathering in the East. Elves, men, and Dwarves in the hundreds are all conspiring to destroy all that I have built. I am anticipating that it will be meaningless bloodshed. They wish to harm all that I have done to protect them."

Guilt swells deep inside of me at the thought that my husband has had to deal with all of this whilst I was injured. I think of how much he had taken care of me and wonder how much of a burden I had been when he had real pressing matters to deal with.

"Whatever they are planning we shall meet tenfold..."

I say this while thinking of the thousands in my husband's army. I knew we far outnumbered any who opposed him. And he knew it too.

"... We will destroy them all and the ones who manage to survive we need to punish. Only then will they learn to never oppose their king again."

An undetectable look flashes over his face when I say this. A look of pride overtaking his face as if he is proud of what I've said and what it means to him. He nods, lips returning to my forehead.

"Yes, we will, my queen. Yes, we will."