#{VISAGE}「Bow Down To The King」

[scumbag-the-hedgehog]

Quick & Goofy Scourgamy edit.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Dragon On The Tower Roof.

Pairing: Yandere!Malleus x Reader (TWST).

Word Count: 4.2k.

TW: Fantasy AU, Mentions of Blood/Bruising, Mentions of Injury to Reader, Implied (Consensual) Sex, Possessive Behavior, and Manipulation.

Malleus met you at the base of his tower.

With a single movement of his wings, he descended from his perch and landed in front of you – placing himself between you and the stone behemoth. Had you been a more imposing figure, a knight or a prince or the general of some distant army, he would’ve cut you down the moment you entered his valley, but your only armor was a thin rucksack tunic and your only weapon was a rusted sword – the tip of its chipped blade currently planted in the ground as you struggled to keep yourself on your feet. He could smell blood on you, although he couldn���t be sure if its source was the jagged, poorly bandaged wound on your calf or the dark stains painting your humble clothes. You were clearly not a knight, much less a prince, and if you were a general, your army had abandoned you long ago. Altogether, you were not the most intimidating nuisance he had ever had to dismiss. He might’ve been grateful, had you not been a nuisance at all.

In the past, his visage alone had been enough to make even the bravest adventure abandon their quest, but your weary eyes only glazed over his black-scaled wings, his spiraling horns, the slit pupils of his unnaturally green eyes. You acknowledged him with a slight nod, putting more of your weight on your makeshift aid. “I believe I’m here to slay you, dragon.”

His greeting, likewise, came in the form of a bowed head, a narrowed gaze. “And to rescue the prince, I assume.”

You shrugged, the gesture alone threatening to cost you your balance. “I’m sure they’d prefer if I didn’t. I think they’ve got someone else for that – a lord, or maybe a king. Someone more befitting than a filthy criminal, surely.”

At that, Malleus felt the ghost of a smile tug at the corner of his lips. Novelty was rare, this far into his everlasting life, and he could not say he’d ever had a prisoner sent after his head. “What sort of crime gets you sent to the lair of a monster?”

You brightened at the question. “Thievery,” you answered, pride overshadowing your exhaustion. “I could either face you or let them cut off my hands and, well, I find those to be quite essential to my burgeoning career.”

This time, you earned an airy laugh, a reflexive flick of his tail. He took another moment to evaluate you before speaking. “You are tired, thief.”

It wasn’t a question, but you answered regardless. “It was a long journey. You aren’t an easy monster to reach.”

“And injured, presumably by the fangs of some great beast of legend.”

“Right again.” You paused, then added, “If there are any legends about wolves, I mean.”

“And hungry.” Your smile fell. When you failed to respond, he went on. “May I invite you to share a meal with me before our battle?”

He watched as you swallowed, as you straightened. Your sword was pulled from the ground and allowed to hang limply at your side as you stared up at him with such a hopeful expression – his heart, had it not been so terribly calloused, might’ve broken at the sight alone. “Well,” you started, your humor gone in exchange for pure, unabashed desperation. “I suppose I can’t refuse such a kindly offered invitation.”

With no further conversation, he stepped to the side, raising his staff to the tower. After only a moment, the endless cobblestone pulled away to reveal a simple, wooded door – already open and awaiting his entry. Smiling, he motioned for you to follow him, and without protest, you obeyed.

~

You ate, to put it politely, like a starving animal.

There’d been an attempt at decency when you first sat down at the opposing head of his banquet table, a gallant effort to make use of the flatware arranged into neat, never-ending lines on either side of your plate, but what little energy you had for such pleasantries was depleted quickly as your attention was dedicated entirely to the whims of your empty stomach. Countless other dishes decorated the table – ranging from fine delicacies fit for the pallets of kings to common staples even the lowest of peasantry would’ve been familiar with, but Malleus was content to nurse a goblet of dark, herbed wine as he watched you bask in the feast.

Only after you’d gotten your fill did you seem to remember that you had company, your expression taking on a sheepish note. “This is what they brought me to trial for. Trespassing, I mean,” you began, and Malleus hummed in acknowledgement. “It was a baron’s manor – not quite a castle, but close to it. I heard he had the most beautiful gardens on this continent, and at the time, it seemed unreasonable to have to wait for an invitation just to take a look.”

“I thought you were a thief?”

“You must have the wrong person. I’ve been many things, but never a thief.” You leaned back in your chair. “I’m afraid I’ve always been too tender-hearted for that kind of thing. I could never stand to insult my hosts.”

“Such a considerate guest I have,” he said, cocking his head to the side. “I suppose I won’t have to worry about being robbed blind if I let you stay the night, then.”

You shook your head, feigning ego. “I would never, dear dragon. Your reclusive prince, on the other hand—”

Whatever you might’ve gone on to say was swiftly replaced with a sudden gasp as every torch within sight burst into a pillar of vicious emerald flame, casting the dining room in a blinding, sickly green before dying out just as abruptly as it’d erupted. Malleus let out an exasperated breath, bringing a hand to his temples. “My apologies. My patience has grown—” He cast a wayward glance toward the ash now seared into the stone walls, the ceiling. “—thin, over my time here.”

You allowed a beat to pass by in silence, then another. “Your prince,” you said, finally. “Is he important to you?”

“I can think of nothing I value more.” The answer came easily, even if the intensity of his sentiment surprised him. “An old friend asked me to ensure his safety. I’ve performed my role dutifully ever since.” The taste of blood rose into the back of his throat, but he drowned it out with another long sip from his goblet. “They used to send entire armies to reclaim him, then lone knights, then the occasional adventurer. You might be the first human to come seeking my head in two or three decades.”

Your smile took on a shy lilt, your eyes drifting to the table. “I wasn’t really supposed to come after you, either. Most people just take it as an exile, but they gave me a sword, and…” It was your turn to laugh, now, to be surprised with yourself. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I thought, even if I don’t get to rescue any princes, it could be nice to see how much of the fairy tale is true.”

“And you’re satisfied with what you’ve found?”

“Not entirely,” you admitted. “But I’m glad I met you, dear dragon.”

After some hesitation, he pushed himself to his feet and closed the distance between you. You stiffened, your gaze flitting blatantly toward the sole exit, but you didn’t attempt to flee as he pulled the closest seat in front of you and fell into it. “May I see your leg?”

You were far more than reluctant, but complied. The material of your travel weary trousers was pulled above your knee, the strips of fabric you’d attempted to fashion into bandages cut away with his own pitch-black talons. The wound was worse than he’d assumed, more severe than he assumed. Ragged skin stretched from your knee to your ankle, harsh puncture marks littering what little flesh was still in-tact. The stress of your journey had prevented the brunt of the damage from healing, and even without the use of his advanced senses, he would’ve been able to feel the heat radiating off of your skin, the first signs of infection beginning to set in. You were lucky you’d made it to his tower before the fever spread. His territory was cruel to the most resilient of creatures, and you seemed far from resilient.

“I have a salve in my collection that should aid in your recovery. That, paired with a few days of bed rest, should have you on your feet again in a week’s time.” Not a lie, but not far from one, either. He’d mended worse with a snap of his fingers, but there was no reason you should have to be burdened with such knowledge. “If you can find it within yourself to share a roof with a monster and delay our duel yet again, I can provide room and board while you recover.”

Your laugh was bright and strained. “You’re terribly kind to someone who came here to take your life.”

“And you’re very trusting of a creature who could easily end yours.” He let his pointed claws scrape over your bare skin, prolonging his evaluation. “Think of it as a show of my gratitude. My time here is well-spent, but tends to pass slowly. Visitors, whether benevolent or malicious, help to color my days.”

“Then I will have to be the most colorful visitor you’ve ever had,” you chimed, your grin renewed with fresh vigor. Clearly, you were not the type of mortal who could go long without a task. “I’ll make you wait on me hand and foot and bend to my every whim, until the thought of encountering another human being makes you sick. When I’m done, there might even be a dragon in this tower worth slaying.”

His only response was a steady nod, a low hum. He stood and, in the same motion, hooked one arm under the bend of your knees and another around your waist, lifting you into the air before you had the chance to so much as think to pull away. Instinctually, you attempted to re-balance yourself against him, and Malleus couldn’t help himself – laughing as he pulled you to his chest. “If I am to dote on you to the point of sickness, then let me start now. You’re in no state to walk on your own.”

You opened your mouth as if to complain, but anything you might’ve said was deemed too unimportant to warrant the effort. Your smile softened, your eyes falling shut as you rested your head against his shoulder. You lingered there, quiet and content, as he carried you through the halls of what would come to be your home.

~

Your prescribed period of bed rest came and went. Your bruises healed, then your leg (although you still tended to limp during particularly heavy rainstorms), and your exhaustion was replaced by a buzzing sort of restlessness. He never asked you to leave, and after some time, you seemed to stop expecting him to. You spoke rarely of your past (aside from the ever-changing series of events that led you to his tower, of course) and never of your future. When Malleus was in one of his more indulgent moods, he allowed himself to believe that, when he did catch you looking in his direction with such a glimmering worry in your eyes, you weren’t afraid of him, but of the possibility that he might send you away.

Despite your claims of spoiled houseguests and encumbered hosts, he was only driven to near-madness once while sharing your company. It’d been shortly after you instated yourself as a resident of his tower, rather than a fleeting visitor, and took to exploring your new dwelling without reservation. It’d been his own fault, really. He’d forgotten to warn you away from the upper wing, to resketch the protective runes he’d long-since allowed to fade, but such rationality had escaped him as he stood in the doorway, his mind empty and his eyes trained on your kneeling figure. He watched, paralyzed, as you raised a hand, reaching towards the marble slab, and then he was behind you – the points of his talons grazing the skin of your throat before he managed to restrain himself, curling his fist around the collar of your shirt, instead. Without warning, he hauled you off your feet, ignoring the half-choked shriek you let out in response.

His eyes fell to Silver, searching for any signs of harm, of disruption. Of course, Silver was unchanged. His colorless hair remained fanned over his velvet-cushioned pillow, the silk sheets and hand-stitched quilts still folded neatly at the foot of his bed – waiting to be put to use when the weather turned in autumn. Malleus took a moment to observe the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the gentle movement behind his closed eyes, before letting out a breath of relief and turning to you. “I don’t recall giving you permission to enter this chamber.”

“Sorry, I— I was just looking around, and I saw the flowers on the door—” Silver’s own craftsmanship, preserved from the ravages of time by Malleus’ spell work. He’d painted them as soon as he was old enough to hold a brush, along with matching murals on his bedroom walls that hadn’t survived the passing ages. “—I got curious, that’s all. Is this the prince I was sent after?”

Malleus set his jaw, straightening his hunched posture. “…it is,” he answered, eventually. He let go of your collar and let you stumble onto your feet. “His name is Silver. I never knew him by any titles.”

Malleus’ gaze shifted to you, but your eyes remained fixed on Silver. “He’s beautiful.”

Despite himself, he felt the edge of his lips turn downward. He rested a hand on your shoulder, and you seemed to recover from your daze, turning to face him with a hopeful smile. “Do you know when he’s going to wake up?”

Malleus felt a coil of heat form in the back of the throat. The taste of ash laid heavy over his tongue, but he swallowed back his guilt and forced himself to respond. “In another hundred years, perhaps,” he mused, his tone melodic and detached. “There’s no known cure for a curse like his.”

A phantom of disappointment flickered across your expression, but it was suppressed quickly. Rather, you turned your attention outward – to the heavy, woven curtains draped over each crystalline window. “Will you help me let in some light? I hate to insult your taste, but it’s terribly depressing in here, and—” You brightened, taking him by the sleeve and tugging gingerly. “We don’t want his highness to have any nightmares, do we?”

With some reluctance, Malleus nodded. “Light, but nothing else.” When you failed to acknowledge him, he caught you by the wrist, squeezing with just enough pressure for your smile to falter. “Light, but nothing else. Do you understand?”

Your eyes darted back to Silver, but only for a moment. He was thankful for that – for your restraint. A second longer, and his true nature might’ve overshadowed his better judgement. “Of course, dear dragon. Nothing else.”

He inhaled sharply, then let go of you altogether.

It was a choice that, in the approaching months, he would only come to regret.

~

“This is what they banished me for, you know.”

“This?”

“Yes, this exactly.” You propped your chin on his chest, positioning yourself to more easily card your fingers through his hair. He let his eyes fall shut, basking in the warmth of your affection, of your bare skin pressed into his. Your clothes laid discarded on the grass around you, one of his wings bent and raised to shield you from the harsh light of the setting sun. He would have to get you back to the tower, soon. He’d always been indifferent to the deadly chill of night, but you – in your precious, delicate mortality – were not so durable. “Actually, not quite – I don’t think I ever made it to this part. It was the first time I’d ever attended a royal ball, and I happened to dance with a young lady so breath-taking, I couldn’t help but drop to one knee and dedicate my heart to her the moment our hands touched.” You sighed, feigning remorse. “Little did I know that she was the princess that ball was being thrown for, and so moved by my passion, she refused to let me out of her embrace until I agreed to marry her. Of course, her father – the king, as the fathers of princesses tend to be – couldn’t have that. It’s a shame, really. We would’ve made a gorgeous couple.”

Malleus pursed his lips, fighting back a smile. “And what does that make me? The next scorned lover of a silver-tongued rouge?”

“Oh, no. If you asked me to marry you,” You propped yourself up, pressing a kiss into the curve of his jaw. “There’d be nothing in the world that could stop me, dear dragon.”

Your hand fell to his cheek, and wistfully, you lulled him into a kiss – shallow but lingering, punctuated with a playful nip at his bottom lip. You pulled back with a smile, another quick peck to his cheek. You moved to say something, but he interrupted you, as mournful as he was to cut off such a precious moment so callously. “I found your wildflowers.”

Immediately, your expression fell. “I made sure not to—”

“I know, beloved, I know.” You knew better than to lay a hand on Silver. Your small bouquet had been left on the corner of his bed, another additional chain of asters and lavender braided into one of the longer strands of his waist-length hair. As much as he wished he could say he was only concerned for Silver’s well-being, it wouldn’t have been the truth. Something else, something darker, had accompanied the discovery – something it would be better for you to stay ignorant of. “We’ve talked about this. Silver is vulnerable, in his current condition. Even the simplest luxury is an unspeakable risk.”

Your shoulders dropped, your body going slack against his. You bowed your head, burying your face in the dip of his shoulder, and despite his frustration with you, he didn’t push you away. “I’m sorry. It just feels so cruel to let him suffer alone.”

“He’s never been alone.” His tone was more curt than he’d meant it to be. “He’s always had me.”

“I know, but—” He expected you to raise your hair, to flash him that brilliant grin. Instead, you only settled against him, speaking softly into the crook of his neck. “He just seems so sad.”

Malleus took a deep breath, clenching his eyes shut.

Then, before he could let himself think better of it, he wrapped an arm around your waist. In one fluid motion, he turned you over – leaving you on your back, one of his knees planted on either side of your waist, your form tucked safely underneath his. His kiss was less gentle than your own – that deep, aching sort of hunger overwhelming his cautiousness as his tongue raked over yours, as he groaned unabashedly into your mouth. You returned his affection emphatically; your fingers soon knotted in his hair, your eager touch preventing so much as the thought of distance between your body and his. Because there never would be distance between you and him. Because there was no reason you should ever have to be taken away from him.

Hours later, when the last traces of light had faded and the stars were painted in swirling patterns across the sky, he would carry you back to his tower – unconscious and pliable in his arms. That would be the first night you spent in his bed, and as he laid there with you, he couldn’t help but imagine how wonderful it would be if you never left.

~

The runes carved into Silver’s door were redrawn, Malleus’ enchantments refreshed, and your bittersweet sympathy slowly rotted into a distinctly bland melancholy. You didn’t speak of him (Malleus could only wonder how you ever managed to speak of anyone when so many of his marks so often decorated your skin), but he noticed new scratches around the well-rusted lock on Silver’s door, caught you braiding chains of daisies and crowns of marigolds with no intended recipient in mind, and at night, you tended to slip out of his hold and wander. Sometimes, he waited for you, lying awake as you hunted for whatever solace there was to find in the empty halls of an ancient tower. Most nights, tonight, he chased after you.

He found you in a window near the tower’s highest room, laid across the wooden sill, your back propped against the empty frame. He didn’t ask to join you – wordlessly lowering himself to the floor at your feet. As if by reflex, your hand fell to his horns, your thumb tracing over a particular ridge near the base as you broke the quiet. “Have ever told you why I’m here, dear dragon?”

Countless times, but he still played along. “Who has my heart been stolen by today, beloved?”

“A murderer,” you said, hollowly. “And not a particularly clever one, at that.”

He waited for you to go on, to spin some elaborate tale of love and loss and betrayal and poor humor, but you only lapsed back into silence, your gaze turning back to the pitch-black valley. He watched your vacant expression for a moment, then another before letting his eyes fall shut and resting his cheek against your thigh.

~

Malleus had expected there to be more anger than this.

You were in a similar position to one you’d taken the first time you stumbled into Silver’s chambers – kneeling beside his marble bed, your ever-weary eyes fixed on the unknowing object of your adoration. The only difference was that, today, Silver’s hand was raised to your lips, now slightly parted in shock. He didn’t have to guess at the source of your astonishment. In front of you, Silver was sitting up. His posture was unsteady, his eyes barely open, but the obvious was undeniable.

He was awake.

To think, there was something of merit to Lilia’s stories of true love after all.

Rather than anger, rage, pure and undiluted fury, an odd sort of calm settled over his blank mind as you snapped in his direction. Your astonishment turned to horror in an instant. “Malleus, I didn’t— I was only trying to—”

He put you out of your mercy quickly. He raised his staff and, propelled by some unseen force, you were torn away from Silver’s bedside and thrown against the nearest walls – the force of the collision far from fatal, but enough to leave you limp and unconscious. With your safety ensured, he stepped forward, approaching Silver. He was awake, but only just. So many decades of uninterrupted sleep would not be so willing to release him from their taloned clutches without a struggle, and there was a certain dream-like lull to the way his eyes skirted over the limited scenery before settling on Malleus, his features immediately softening in relief. “Malleus?”

“I’m here.” Malleus allowed himself a small smile before bringing the end of his staff to Silver’s forehead. “You can rest, brother.”

There was just enough time for the edges of Silver’s lips to turn downward before he collapsed back onto the marble slab. Malleus would arrange him later on. For now, his attention turned to you.

He gathered your crumpled form in his arms and carried you through the halls of his lonely tower, before stepping into the clear air and fresh heat of the valley. He laid you in the tall grass and, after taking a moment to appreciate your peaceful expression, brought a hand to your face, cupping your cheek tenderly. The spell came to him instinctually, but he took his time, mourning the loss of your time together with each mumbled word. That was a silver-lining of immortality, though. Infinite time allowed for infinite repetition, and he couldn’t imagine giving up the opportunity to fall in love with you again.

When he was done, your eyes fluttered open, a smile quickly finding its way to your lips. “Hello, dragon.” You gazed darted to either side nervously, your mind struggling to catch up with your clever tongue. “I would love to introduce myself, but it’s the funniest thing – I can’t seem to remember what I’m doing here.”

He bit back a smile. You tried to force yourself into a more dignified position, but barely managed to get an arm underneath you before pausing, wincing, reaching for the back of your head and coming away with blood smeared across your fingertips. Malleus did what he could to hide his delight.

“You’re a thief. You injured yourself attempting to scale my tower. It was an impressive effort, but tragically unnecessary.”

This time, he couldn’t hide the wide, simpering grin that came to rest across his lips.

“I was always going to invite you inside.”

[norikuna]

ACHILLES COME DOWN — ryomen sukuna

prologue. → you had given the king of curses what he had wanted the most, an heir, borne of the wife that he loves. but for one typically vicious and unshakeable, you wonder why sukuna is left so shaken by how much your daughter takes after him.

you wonder at how the vast ribcage of a demon and a cold killer, who can make the sun rise in the west if he so wished, was once the ribcage that held the beating heart of a young boy, with little space for him, or his mother, in this world.

pairing. ryomen sukuna x afab!reader

warnings. reader is sukuna's wife and they really love each other, just in their own twisted way. tried so hard to not make sukuna ooc so he comes across as an awful bitch sometimes. mentions of violence, blood, giving birth. lots of angst, hurt, comfort, mild fluff, suggestive, dubious in parts of the backstory, heavy focus on sukuna's childhood. sukuna calls reader 'woman' and 'brat.'

word count. 8.4k song inspiration. achilles come down — gang of youths

a/n. this artwork by @innaillus lives rent free in my head, it was the driving force for this fic idea...wanted to make this something different to what i usually do.

mp3 you crave the applause yet hate the attention, then miss it, your act is a ruse. it is empty, achilles, so end it all now, it's a pointless resistance for you.

for all the jujutsu and sorcery that flourished in the world, with unearthly displays of mastery over lief and death, you loathed how none had devised a technique to pluck an unborn child from the womb, and deliver it to the world without pain, without effort, and without this infernal ordeal that had left you slumped against silk cushions.

the air of your chambers hung heavy with a languid quiet, steeping in the residue of suffering, triumph, and undeniably, the light scent of iron in the air that made you wrinkle your nose.

the faint rustle of bloodied sheets reached your ears, punctuated by the rhythmic hum of the cicadas just beyond the paper screens, their song rising and falling like the tide of some ancient hymn.

summer lingered there, stubborn and sweltering on your brow, as the tremor of your hands betrayed the harrowing hours of labour behind you, though it had felt like centuries.

she was impossibly small, your daughter, her form as delicate as ceramic from the kiln, and just as luminous. her hair, peach-pink and fine as spun silk, gleamed softly in the amber glow of the lamplights, a gentler echo of her father's sharper strands.

the infant stirred in her swaddling, a tiny yawn parting her perfect, bow-shaped lips before she blinked up at you with wide, unfocused eyes.

the sight of those eyes stopped you. their hue was unmistakable — the very shade of your own, what a mirror of familiarity nestled in in the impossibly round irises of the child.

your breath hitched, and then a laugh escaped you, weak and thin from exhaustion.

the sound startled the maids, their hurried motions faltering for an instant, but you paid them no mind. your fingers simply brush over the baby's smooth cheek, marvelling at the warmth of her, at the life so newly arrived, and yet so firmly tethered to you.

"one question answered them," you murmured, the words falling from you, "two eyes."

what an absurd observation, a flicker of thought that should not have mattered in this moment. yet it did tug at you. you had wondered often during the long, sleepless night of pregnancy, whether this child would resemble their father entirely. whether this child would inherent that jagged, fearsome visage and the shadow that hung over the king of curses.

you had privately hoped that there would at least be something of you in the child, something gentler, and tethered to the world of men.

your musings were interrupted by the low murmur of voices beyond the screen, followed by the familiar sound of footsteps, deliberate and unhurried.

the servants hushed themselves immediately, and a moment later, the door slid open.

"lord sukuna," one of the accompanying nobles intoned, bowing so deeply that the hem of his crimson sokutai kissed the polished stones of the floor.

what a redundant announcement, for sukuna's presence often needed no introduction. you would swear that the chamber, warm with the glow of the lamplight, shrank beneath the weight of him.

even the cicadas outside seemed to hush their song as his shadow stretched across the tatami mats.

you felt his gaze before you saw it, — those piercing rust eyes, a force unto themselves. they lingered on you, a single breath held between one moment and the next, before shifting to the swaddled bundle cradled in your arms. you studied his face, willing yourself to decipher the mask of his granite expression.

hope tugged at you, fragile and foolish, searching for some flicker of sentiment, some crack in the marble of his countenance. yet his features remained inscrutable, as if carved from stone by a hand too cruel to grant softness.

but you knew your lord husband well. the absence of visible emotion was not the absence of feeling. his silences were not voids, but rather labyrinths, frustratingly so often. still, you watched him, not daring to speak, as sukuna moved with inhuman grace, as his steps no longer made sound on the floor.

your eyes fell on an odd object being carried in one of sukuna's four hands. dark silk was wrapped tightly around a small, irregular shape, and the bundle was unassuming at a glance. but you knew that nothing sukuna did was without purpose, without some motive.

but his eyes did not hold the indifferent glance of a man acknowledging his heir. it was something sharper, and heavier.

what did he see in the infant's tiny, sleeping form? what judgement had he already rendered in the silence that stretched unbearably to every corner of your quarters?

was this displeasure? disappointment? no, there was no anger etched into the sharp planes of his face.

but sukuna had wanted a son, he had said so, enough times that had left you running your anxious hands over your swollen belly. the thought coiled around your heart like a serpent, tightening with each second.

an heir must be strong. he had said it once, not long after you had first told him of the child growing within you. and in the quiet hours of that autumn night, you had wondered what strength had meant to him.

was it the unyielding will that had carved his name into infamous legend? the power to command, and collapse armies and legions, to bend the wills of mortals, and curses alike? a boone that could only truly be carried by a son?

you had never dared to ask the alternative.

swallowing your doubt, you finally spoke, unable to bear it any longer, "sukuna," you said, your voice quieter than you had intended, and even to your ears, it sounded raw with ragged exhaustion, "you have a daughter."

the words lingered, fragile as a spider's silk, trapped in the web of this room. it seemed that the maids, nor the nobles, dared to raise their eyes, as their breaths seemed to hang on the response.

now his shadow was cast over you, dimming the light of the world around you, but his four eyes flicked between the child at your breast, and then to your face.

"she will spill much blood on this earth," his voice as deep and steady as the foundations of the earth itself, "like her father."

the words struck you, like a hammer reverberating against a bronze bell in the quiet air. had you not braced yourself for his disappointment, for the cold practicality that so often shaped his actions?

but you were glad to see something else in his eyes, certainty, conviction, and even the faintest glimmer of traitorous pride. relief simply swept over you, filling in the spaces where paranoia and fear had coiled.

a small smile broke across your lips, though it felt fragle, as if one wrong word could shatter the moment. nevertheless, the lingering doubts that had clung to you, as heavy as a sunrise fog, began to dissolve in his searing presence.

"i am glad," you murmured, "that you are not angered. for i did not give you a son."

sukuna raised a single thin brow, his expression as unreadable as always, though the faintest trace of something akin to amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, "any child of my blood will be strong. i am glad that my wife did not pass from blood loss during childbirth."

you melodramatically sighed but a laugh danced on your mouth, that was essentially a heartfelt confession of sukuna's love for you, in his own twisted way.

"well," you replied, doing your best to sound bolder than you felt, "if you're feeling so magnanimous, you may as well tell me what that is."

your gaze was in the silk-wrapped bundle that still rested in his lower right hand, "could i hope that it's a loving gift for me? your wife who did not pass from blood loss?"

the ghost of a droll smile quirked sukuna's lips, a rare thing that seemed to thaw away some of the cold ice on his features, "you will get your gift later," and there was the faintest flicker of heat in his tone, the sort that made your stomach twist and your cheeks burn anew.

you quickly lowered your gaze, pretending to fuss with the edges of the infant's swaddle. the maids had suddenly busied themselves with unnecessary tasks in the farthest corners of the room.

"this," sukuna continued, lifting the package, "is for her."

for a moment, his words didn't register. you blinked, surprised, and your eyes flicked from the mysterious artifact to the tiny, slumbering child in your arms.

"for her?" you echoed, and the idea of the king of curses bring an item for a child, his child, felt strange, but tender in its unfamiliarity, "what is it?"

instead of answering immediately, he sat his hulking form beside you, sinking the silk of your sheets further into the wood frame. the wrapping fell away at his touch, revealing what lay within.

a spear, small and exquisite. wickedly sharp, and glinting faintly even in the dim light. it's shaft was adorned with intricate carvings of coiling dragons and parting clouds, and it had clearly been crafted for a hand far tinier than sukuna's own.

"a...weapon?" your stomach turned faintly, blanching at the sight of something so deadly meant for someone so fragile, unease colouring your voice.

sukuna sighed at your tone, like he had already predicted your protests, "it is tradition. a blade is the first gift given to a child, in the house of a warrior. it must be a promise."

"a promise of what?" you asked, though you weren't sure you truly wanted to hear the answer.

"of strength. that a child will grow strong, regardless of blood or lineage."

you looked at your daughter, so small and so impossibly fragile, and then down at the spear, the fine metal glinting faintly in the amber lamplight. you were certain that if you were to lay a finger on the razor edge, it could split your flesh apart with blooming drops of wine-red blood.

"she is but a few hours old," you murmured, "what strength must she carry already?"

sukuna's gaze was umoved, but not unkind, "the child carries a burden whether she knows it or not. the world is not kind to those who are weak. would you not see her survive it?"

a harsh truth, but spoken without cruelty. you studied sukuna's face, bathed in the lamplight, searching for something that you couldn't quite name. for all his barbed edges, you could have sworn his words nursed an older grudge. but you knew, in your heart that he was right, your daughter had been borne of a mortal mother, but of an immortal father, of a darker thread in this world.

a father, one who did not know how to speak of love, but who offered it in the only way he knew.

to sukuna, love and violence sat hand in hand, bloodied and stained.

"still," you said, deciding to drop the serious protest, for now, "a strange world you live in, where a weapon is a fitting fit for a infant? your wisdom knows no bounds," and your voice was laced with the teasing incredulity that he would tolerate only from his wife.

his crimson eyes flicked toward you, calm and unbothered, though the faintest smirk curved the corner of his mouth, like a blade just shy of unsheathing. "admittedly," he said, his deep voice like thunder rolling across a distant plain, "i hadn’t realised that babies were so… round. and weak. and plump."

"you were a baby once."

"never. i was born with the taste of blood and flesh already in my mouth."

"you’re insufferable," you said, though there was no real heat in your words. sukuna was not as naive as he pretended to be; you knew this game too well. his dry humour was his way of stirring you, drawing you out, even now.

"well," you said with a soft sigh, gesturing toward the swaddled bundle in your arms, "set the weapon aside, my dear warlord. for now, at least. let her meet her father before she’s introduced to steel and blood."

for a moment, his gaze lingered on you, unreadable as always, though something unspoken and hesitant flickered there, like the glow of embers beneath ash. then, with a small incline of his head, he relented.

"very well, pass the brat," he muttered, his tone lower now, softer.

you extended the child toward him, her tiny form impossibly small against the vastness of his marked hands.

for a fleeting moment, you worried — fearful that his strength, so absolute, might overwhelm her delicate frame. but when his fingers brushed against the blanket, they were steady, almost reverent.

he took her into his arms, his hold firm yet astonishingly gentle. what a beautiful little thing, you thought, as she stirred faintly, her little face scrunching in a way that made your heart ache with unexpected tenderness, for her and for this rare moment of quiet from your husband.

"how...small," sukuna said, almost to himself, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. the crimson of his eyes softened as he gazed at her, no longer the gaze of the strongest jujutsu sorcerer or a fearsome curse, but something far more human, a shadow of a man he might have once been.

"infants tend to be," you replied softly, watching the way his expression flickered, but you shifted closer to him, "here, let me unwrap her."

with careful hands, you unwound the swaddling cloth, each pull of fabric careful. the delicate folds slipped away in a quiet hustle, revealing the soft, flushed skin of the newborn, her form small and fragile in the dim glow of the chamber. a scattering of fine, rosy hairs crowned her head like the first petals of a spring bloom, soft and fleeting.

but then, as the last of the cloth unraveled, the room seemed to still. beneath her, something did not quite belong.

four arms. for, just like her father, another set of limbs was stacked underneath the first.

a chill ran through you, but you kept your gaze fixed upon her. the sight was no less miraculous for its strangeness, no less wondrous, but something shifted in your chest, a flutter of uncertainty.

oh, your darling baby girl.

your breath faltered for only an instant, and then a wry chuckle escaped your lips. "no wonder it hurt so much pushing her out," you griped, the words an attempt at brief levity.

the maids behind you had stilled, their eyes wide with shock, their breaths drawn in in silence. but you scarcely noticed or cared for their reaction.

your attention was on sukuna, and the subtle change that passed across his features like a shadow moving across the face of the sun.

at first, there was nothing — no word, no sound from his tight, pursed lips. his crimson eyes flickered over her, shifting from the unexpected sight of her four arms to her face, as though searching for some other sign of familiarity. his hold on her, though gentle, became uncertain, the steady grasp of one used to absolute control now wavering in the presence of something too delicate to tame.

no one would have seen the change in your husband, but you did. you always did.

"ah, sukuna," you whispered, "it’s alright. hold her properly."

sukuna's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in the corner of his mouth, painted with all the sweetness of rancid milk gone sour. but at last, he obeyed.

slowly, deliberately, his hands shifted, cradling the child with a kind of reverence that seemed foreign to him. the baby stirred faintly, her small hands brushing against his bare chest, and for the briefest of moments, a flicker passed across his expression — something that could have been warmth, or tenderness, or even pain, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

just as swiftly, his face returned to its usual impassive mask, the stoic countenance of a cruel warlord, implacable and untouchable. the walls of armour, built up over years of battle, of bloodshed, closed in around him once more, and you were left with the unmistakable sense that he had retreated behind them.

your brow furrowed as you watched him, "what's wrong?"

"nothing, woman." he replied curtly, and you could already sense the serrated edges of his tone, the one you would hear when his mood had gone afoul.

he placed the newborn back into your arms, and you nestled the infant close to your breast — and you blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of the gesture, your fingers stinging from the instantly cool touch of his skin.

"you have done well," and his voice was low, clipped.

a fleeting silence followed, thick with the weight of his half-hearted praise, or rather lack of his apparent love.

"done well? sukuna - " you repeated, unable to mask the incredulity in your voice, "my lord, that is all you have to say?"

his eyes rested on yours, cool and unyielding. beautiful and terrible, in the way that a soldier may have admired a temporary moment in time watching crimson shimmer and soar across the sky, before it fell down in acrid blood rain. terrible, all the same.

on any other day, his infuriating brevity and sharp demeanour might have sparked a flame of annoyance in your chest, but today...was not quite so. though the shadow that rest upon him would not reveal itself, you searched his face nevertheless for what had unnerved him so. but as always, sukuna's features were as unreadable as ancient stone.

his gaze flickered for a moment to the maids who lingered at the edges of the room, their wide eyes watching with an almost palpable curiosity. and without a single glance at you, or the baby girl nestled in your arms, he turned away in long strides, past the threshold and onto the balcony that held the evening's last fading light.

you let out a long, slow sigh — at the poison that had sunk its furled teeth into your husband once more. this was hardly the first time he had withdrawn into his own sullen, brutal thoughts, locked behind walls that you had not the key to breach. and it certainly would not be the last. you could only hope that this ill vein of his mind would not end in someone's pumping blood being spilled over the floors.

"uraume," you called softly, glancing toward your friend and confidant, who had been standing silently near the wall, having accompanied sukuna.

the short, silver-haired sorcerer turned their rosewood eyes toward you, their expression as stoic as ever, like frost that had settled over granite.

their hands were folded neatly in front of their heavy snow-robes, but you caught the faintest quirk of their brow as if to say what now?

you gestured toward sukuna's figure on the terrace, brooding and awfully solitary, "what has gotten into him?"

uraume shrugged, as unimpressed as always, "would that he has found himself in one of his moods again. you know how he is."

you frowned, not entirely satisfied with their answer, for what ill mood could have sunk its claws into sukuna after the birth of his only child. but still, uraume had known sukuna far longer than you had.

"can you hold her for a moment?"

at that, uraume hesitated, their stoicism faltering for the briefest second, "me?" they asked, their cool tone clipped but their light-teak eyes darting to the baby with thinly veiled interest.

"yes, you," you said with a wry smile, "ah, don’t pretend as though you don’t want to."

their lips pressed into a tight line, but you saw the way their hands moved almost instinctively, reaching out before they could talk themselves out of it. with practiced care, you transferred the baby into your friend's arms, watching as uraume's stern demeanor softened, just slightly, as they looked down at the tiny bundle.

"careful," you teased, adjusting the swaddle around your infant daughter, "she might charm you into smiling."

"unlikely," uraume deadpanned, but the faintest ghost of warmth touched their dulcet voice.

the evening air was cool as the breath of a shadow, brushing against your skin, and you watched as the pale pink petals of the gardens below fluttered in the winds, falling in gentle arcs around the estate.

you sighed, wrapping your robe tighter around your form, as the sheer fabric clung to your skin like the last vestiges of warmth that the day had offered. the coolness was a balm, but it did little to ease the deep ache in your legs, nor the weariness that had clung to you like a second skin now, so soon after an arduous labour.

you made your way onto the balcony, the rough floor beneath your feet cold and unyielding — and there, sukuna sat, his broad frame hunched slightly over the stone bench.

you paused, only a slight shadow behind him, unsure whether to disturb the stillness of his thoughts or let him be. the space between you was...heavy, but you broke through the silence.

"are you going to tell me what's wrong," you asked, trying to keep a lightness to your tone, "or are you planning to brood out here all night?"

you could only hope that you had not overstepped, for his moods were as tempestuous as the wild storms of summer's monsoons. although his promise of blood on skin, and guts on the table, had never been directed at you.

a flicker of irritation had brush over sukuna's face, as his gaze remained fixed on the horizon. a warning, perhaps, a retreat?

for a moment, you lingered where you stood, wondering if it would be worth your time to weather whatever tempest brewed within the king of curses. and you hesitated, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and place a hand upon his broad shoulder. but something held you back, not tonight.

instead, you settled beside him, the cold stone of the bench biting into your thighs and abdomen through the thin fabric of your robe, a deep cramping that you wished you could settle with a steaming bath.

for a long while, sukuna said little. but you heard his small exasperated sigh, at the inconvenience that you had apparently created for him. a subtle movement in the dark silk of his robes, and without a word, he spread the folds of his garments wider so you could move closer to the searing heat of his bare skin, and rest upon the fabric, rather than the icy rock currently beneath your pelvis.

"sukuna, please. are you well?"

"why wouldn't i be, woman?" but the words fell between you, false and brittle in the warm air, betrayed by the clench of his jaw.

it must be of little standard, how you're pleased that sukuna has not blasted his beloved wife into cinders, and so you press on, undeterred now by the silence.

reaching out, you take one of his four hands, so much stronger than your own, into your grasp. your fingers weave into the thick tattoos marked on his skin, over faint scars that must stretch back to a golden age, long abandoned by the world. but here, his skin is warm and living, and solid beneath your touch. it is rough in places, like a weathered boulder, but there is no resistance in his grasp, no usual sharpness in a retreat.

"i wonder," he mutters, and you look up from studying his hands in surprise, "what mine own parents must have thought when i was born."

your breath catches, for sukuna has never spoken of family, not once in all the years that you have known him. after all, you had seen your husband in reminiscence many times, usually after a great flagon of rich drink.

about stories of battle and triumphs, of how greatly he enjoyed severing a stray general's head from the man's body, of how excellent the wine was five centuries ago, or how he found it a nuisance that it was no longer acceptable to chase after servants with a crossbow for the fun of the hunt.

but never had a word been uttered of those who came before him.

"you've never mentioned your family, sukuna," and you don't miss how his hand twitches under your hold, "never heard a single thing about the last king and queen of curses."

the sharp, razor lines of his body tighten, and sukuna does not smile, does not soften. his face is as unreadable as ever, like a mask carved from iron wood.

"i come from no such line, certainly not from kings," his tone is flat, only a mild sneer in his voice as the prospect of nobility, and you watch the handsome slope of his nose in the twilight, the stern profile that you had grown to admire in the time of your...tumultuous marriage.

he speaks the words like they are the final bookend of a story, the last page, with nothing left to say. but you tilt your head, watching the hard line of his jaw, and the way his fingers mildly tighten around your own, like an anchor.

"who were they?"

sukuna finally turns his head to face you, the faintest shift in his posture as his eyes finally meet yours. the look he gives you is cold, disinterested, and the subtle roll of his lower eyelids betray a flash of frustration and anger.

you frown at the fleeting, cutting gesture, but it is nothing new for you, "it was just a question. i've just never heard you speak on this before."

sukuna rolls his broad shoulders, half-hearted and dismissive, as though this conversation itself has suddenly become an inconvenience that he's barely willing to entertain. how typical.

"never found it relevant."

you aren't sure what is more unbearable now, the dull throb in your legs that still lingers from the birth, or the faint copper tang of the afterbirth that you're certain is now pooling on your robe, or the heavy, oppressive heat of the summer air that seems to suffocate in your throat.

but somehow, all of it combines to make your husband's behaviour just a bit too much, even for you, the one who has become so accustomed to the emotionally stunted king of curses.

"please, sukuna," and you loathe how it sounds as though you are begging once more, hoping there's no hint of the bitterness of your tone, no crack of anger, but it is hard to tie that mask in place when it seems like every part of your body is breaking, aching and exhausted, "i just gave birth to your child, our child. everything hurts, and i'm tired, and i just want to rest," you pause, and the words slip from your mouth before you can stop them, "and now you're off sitting here, and you didn't even want to hold her? what am i supposed to do?"

even you are surprised by the rawness in your own voice, the trembling that has begun to spread across your chest, until you realise with a quiet shock that your eyes are wet, and your face is streaking with tears that leave your head laden and heavy. you had not meant to lose composure like this, but now there they are, hot and clinging.

and sukuna's usual stoicism seems momentarily shattered. he's staring at you as if you have sprouted horns, as though an extra head has sprung from your neck. it is a subtle change, the faintest narrowing of his brows, the way his lips press together in an effort to tamp down whatever rude words he was going to spring forth upon his already fraying wife. but at this point in time, you do not care to read him, nor to decipher the layers of his complex, decaying heart.

but his rough hand reaches out, almost clumsily, and they brusqely brush the damp streaks from your cheeks. the gesture is far too gentle for one who only responds to strength, violence, and sometimes, decapitation.

but it is the first gesture of tenderness that he has offered in what feels like an age, "stop that, woman. this does not befit you," and the edges of his robe catch the falling droplets from your face, dampening the silk.

and sukuna's mouth is now downturned, the edges of his lips twisting in that familiar, inscrutable way. you wonder, for the thousandth time, how he ever reconciles the savage nature of the beast that he has become, with the faintest echo of what was once humanity beating in his chest, "wasn't trying to upset you, brat."

his voice pricks at you, and you wipe the last remnants of tears from your skin, but there's a sudden warmth in your cheeks, at the embarrassment of breaking like this, rather than lingering sorrow.

"if you're that desparate to know, my mother was a servant."

you blink, unsure whether you are hearing correctly, for sukuna's voice does not even falter, despite the apparent chink in his impenetrable armour. but this is no great surprise, perhaps, his mother had been a concubine to a lord, some powerful man, or the emperor himself?

sukuna had now looked away from you, his gaze turned to the darkened sky, "lived in the palace. or actually...worked there, didn't get to even live there. they had her live in some shack off on the edge of the estate," and his voice is like the wind in a sealed tomb, bitter and stale.

"with the animals," you murmur, and it is not intended to be cruel. you know better than to speak so carelessly with sukuna, and you have learnt that pity is something he cannot abide, he abhors it. has never wanted it, not from you, his wife or queen, nor any other.

but now sukuna grunts, low and gutteral, "don't even remember much of it. could only keep a stupid goat in there, at best."

you find yourself absently fiddling with the hem of your robe, the thin fabric slipping through your fingers, past your nails.

"and your father?" you wonder if he can hear the question that hangs on the edge of your words, a powerful man? even the emperor of that time had been known to dabble in jujutsu, and other forms of more foreign magic from the continental homeland.

"no name that i would waste my time mentioning," and sukuna's tone is heavy with disdain, and a sneer has spread on his face, having slipped past the mask of constant indifference, "or a name that i would have even bothered to find and learn. clearly...didn't care for the likes of mother. some lowly foot soldier she met one night, never appeared before her again."

you're not quite sure how to respond, how to fit his surprising words into a world that you're familiar with. you, born with royal blood in your veins, a lineage of kings and khans. you, who grew up in a palace with a gruff but loving father, and an overbearing but kind mother, or the warmth of a large band of siblings swarming around you.

you, who had never gone to bed cold, always had a fire on her back, had grown up with jewels draped across your neck.

"must not have been easy, sukuna."

you watch him closely, and you can tell that he's doing his utter best to wave your gaze away, to disguise this as a casual tale, one to be dismissed on the morrow. but you wonder, with a sense of sorrow, if there is a single living soul alive who has been privy to this story, aside from uraume, most likely.

but sukuna shrugs, a quick and careless motion, and the movement tousles his head of rosy hair, sharp spikes swaying, "she said i had been born in a time of famine," and you can hear him running his tongue behind his teeth, "that she had to serve the emperor fine banquets everyday, while she came home to not even two sticks of wood to put together for a fire."

and then, he turns his second pair of eyes on you, those crimson eyes that seem to see straight through the world, "said she had no idea how i even survived to birth," and your lower region pangs at the mention of your recent labours, "that it was a miracle that i had been born strong enough to live past a few hours in the cold."

you squeeze his calloused hand again, a soft press of rare reassurance to one who most likely does not care for such sentiments, and this time he allows it — a kind mercy you think, born of some unwilling guilt that lingers from having you weep.

for a fleeting moment, his hand remains, coarse over yours, but his expression hardens once more, like magma went hit with the cool wind. he pulls his hand away with a swiftness that makes your heart ache.

"sounds like she really loved you," you hum, but the words sound weak even to your own ears. unable to change anything, or stitch over whatever scars shaped the king of curses, but you say them anyway, fumbling for something to offer.

his scarlet gaze flickers to you once more, and for a moment, you think he might scoff. but instead, sukuna gives you a peculiar, twisted look, as though caught between disbelief, and a painful, begrudging acknowledgement.

"i- sure," and his voice is lower than the muted tone that you're accustomed, rough but listless, "used to sit there, putting scraps of cloth together for the winter. from the sacks used to carry feed for the horses."

you wince, unbidden, as the image cuts through you like a blade. of a faceless child draped in rough, burlap-like cloth, and a mother's raw hands working to piece together anything that might keep her son warm through the cold winters. but it is hard, hard to see that faceless child as the king of curses now, no matter how you peer up at sukuna's stern profile.

you think of your newborn daughter, her soft and downy cheeks. the way she had nestled into you with such implicit trust. you try to imagine the same tenderness in the woman who was the mother of the demon later known as ryomen sukuna, but when you close your eyes all you see is death and war, blood painting four hands as they pulled off man's head, clean at the jugular — at your wedding feast.

"how did you survive?" and the question feels intrusive, almost cruel, but he's only given you a fractured and worn story, a thread that you're dying to follow.

sukuna gives you a sharp look, his brows knitting as he takes in the mild teary hitch in your voice, "don't start getting weepy on me now," he huffs, coarse but not callously, "you asked to know. and don't think i'm going to sit here, and hold your hand through it."

you nod, chastened but affronted, as he continues, "i did what any child would have done. stole what i could from under the carts of merchants, bread from the palace, scraps from the barracks or medicine."

"medicine?" you ask, your curiosity slipping through.

sukuna's expression darkens, and for the first time, there's a flicker of something far more raw in his eyes, and you don't quite appreciate the way he's glowering at you as if it were your doing, "she was sick. sometimes."

the words are clipped, meant to cut short any sympathy you might try to offer, but they lodge deep in your heart all the same. and in a cruel corner of your mind, a thought emerges.

was it birthing him that made her sick? did it consume her spirit and body, the birth of the king of curses?

fortunately, and unbeknownst to your lord husband, shame rises to your cheeks as swiftly as the notion comes, hot and furious. you swallow it down, forcing your lips to stay shut, horrified with your own insensitive thought.

but now the silence is stretching before you, as a long yawn. you glance at him again, at the defiant set of his shoulders, and you shake your head of the ridiculous surge of protectiveness towards a beast, one such as sukuna. but you still cannot picture him as a small and gaunt boy, with quick and desparate hands, trying to survive a life that he did not ask for.

"she must have been proud of you."

sukuna sneered, but it lacked its usual edge, "proud?" he shakes his head, glancing at you with an expression you can't quite name, "would've wanted better than this."

better than what? you want to ask. better than the wealthiest man in the realm? the most powerful sorcerer in written history? the king of curses?

but what do you know? and so, the words don't come. instead, your fingers twitch in your lap, aching to reach for him again, and knowing that he would just pull away once more.

"and yet, men compose sonnets of your power. the king of all the light and shadow touches," and your voice must be laced with a quiet wonder, at what it is to be so feared, but it is not admiration.

"my mother did not want that for me," sukuna says, his tone sharp, ruminating with a hard expression, "but i did it anyway. they wouldn't take me at first, not a child with no family to present him, nor gold to weigh in his favour," and the words are low, and biting, as if speech sits bitter on his tongue, "so i took up the sword. trained until i was good enough to join the legions."

"and then?" though you know that there is little point in asking, for the tale is now one that you have heard before. written in dried blood, and throughout history. it is famous on the mainland, on the islands, on the continent, to where the horse-lord khans are now raising great empires. but hearing it from sukuna's mouth feels different, like tracing your fingers over the jagged edge of a rough wound.

"sought power in other place," and now he's looking down at you, physically, but also knowing him, quite literally, "soft thing like you has never seen the rest of the world, but there were masters who never answered to a throne."

"crushed every army of the great clans, north to south, every squad of the sun, moon and stars. brought them to their knees, one by one, and tore their throats out," and you can hear how sukuna's tongue kisses his teeth when he speaks, as if he's reminiscing the taste of beautiful iron in his mouth, "and when it was done, the emperor, the same one who ruled while my mother and i rotted on his estate...he bowed to me."

"they invited me to the harvest festival after that," he continues, his lips twisted in a bitter smirk, "in the capital. worshipped me like an idol, some ancient hero."

it's never lost on you on how sukuna's tone is the most pleased when thinking about how blood rips from ripe arteries and wounds. but his eyes are colder than the snow-capped mountains of the earlier months, and they betray no joy nor triumph. it is simply what happened, as if told from the vantage of a stranger.

you hesitate, the next question caught in your throat. but the need to know burns brighter than your fear, "your father," you say carefully, and there. the tell-tale clench of sukuna's sculpted jaw, "he was a soldier, was he not?"

his eyes remain fixed beyond the terrace, where the light faded long ago. for a moment, you think that sukuna has not heard you. but then, he speaks, his voice akin to the rumble of thunder on a faraway horizon, "my father," and his tone is entirely devoid of feeling, "could have been one of the soldiers i killed, i care not."

"what did you mother say after all that?"

for a moment, the silence stretches between you, heavy and unyielding. and privately, you have grown much tired of this brooding quiet, but you fancy not being blown to ashes alongside the rest of this estate, so you let him linger.

but sukuna has inhaled sharply, and his wandered gaze has snapped back with an edge you hadn't expected, "i wouldn't know," and now, this feels more like an open wound, "died when i was twelve winters."

there is no softness in his tone, no tremble or catch to suggest the pain of memory, for it is too old and too familiar. but the world around you seems to dim as he still speaks, "hadn't learnt reversed curse technique by then. hah, if she had lived longer..."

and sukuna closes his mouth with a snap, as if an unseen poison has dredged to the surface. for it is not within the king of curses's nature to regret. to wonder what if?

you can see it in the way sukuna's hand clenches at his side, the subtle twitch of his mouth. it is not grief that overtakes him, nor even regret. it is something darker, colder — a wound that time has turned to scar tissue but never truly healed.

and again, you try. to imagine her, a woman bent by the weight of a hard life but still fierce in her love for her son. you still cannot see a face, but you can picture frail hands threading through coarse fabric into a makeshift tunic, telling her son stories to chase away the hunger and cold of the night. and you wonder about fate's cruel hands, for her son would first grow into a man, and then something crueler and inhuman, one who could topple armies and empires, one who sung fangs into still-beating hearts. but not in time to save her.

it is a sad story, but you know better than to offer your apologies. one thing still lingers in your mind, pressing against your thoughts like a stone beneath rushing water.

"what does this have to do with your daughter?"

your husband suddenly looks at you, quizzical, and he's faintly confused. you frown, clarifying before he can twist your meaning, "it's just...you seemed upset after holding her. i thought -"

sukuna's expression shifts, a flash of irritation breaking through his impassiveness, "what? that i loathed the sight of her?" his lips curl into a smirk, laced with a drier humour, "hope she got my brains, and not yours."

you scowl at him, your indignation quick but shallow at his cheap barbs. without much thought, you jab an elbow into his bare side. but he doesn't flinch, of course he doesn't. but a mild smile breaks through, faint as dawn's first light. and for now, it's enough for you.

but then sukuna's face clouds again, and the weight of his brooding thoughts seems to settle over him once more. you sigh, and venture a guess, your voice quieter now, gentler, "you’re worried about her because she was born as you were."

sukuna scoffs, "tch! don’t make me sound so weak and weepy, like you."

"ryomen," you say, letting his name stretch out, both affectionate and exasperated, "it's alright to care about your infant daughter. no one is going to topple your throne over it."

"i'd invite them to try," he snarls, shooting you a hard look, like you were going to raise an army later that day.

"it wasn't easy for me," he adds, and the edges of his words are brittle, "didn't quite have that grasp on jujutsu when i was younger. ended up even melding flesh together to try and hide two arms out of four. or...almost crushing them together so they would break and bend."

"what a cruel strife, delivered upon a child," you're frowning, at the vivid imagery and at how sukuna delivers it in such a matter-of-fact way.

but your husband dips his chin, and you're left staring and wondering, just what it would take to have him break away from his unholy pride, "a fair exchange," he says, "wasn't a stranger to what people called me. or thought."

"you know what the difference is?" and you've paused long enough for the words to settle, to break him out of his reverie, "our daughter has a loving father," and sukuna's face twitches.

"and," now, you point at yourself, "a loving mother. i do think she will grow up strong."

you almost say that she will grow up safe, happy, content. peaceful. but you had stopped yourself, for you had pushed the king of curses enough for one night, emotionally at least, and you know that 'strong' is something that he respects, something that he can hope for without feeling lesser for it.

"she better," he grunts, and you smile at the faintest glimmer of pride slipping into his voice, pride at what he deems a worthy creation from him, and you, "i don't care if she was born today, i need to see her cursed technique."

"sukuna!" you snap fiercely, and it just draws a rich laugh from him, one that makes you sigh too, for you think that your husband is often (and ironically) like the sun. for when he blazes far too hot, and bright, you can feel the burn sting. but when sukuna glows, all tend to clamour to bask in his rare warmth.

you laugh with him, the sound light in the still of the night, and before he can pull away or grumble something sardonic, you press a soft kiss to his cheek. sukuna huffs above you, the noise low and guttural, a half-hearted complaint about how he is being suffocated, but you feel the warmth bloom under your lips.

and it is sweet, in its own odd way, at how his creamy skin flushes quickly, betraying him, and his lower set of eyes flutter close. for a brief moment, the king of curses is almost bashful, the storm clouds parting as quickly as they came.

as you rise to your feet, you feel the ache in your thighs, but you tug lightly at his hefty arms, urging him, "come, my lord," you say, your tone teasing but warmer, "come see your daughter now."

sukuna doesn’t move at first, his gaze following yours, tracing the place where you had just been sitting. his expression shifts, darkening as his eyes fall on something. "is that blood?" he asks, the words sharp and low.

you glance down, catching sight of the vivid smear on the stone—a crimson stain stark against the dimly lit fabric. your shoulders tighten, a flicker of embarrassment sweeping through you before you remember that this is not your fault, and you glower, your voice bristling. "afterbirth," you mutter, crossing your arms as if to shield yourself from the moment. "would have been nicer to pass in my own bed."

the faintest quirk touches his lips, an almost-smile that flickers and vanishes as quickly as it came. "you must be hungry," he says, his tone succint but carrying the faint edge of something softer—something close to concern, though he would never name it as such, and call you foolish if you did.

you sigh, the weight of exhaustion pressing against you like the tide, for you desperately wished to rest, "you have no idea," half a complaint, half a confession.

sukuna doesn’t reply immediately, but you catch the way his gaze softens, lingering just long enough to remind you that, despite his gruffness, he cares more than he lets on. perhaps, in his own way, he is just as raw and exposed as you are now.

again, you tug at his marked arms, insistent, and he sighs — long-suffering, as if your request were a monumental task. yet, he rises, uncoiling his tall frame until he towers over you, the shadows darkening most of what is around you.

before you can utter another word, he sweeps you close, all four of his arms encircling you with an ease that borders on reverence. his lips brush against your forehead, fleeting but gentle, a moment so tender it nearly takes your breath away.

and then, like clockwork and a theatrical grimace, sukuna pushes you away, his expression twisting into an exaggerated mask of disgust. it's his strange, unpolished way of showing affection, and you can’t help but snicker, the sound light and unburdened.

"you’re ridiculous," you tease, though your smile lingers, soft and warm, and he mutters some comment about how he doesn't even like you.

"you know,” you begin, "i asked uraume to hold our daughter in the meantime."

His eyes widen, incredulous, and for a moment, he looks genuinely doubtful, "huh, this entire time. uraume cannot have agreed to that."

"they did!" you insist, triumph lighting your voice, thinking of the petulant sorcerer probably making faces at your baby indoors.

sukuna shakes his head, muttering as if the mere notion defied all reason, he who had seen mountains turn to dust and oceans part. "unbelievable," he says, his tone caught between disbelief and faint admiration, as though uraume's rare acquiescence were an impossible feat.

you had returned indoors, arm entwined with one of sukuna's which had pulled you close with a sudden, almost possessive gesture.

and lo and behold, you found uraume still kneeling by the cradle, with their eyes fixed on the infant, who was staring back at the ice-sorcerer with curious intensity, oddly knowing for one so small.

and uraume, typically stoic and cold, leans in loser to the child, now gentle and cooing, "yes," they murmur, "and when you are all grown up, you will listen to me. i don't care if sukuna has a stroke. your father is prone to theatrics, and your mother is prone to equal dramatics. but you can learn from the best there is, me."

sukuna, ever the cynic, guffaws, "i hope you are not indoctrinating my heir," you laugh at the flicker of amusement in both sets of his eyes.

you catch the briefest glimpse of an embarrassed flush on uraume's pallid cheeks before the sorcerer quickly recovers, lips pursing in an exaggerated show of indifference.

"i do not care for this pudgy thing," uraume huffs, the words a touch too hasty as they thrusts the child back into your arms, clearly uncomfortable with the softening of their usually unyielding nature.

and when sukuna's peering down at the child, with barely veiled interest, the same set of eyes that you carry end up meeting blood-red eyes with teeth.

your daughter, promptly robbed of uraume's gentler attention and less-monstrous features, begins to wail, loud and teary, as sukuna growls, affronted.

"can't you put the child back in you?"

the linked artwork belongs to the artist. but the header and writing belong to curtins.tumblr.com. likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated, but do not repost my work!

[cirqosmos]

broken lipstick. yjw

2024 | 16+ | ONESHOT 1.8K. | G-yandere; W-obsession, possessive, unhinged jungwon lol, forced kissing with lipstick yes.

DIRECTOR's CUT, found an old note of ideas in my phone from 2022 about jungwon × lipsticks, and thought that it would be a pity to not write about it so here it is. this is kind of like an experimental storytelling, just finding my way with the rhythm and pacing of the words, sentences, and grammar. so if it kinda sounds weird, apologies in advance lol !

finding yourself trapped in this world he created for you drives you terribly insane.

down, and down you go.

every words he spills—he claims that he had spent hours and days of effort for this room, curating it just how you would like it; makeup palettes and brushes, lipsticks, magazines, jewelries, pretty and dainty sundresses, coquettish bows and laces perfectly matching your taste.

everything single thing before you—was all you've ever dreamt for, wished for, manifested for. bare skin planted firmly on this king-sized bed you've listed as one of your life wishes, wrists and necks adorned with saccharine gemstones—ones you've often seen on magazines.

every single damn thing was here.

he claims that he did it because he wishes nothing but to see the finest shade of happiness be illustrated on your visage; for bliss and satisfaction weaved under the strings of fairy tales, you shall wish nothing more but to remain abode.

yes, it is an exact replica of your dream room yet a lot more bigger, lavish, but certainly not home. a doll house would be a much better, fitting term. or perhaps, a prison—masquerade as the definition of your perfect little utopia.

his eyebrows knitted at the way you worded it, saying that such comparison is absurd, and certainly is not the truth. for all that was before you, is all yours to take—and so is he.

all yours to take, he says.

but if it was yours, then why can't you wear all it outside? has he ever thought that all these things is fucking useless if you can't even bring it with you out of this sickening room? what's all these even for, you asks. he replies with that same sickening smile, "why, silly, of course it's for you."

you repeated it with spite, "no, this is not for me. you're doing this for you."

"if you say so," he brought his finger against your cheek, stroking it ever so sickeningly, causing you to lean away. "you're my priority here, your wants and needs are at the best interest of my heart. nothing more, nothing less."

it didn't miss your eyes how his composed visage falters ever so slightly, so subtle—it almost slips away from your fingers but you saw it and you didn't care.

his soul, you despises—every word etched of his existence, you loathed. death shall greet him, and you'd never spare a glance.

why would you? when just a month ago, a world filled with the brightest prospects was all waiting for you, but his grim arrival dims every glowing lantern ahead of your path, ultimately sealing the door to your future tight and begone.

akin to a rat in a trap under a cat's claws; your sanity wilting with each passing day. how many days or months has it been? you lose track of time. where is your phone, even? oh why, he asks? books and magazines was what you'd prefer over some petty little devices, so why would you need them now?

rage, despair, helplessness; you released all these pent-up frustration with each object you slammed against the floor, scattered about in a hazard mess. broken, shattered in pieces like you do. he should see it, feel it, of how his own hard work are gone into the drain, like what he had put you into.

footsteps approaching from the distance.

the door flew open, just like how he often appears, ruining every single opportunity you had back then. he appears too composed, inexplicably unfazed at the ravage scene before his eyes. his own efforts obliterated into nothing, every single thing he spent time on perfecting was wasted, in downright shambles.

you drop on your knees, suppressing your sobs as he approaches with small steps.

it was all too silent, with only your shaky gasps blending with the solemn air. with your head down, eyes locked against the wooden floor, and on your clenched fists shaking with grueling anticipation, you glance nervously at how he stands so still—staring down at you like you were an object.

you wish he just would kill you right now.

in your peripherals, however, you caught the sight of his fingers grabbing the tossed lipstick, now broken in half—it's smoothened tip now uneven. you waited for him to say something, perhaps throw profanities at you for ruining this dollhouse he had spent hours and days at.

grow mad at me, hate me, and then throw me away. in your head, you chanted these words—prayers it ultimately morphs into.

however a gasp spills out of your lips, your breath caught at the back of your throat upon seeing him applying the lipstick on his lips, still and all—while humming a melodic tune as he does so.

"is this how you do it?"

you didn't answer, only imbued with aghast at the deep shade of crimson hugging his lips. as peculiar as it may seem, you can't deny that this visage of his perfectly adorns it.

he steps closer, alarming you—manifesting straight to your eyes widening in sheer panic.

with strong arms, jungwon catches your legs before you could push him away, pulling you closer where he forces you to face him, gripping your jaw so tight and suffocatingly so into his well of eyes; with it's depths you could never fathom till your last breath.

yet he begs you to drown in them, to answer all the questions written all over within—what's so fucking wrong to just stay obedient, and be his oh so sweet darling? why can't you see his love and dedication for you? of how he's ready to give up everything for you?

maybe a slap to your pretty face would tighten the screw in your head a little, or perhaps a yell pulled out from his throat would do the trick, but oh darling—profanities don't suit you, nor does it do you justice to be treated so harshly.

fragile you are, and such a fragile one should be nested, sheltered away from this merciless world. you do not need to lift a finger, or tire your pretty little head over useless things but..

but why is it that you refuse to understand him?

evident it was, through the way you dug your nails on his hands, imbuing your ever growing hatred to him. not a single word spoken, nor spitting at each other but through your eyes—your rampant wishes of spitting him death grows enormous.

die, die, just die.

you held your breath, as a stroke of his finger on your temple—slides down your cheek. a grimace takes form on your feature as he leans in, propelling your body to fight harder against his—though, he remains stronger and faster—pouncing on you like a prey, diving in with his venom-laced fangs into your lips, forcefully so.

his carnal desires takes form across your visage; smudged, blotted, and smeared. a shade so intensified through his vows to make you understand his perception of love.

they say that love is patient, love is kind, love is forgiving.

no, that's bullshit. it's fucking slippery, a mess, metallic taste leaking out from your lip—spilling into his tongue, only for him to hum in frenzied delight. a taste so sweet, so divine, like caramel melting in his cavern.

tilting his head sideways—his tongue went further into yours, twisting and knotting like wet fabric—pooling an amalgamation of saliva, blood, and lipstick down the corner of your mouth. sticky palms on the back of your neck, spiralling you down and down into these candied greed.

heat, searing, throbbing immensely—this pain, do you understand it now? that's how his heart mourns towards your ungratefeful, petty actions. have you perhaps realise it? maybe not yet, as you still had this little fight in you, a funny sight to behold.

your head spins, flashing in mismatched colors, jaw throbbing by his gracious mouth of flames—infiltrating every corner.

soaking everything in you with his relentless rhythm—a pace you could never match as it accelerates beyond what you can take with each second. his lips, like a paint brush—and you, like a paper being crumpled into every way possible. moulding your speech into incoherent sentences, strings of pathetic cries for help drowned out into the void, your prayers to god himself had been engulfed by a devil's kiss.

what's a god, even? they say humans are made in the image of god, but he dare say that not even god are comparable to you, nor those who reign above the heavens—angels, sirens, succubus or whatever the hell are there—your feet they shall kiss.

a canvas you are—pure, and untainted. a masterpiece in the making, not even the greatest artist known to mankind could do justice to your beauty.

you're his haven, his abode. yet also a temptation, a sin, his inferno. every edge of your portrait tweaked perfectly into his own ideals and fantasies, yet also a curse, the poisonous bane of his life, so toxic—it contaminates his soul.

decaying, decomposing—perhaps he was the serpent, and you're the tenant of the garden. insatiable, the apple of eden couldn't be as mouthwatering as your visage.

so why, can't you understand his love?

if you couldn't see it before, then he'll make sure you'll see it now.

dragging you across the floor, jungwon forces you to meet your reflection in the shattered mirror. on your knees, you met this drowned out visage of yours, all visible for you to observe; disheveled hair, your cheeks bathed in intense shades of red, all the same to your neck and shoulders, lips swollen with a visible cut, drenched in all his unspoken words. a mess, you are.

his pretty little mess.

yet what a masterpiece you are, still. he coos with lips pursing up in a sweetened grin, as if he had sucked out all remaining little bits inside your little jar of hope. do you see it now? how every part of you belongs to him, all for his lips to take and taste.

"you look even prettier, all broken like this." jungwon isn't very much different, but while you look like a corpse bludgeoned into mayhem. the image he bears was of a bloodthirsty demon, an animalistic abstraction.

through the mirror, you could see him shuffling around—looking for something amongst the mess, only for the same lipstick he used as an instrument for this macabre play—returning to his palms.

with him back to your side, he delivered a stroke down your hair, tucking your locks behind your ear. a chin he places on your shoulder, one hand under your tummy and the other looped around your shoulder to reach for your lips.

the same broken lipstick, made its way on your lower lip. a shade so deep, so heavy, amplified by his twisted affection. all dolled up for only his eyes to see. your luscious hair—inviting him closer and closer, savoring the way it hugs his fingers. too delicate, the broken mirror could only shy away from you.

"mirror, mirror on the wall," the lipstick tossed on the floor, replaced by his thumb lapping your lip. "who's the fairest of them all?"

© 2022-2024, pieroulette on [tumblr].

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF LOVE ꒱ RORONOA ZORO X READER

warnings ⟢ slight angst (though it gets resolved). hurt/comfort. mentions of death and dying. descriptions of blood and wounds. brief allusions to buddhism. reader is gn and described as “beautiful” once.

word count ⟢ 1086

notes ⟢ happy birthday to my most beloved! this fic is self-indulgent (i.e. full of my hcs about zoro’s childhood) and a labor of love. the three of swords design in the banner is from the rider-waite tarot deck. three of swords generally depicts a difficult, sorrowful experience.

So this is how it ends.

The midafternoon horizon is fathomless—a halycon ocean—the sun anchored in its depths. A cool breeze stirs, kissing his tawny flesh, rustling his hair, and chiming his earrings; whispering beachgrass casts sinuous shadows across his face, allowing his good eye to rest in partial shade. Nearby, the tide laps at the shoreline—tenderly, the caress of a lover. Foam glides across half-buried seashells and beached debris in a brief greeting before returning to the sea, heeding her call.

Where Zoro is, he can’t be certain (not an uncommon occurence, though he would never admit it). His robe was slashed off at some point, and fell to the ground in shorn tatters. He lies bare-backed in a slurry of sand and ichor, his swords beside him; weeping wounds litter his torso, the most gruesome of which stretches from his navel to his right side. While he had the wherewithal to cut his haramaki and tie it around his waist as a makeshift tourniquet, the fabric is sodden, metallic teardrops puddling in the sand.

Pain is a feeling he greets like an old friend. It’s comforting, almost, like a suffocating embrace. As a boy, he had to nurture that cold familiarity if he wanted to survive—be it fighting bigger kids for spare scraps at the orphanage, or taking lashes from a bokken at the dojo. Strength comes with a cost, as does physical and mental growth. Existence is suffering, and suffering is—in its purest form—pain. But the mind-numbing sting that currently radiates from his injuries is the last thing on his mind.

For the first time in years, Zoro is afraid. He shivers despite the scorching sunbeams, sucking in shallow mouthfuls of air, glistening beads of sweat sliding down his body toward the earth.

It isn’t the prospect of death that scares him; he has walked most of his life along the corpse-strewn path of demons, fighting against his fate as an asura. And he has peered into death’s grim visage before—too many times count. He even dived into hell and cleaved through its bowels to face Enma, emerging victorious as the king of souls departed.

Regret, however? Regret is a different beast.

It’s why he trembles now, covered in grime and gore, half-lucid. As dark thoughts slink to the forefront of his consciousness, he’s aware that dying here will mean failing. Not simply failing himself and his own dream of becoming the greatest swordsman, but also failing his captain and best friend, and failing to preserve Kuina’s legacy. Most gut-wrenching of all, he knows that dying here will mean failing you. There’s so much Zoro wants to do with you, so much he wants to say. He itches with regret, calloused digits twitching at his sides, desperate to claw his skin off.

Clarity torments him. Memories flit before his steel gaze, now wet—a tear-streaked blade. He sees you: the flicker of your eyes when you tell a story; the curve of your lips when you poke fun at him; the halo of your hair when you nap against his chest; the set of your jaw when you’re serious. More than anything else, he longs to tell you how he feels.

I love you.

Three simple words that he always struggled to string together. Perfect moment after perfect moment was presented to him on a gilt platter: inside the crow’s nest at dawn, or beneath the lush boughs in the tangerine orchard—even perched atop the Sunny’s bow to watch the sunset. He squandered each of these opportunities because he (foolishly) assumed there would be more in the future.

I love you.

If only he could muster the strength to breathe out the sweetness of your name once more—to taste each smooth, honeyed syllable on his lips, to feel it silken on his palate. Maybe then he could forgive himself. But instead, it dies on his tongue as his vision blots and blurs. Eventually, his world goes black.

I love you.

Zoro awakes to the muffled creaking of a hull.

His head pounds, his mouth is bone-dry, and his limbs are leaden and stiff; he feels like death, and suspects that he looks like it, too. Surgical gauze tightly wraps his frame, stifled wounds screaming in agony. When he glances up and sees framed pictures of the crew above his cot, he recognizes where he is: the Sunny’s infirmary. In his periphery, you’re sitting at Chopper’s desk with a book in your lap. He tries (and, to his frustration, fails) to shift into a seated position. As soon as you notice the movement—head snapping up in surprise—you rush to his bedside.

He waits for you to reprimand him for being so reckless while away from the rest of the crew. But you don’t—not yet, anyway. (Not until he’s mostly healed. And for that, he wonders if you may be an angel.) Instead, you kneel on the wooden floorboards to level with him. Your fingertips tentatively brush against his cheekbone, as though you’re testing to ensure that he’s real. Content with what you find, you cup his chin, allowing him to lean into the soft warmth of your touch, catlike.

“I was worried about you. Well, so was everyone else. But I’ll only speak for myself,” you murmur.

His voice is gravel, cragged from disuse. “Sorry.”

After a few beats of silence, he clears his throat. “Is Chopper on break?”

You nod. “I’ve picked up the night shift so he can sleep.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Roughly two days.”

“Fuck.”

That draws a chuckle from you.

Zoro swallows. “Listen, I—”

Your thumb grazes his chapped lips, forcing him to pause. “Save your energy, Zo. You don’t have to defend yourself; you’re safe with me. I promise.”

Tired but patient, your gaze breaks him, only to piece him back together. His heart aches.

He inhales deeply. Then—in a flood of emotion he can’t stem—the words flow out: “Y’know I’m not good with feelings…or words. But, uh…” A broad palm wraps around your wrist, your skin hot against his. Ignoring the heat creeping up into his cheeks, he sighs, “I love you.”

Before he can second guess his confession, your lips bloom and burst into a radiant smile, setting your features alight. He doesn’t think you have ever looked more beautiful.

“I know,” you admit airily. Leaning in, you dot a kiss to his scarred eyelid. “I love you, too.”

[scumbag-the-hedgehog]

In case you have not been introduced: Scorn, the result of some god-forsaken fusion technique between Cynic and Scourge. The most arrogant bastard you could possibly conceive of, and the worst part is he can back it up because he's basically Sonic Squared.

behold, everyone.

the annoyingest thing alive.

[wildechildwrites]

Bodice Ripper

Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: 18+, noncon, kidnapping, violence, oral, masturbation

No use of Y/N

Summary: You, the princess of an unnamed kingdom, are attending a masquerade ball. You get kidnapped by a man in a skull mask with unclear intentions.

A/N: I got too caught up into the nuances of political kidnappings which is crazy because I really just wanted to write some bodice ripping smut but the social implications of being ravished were too detrimental to your fake life that I couldn't commit to it fully

AO3 Link: Bodice Ripper

18+

The gown you’re wearing is decadent, layers of pearlescent pink silk flowing around you, your shoulders bare, your waist tightly cinched. You’re wearing your mother’s best diamonds, glinting prettily in the hollow of your throat. The mask obscuring your face matches your dress, delicately resting on your nose bridge. 

The ballroom around you is lush with wealth, thousands of candles illuminating the space, rich tapestries covering the walls. Couples spin in the center of the room, and laughter fills the space. The masquerade is the event of the season, everyone decked out in finery. The prince is here, somewhere amongst the masked guests, and you’re determined to find him. Your country is small, but powerful, and there have been whispers of an engagement, an advantageous love match between you and the young dauphin. You survey the scene, looking for a familiar figure.

The man who catches your attention is massive, wrapped in a black burial shroud. His face is entirely obscured by a skull mask, the very visage of death. It's a horrible costume, brutal in a way that makes it striking, sticking out from the soft splendor of the rest of the crowd. He’s standing completely still, a harsh juxtaposition from the revelers milling about, and his eyes are unmistakably fixed upon you. A chill runs down your spine, and fear makes you turn away from his cold gaze.

A young man approaches you and asks for a dance, and you quickly recognize him as one of the sons of a duke your father often goes hunting with. He’s a fine enough dancer, despite his clammy hands, and you allow him to twirl you about, temporarily forgetting your unease. Your eyes catch on another man, tall and slender, dressed in velvety royal purple, and smile to yourself. The prince certainly hasn’t made the sport a difficult one. You detach yourself from your partner, politely making your excuses.

When you cross paths with the prince, you let your fan slip out of your hand. He smiles brightly at you, before leaning down to pick it up. His mask does little to hide his handsome face.

“You dropped this, madam.” He says, returning your fan to you with a gallant, slightly pompous, bow. When you reach for it, he captures your gloved hand in his, softly bringing it to his lips. 

“Thank you, your highness,” you say, dropping your eyes and curtseying appropriately.

“I believe you have mistaken me for someone else,” he responds, his voice playful. “But if you’ll do me the honor of dancing with me, I will attempt to behave as princely as I am capable.” 

You’d be a fool to think you’ve captured his full attention, and you ignore the way your dance partner's eyes stray hungrily away from yours. You know what’s expected of you, what is expected of him. True fealty from the future king is an unachievable goal, one you have no interest in. This is what you’re meant for, the duty that has been hammered in since you were a child. Resources and connections for your father’s kingdom, the admiration and envy of the court. The prince talks about his own accomplishments, the hunting he’s done recently and his skills with a blade. Your eyes flit almost unconsciously around the room while he speaks, looking for the terrifying specter from earlier, but the man that had frightened you is nowhere to be seen. You let yourself unwind, getting lost in the music and the prince’s eyes.  

You dance a few waltzes before the prince excuses himself. “I promised I’d play cards with the duke,” he says, his eyes following an earl’s daughter across the room. You curtsey sweetly, murmuring the appropriate tittering phrases, and you two part ways. The room is warm, and you head towards the balcony, desperately in need of some fresh air and solitude.

Outside, the terrace is deserted, and you’re grateful for the momentary peace. Music filters through the open doors, the sound of conversation muted to a dull hum. You sigh quietly. The gardens beyond are dark, but the moon is shining brightly. You stare up at the stars, picking out constellations. A branch snaps, just out of sight, and you stiffen, peering into the dark. 

“Is there someone there?” You call. 

The only response is the quiet chirping of crickets. 

You’re uneasy, hairs standing on end. Turning back, you yearn for the crowded safety of the ballroom.

The man in the skull mask stands between you and the french doors, and you let out a gasp. You grapple for your manners, trying to regain control of the situation.

“I–I apologize, sir, you startled me.” You say. The stranger makes no answer, taking a step closer to you. You step back. He takes another step. His eyes are cold, locked on yours as he advances. 

“You’re behaving most uncouthly.” Your tone is demeaning, but it makes no difference, not seeming to register as the man takes another step, closing in on you.

“You can’t– You’re not supposed to–” your composure cracks, adrenaline coursing through your veins. He reaches for you, and you evade his grasp, whirling around to run into the gardens. 

You hike your skirts up, uncaring of modesty, sprinting as fast you can through the darkness. Branches scrape at your skin as you dodge around them, trying to put distance between you and your pursuer. You hear him behind you, loud footfalls drawing closer and closer. Lungs burning, you desperately try to breathe around your tightly laced corset. There’s a hedge maze on the grounds, and if you could just get away from him–

You yelp when he lunges for you, tackling you roughly into the dirt. Your gloves rip, your palms and elbows aching from the impact, but you struggle against the weight on your back. You throw your head back hard, smashing the back of your skull into his nose, and are rewarded by a string of oaths, half of which you've never heard before, falling from the stranger’s mouth. His large, thick fingers wrap around your throat, pinning you in place. 

“Stay still,” the man snarls. He’s breathing heavily, voice raspy. His accent is thick and distinctively english. 

Something hard is pressed into your back, and you fearfully wonder if the man is armed. When he grinds his hips against yours,  a cold trickle of realization hits you. Your parents had kept you largely in the dark about what happens between men and women, but you had heard the whispered stories of the servants, the tittering of married friends. Horror stories about highway men and rapers. Your maidenhead is the only thing of any real value that you have, and you renew your struggles even as he keeps you pinned. 

“Get off of me!” You shriek, and the man freezes, as though caught off guard, before pushing himself off of you. He lets out a string of curses, before grabbing your arms and roughly pulling you up. 

He reaches up and pulls the mask off your face, drinking in your features hungrily. You stare at each other for a heartbeat.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, trembling. Your words seem to reset him, and he straightens up, towering over you. He’s massive, broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight, his costume sending a chill down your spine.

“It's not what I want from you, princess. It's what I want from your father. What you’re going to help me get from him.” he replies coldly. “The people are starving. Not that you’d even notice, hm?” He’s hurting you, his grip almost crushing, shaking you as he speaks. “Your father and that bastard of a prince don’t care about the common folk’s struggles.” 

“What exactly do you expect me to do about it?” you hiss, speaking before you have the sense to stop yourself, irritation rising. The man’s expression is impossible to read with the mask, but you think you’ve shocked him. “I have no claim, no real power. I do what I can, I feed the poor and donate to the church, but I do not write laws. I cannot influence my father’s decisions nor the prince’s.”

“You’re standing here, neck dripping with diamonds, telling me you’re powerless?” 

The aggravation in his voice scares you, but you forge on through gritted teeth. “I am merely a bauble and a future broodmare. You’d have better luck kidnapping one of my brothers. My father may not even condescend to pay whatever ransom you’ll demand, but you obviously didn’t plan this out quite well.” Your tone is frosty, haughty despite your terror.

He slaps you, hard, and you gasp in shock, tears welling in your eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me, princess.” He snarls. “Whether it’s money or your pretty little head on a spike, I’ll get what I want.” 

He pulls coarse rope from his cloak, binding your hands tightly, cutting into your delicate wrists. He heads into the darkness, dragging you behind him. You stumble in your heels, and he lets out an irritated sound before wordlessly throwing you over his shoulder. It’s as if you weigh nothing, and your face feels hot when his large hand presses against the back of your thighs, holding you steady. You can feel the warmth of him through the layers of fabric. You’re hyper aware of the indecency of it, your skin tingling.

The path isn’t lit, but his footsteps are confident. A horse snorts softly in the dark before the man suddenly puts you down, grabbing your bicep roughly. 

“Don’t move,” he says, his voice ice cold. You nod, too frightened to speak. The horse in front of you is beautiful, stormy gray and massive. He lets go of your arm and reaches into his cloak, procuring an apple. He offers it to the animal, whispering softly as he feeds it, petting its nose gently. You take a step back, trying to be subtle, and his head whips around. 

The man boosts you onto the horse, throwing himself on after you. You’re pressed against his chest, back flush against the hard planes of muscle as he urges the horse on, setting a quick pace. 

The horse is bigger than your own, stretching your legs uncomfortably wide, and you shift, quickly getting sore. Whatever is in his pocket is prodding into your lower back, and you wiggle your hips, trying to make yourself more comfortable with the limited space you have, when the man lets out a low noise in the back of his throat, a firm hand grabbing your waist.

“Quit squirmin’,” He grounds out. His voice sounds oddly strained, and you cease your movements immediately. You ride in silence for a few more moments. 

The path you're taking is unfamiliar, and curiosity wins over your reason.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask.

The man ignores you. Time passes, and you peer into the darkness, trying to spot any landmarks. Hopefully your absence has been noticed by your guards by now, and there are people looking for you. The night is cold, your arms covered in gooseflesh as you begin to shiver. Your captor wordlessly pulls you closer to his chest, wrapping the cloak he wears around your bare arms. You murmur a thank you automatically, and his grip on you tightens slightly.

“What's your name?” You ask softly. 

“It's Ghost,” the man replies after a moment. You feel a spike of irritation. 

“What’s your real name?” you ask, your tone slightly petulant.

“Why do you want it so bad, hm? Going to set your betrothed on me? If he’s not too busy whoremongering, maybe he’ll chop off my head.” His tone is mocking. “You’ll call me what I tell you to call me.” 

 You ride until dawn is breaking over the hill, coming upon a barn in the middle of a field. The surrounding countryside is unfamiliar, and you haven't seen any other houses or buildings for miles. You're exhausted and sore, body aching and stomach rumbling. Ghost stops short of the barn door, dismounting before pulling you into his arms in one fluid motion. You don’t resist as he carries you into the barn and places you with surprising gentleness on a pile of soft hay.

“I need to go feed and water the horse.” His voice is stern, a cruel bite to it that chills you. “There’s no one around us for miles. You've run from me once before and I caught you, if I have to chase you again I will punish you.” 

You stare up at him, trembling uncontrollably. There’s a beat of silence. He sighs, an almost wistful noise, before wordlessly leaving the barn. 

Your body is failing, the long horse ride and constant terror leaving you drained. You fight against unconsciousness, worried about what Ghost may do, but the hay is soft and sweet smelling, the barn warmer than the chill of the night.

Ghost finds you curled up on the hay, head cradled in your arms. He watches the soft movement of your breath pensively. The soft skin of your wrists is rubbed raw, angry beneath the ropes still holding them together. There’s a bruise forming on your cheek, and he’s sure that you’ve got more bruises hidden under your dress.

The concept had seemed so noble when the revolutionaries who hired him planned it. Distribute the ransom money amongst the poor, remind the monarchy of their own vulnerability. Standing in the dim light of the barn, confronted with a frightened girl and his own brutality, Ghost doesn’t feel noble. 

The desire that has been mounting since he had chased you down doesn't feel very noble either. 

Less of a man and more of a monster, he removes his mask and lowers himself on the hay beside you.

When you wake, you're laying on Ghost’s chest, hand curled in the tunic he wears. Your wrists are no longer tied, and he’s no longer wearing that horrible mask. Your face gets hot. He’s handsome but rough looking, light scars scattered across his face. There’s a smudge of dried blood under his crooked nose from when you headbutted him last night. You attempt to untangle yourself from him as gently as you can, scared of waking him. In response, his brow furrows, arms tightening around you unconsciously. You freeze and lie still, watching the shadows on the wall change as the sun rises, his heartbeat steady in your ear.

You can tell when Ghost finally wakes by the way his breathing changes. He pushes you off of him gently, and you feign sleep, listening to him move about. When the door of the barn creeps open and shut, you sit up and look around. It had been too dark before, but now you look around for any exits. There’s a loft, and you wonder if you could reach it before Ghost gets back. 

The mental image of him dragging you down after you’ve climbed up makes you reconsider the idea. 

You wonder if he can be bargained with. You knew how to play the game with men, how to simper and say the things they wanted to hear, and the game was much easier when they were attracted to you. You remember the way Ghost looked at you when he first ripped off your mask and heat rushes to your face as you begin to strategize.

When Ghost comes back inside, you’re standing, hands clasped behind your back and posture straight. You look more like you did when he first saw you, confident and blooming in the low light of the ballroom. The dirt on your face and gown do little to detract from your regal nature, and your eyes meet his without the fear from last night.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask, your voice clear and almost musical. 

He doesn’t respond, his gaze trailing down your figure, and you bite your lip, pushing down your trepidation and stepping towards him. The surprise in his expression is poorly masked, and he tilts his head, an unspoken question.

“I’m being paid a large amount of money to bring you to a revolutionists group.” He says frankly. He’s stalking closer to you, soft and slow, like a fox after a hare. You resist the urge to step back.

“Please Ghost,” you respond, eyes wide, letting your bottom lip tremble, “My father can pay more than what they’re offering. Whatever you ask, I will write a letter demanding it, and we can have a courier from the nearest town take it to the palace immediately.”

You close the gap between the two of you, gently reaching out and placing a hand on his chest, tilting your chin to look him in the eye. Your expression is soft and pleading, and you resist a shudder at the odd, predatory look quickly forming in his eyes. One of his hands shoots out, grabbing your wrist, keeping you trapped against him. 

“Are you trying to negotiate with me?” Ghost murmurs. The intense look on his face frightens you, and you take an abrupt step back, trying to pull away from his iron grip, realizing your judgment of him had been erroneous far too late. You’d been desired before, exchanged longing looks across ballrooms, swapped love tokens and letters, but no one had ever looked at you with such fierce hunger. 

“I–I’ll tell the king that you rescued me. That you heard my screams and saved me.” You feel the tables quickly turning against you. “I’ll get you whatever you want.”

He laughs, a dissonant sound against the grim set of his features. “What I want,” Ghost leans in, his voice dropping. “Is something I can’t have.” Your chests are nearly pressed together.

 “I have been fighting my baser nature since the moment I saw you.” The intensity in his eyes is overwhelming, his voice like velvet. 

“I don't care that you're a princess. I wish you were a shepherd’s daughter, then I'd have snuck you away to the woods to fuck you on the soft ferns while your father tends his flock.” 

No one has ever spoken to you in such a way. Heat fills you unexpectedly, but you rebel against the foreign sensations and growing need, tugging your wrist out of his grip.

“You can’t have me,” you say weakly. Ghost leans down, fisting his hand in your hair. You expect him to kiss you, but he uses his grip on you to pull your head to the side, exposing the smooth column of your throat. His breath is hot against your neck.

“Come now, princess. You expect me to believe that there have been no trysts with stable boys? I’m sure your beloved little prince has stolen a kiss or two. It’ll be our little secret.” His voice is a purr, and he places a delicate kiss right below your ear lobe. You tremble, gasping at the sensation.

 He huffs, amused, before sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin. You let out an indecent mewl, hands rising up to fist the front of the tunic he wears. Ghost pulls back, his eyes sparking with an avian intensity before capturing your lips with his.

The kiss is fierce, want shooting through you as you gasp against his mouth. His tongue sweeps against yours, and you lose yourself in it until you feel his hands wandering, touching your breasts. You struggle against him, tears welling in your eyes as you try to pull away. He pulls you against him harder, grinding his hips against yours. You turn your head to the side, trying to escape his demanding mouth.

“Please don’t,” you cry. “I’ll be ruined.” 

“We wouldn’t want that.” His voice is full of sarcasm, but he cups your face tenderly, wiping the tears from your eyes. “Don’t cry now, dove, I just want a taste. We’ll keep you nice and pure.” 

He picks you up, laying you back onto the straw. You look at him, a pinched expression on your face, and he captures your mouth in another kiss, devouring you. You can feel the burning heat of his body through the layers of your dress. His hands run down your sides, bunching in the fabric of your skirt. He hikes your skirt up, forcing your legs apart, and you know what's coming, bracing for his touch as he mouths along your neck, but his rough hands are still a shock as he pushes your thighs apart. You freeze with anticipation as he lowers himself down your body.

The only warning you get is the feeling of Ghost’s skin brushing against yours before his warm tongue traces a long, relishing lick up your dripping slit, ripping a gasp from you. He buries his face against you, licking deeper, his tongue exploring previously untouched places as you writhe beneath him. The sensations are all so foreign and overwhelming. You fist your hands into his hair, unsure if you want to push him away or pull him closer. 

Ghost is relentless, his hands pinning you down, trapping you as he licks you open, and you let out a wail. An odd sensation is building in your stomach, and you try to escape his insistent mouth, squirming against his hold. His nose is pressed up against the top of your slit, his tongue circling around inside you. A shudder runs all the way through your body, reaching a pitch that has you crying out, bucking against him as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your thighs tremble around his head, and you whine as he continues his ministrations, feeling overstimulated, your head hazy. He finally allows you to push him away when he’s had his fill, leaning backwards. The lower half of his face is soaked, and you blush as he uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.  

Ghost unlaces his breeches, pulling you out of your haze. He’s still got one hand holding you down, and you begin struggling again, fear building.

“No, you can’t—” Ghost leans down and captures your lips with his, interrupting your pleas. He pulls back, gently cupping your face in his hand and shushing you, making soft noises as you struggle against him. 

“I promised princess, I just want to feel you.” You relax slightly, still nervous as he pulls his cock free. It’s huge, the tip leaking and nearly purple. He kisses you again, his mouth rough against yours, and you whimper as he presses himself against you, dragging his cock through your folds, gathering your slick. When the tip catches against your entrance, you let out a gasp. 

He pulls back, his eyes dark. You watch, entranced, as he wraps his hand around himself, pumping his fist slowly up and down, coating his cock with your slick. It’s obscene, and you feel yourself flush at the indecency. Heat rushes down to your core as you watch him stroke his cock.

Ghost’s gaze is burning, eyes flitting between your face and your wet center, drinking up the sight. 

“See what you do to me?” He snarls, picking up speed. He grabs your hip and pulls you closer, flat on your back with your legs spread around him as he fucks his fist, his knuckles brushing against your center. You whimper, and the hand on your hip digs into your skin, hard enough to bruise. 

When he finishes, he says your name like a litany. It echoes in the empty space of the barn, like the clanging of church bells. 

His cum dries on the soft skin of your navel and mound, sticky and uncomfortable. He helps you pull your dress down, and tucks himself back into his breeches. 

Ghost kisses you again, his mouth is softer against yours now, and you kiss back, your inexperienced tongue rasping against his. He pulls away, and the silence between you is heavy. 

“What are you going to do now?” You ask, your voice quiet. His expression is conflicted as he reaches up a large hand to push some stray hair out of your face.

After a long silence, he finally answers you. “I’m taking you home.”

[ahamasmiyodhah]

Something on Arjuna and Subhadra? If you are taking requests from the Mahabharata, that is. ✨️

Subhadra was numb.

Subhadra sat motionless, her heart frozen in a numbing ache that seemed to paralyze her very soul. Before her, Abhimanyu's lifeless body lay on the battlefield, covered with a thin shroud that could barely contain the evidence of his valiant struggle. The scent of the earth, now tinged with the iron tang of blood, clung to the air, mingling with the smoke and ashes of war. But Subhadra's senses were dulled; all she could perceive was the stillness of her son’s form, the same body she had cradled as a baby, now cold and unyielding.

Her gaze drifted over Abhimanyu's face, and in that lifeless visage, she saw not the warrior who had been felled in the thick of battle, but the child who once played in the courtyards of Indraprastha, laughing with boundless joy. She remembered how he would run to her, his tiny feet pattering on the marble floors, his voice a melody that called her "Maa!." How he had clung to her sari, his little hands tugging as he demanded to be picked up. The memory brought a faint smile to her lips, though it was more of a reflex than a true expression of emotion, for the weight of her grief was too heavy to allow any genuine feeling.

Subhadra recalled the countless nights she had spent telling him stories of heroes and kings, his young eyes wide with wonder. How he would gaze at her, asking if he, too, could be a great warrior like his father, Arjuna. "Yes, my son," she would say, brushing back the curls from his forehead. "You will be the bravest of them all." But now, those words seemed hollow, almost cruel, as she sat before the silent proof of his bravery.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she remembered the day Abhimanyu had taken up arms for the first time, the pride she had felt mingled with a mother's fear. She had blessed him with trembling hands, whispering prayers for his safety. He had smiled at her then, that same radiant smile that always managed to soothe her worries, and promised to return victorious. But now, that promise lay shattered like the remnants of the battlefield.

Subhadra's mind then turned to her elder Brother, her dear Dau, Balarama and her elder Brother Vasudeva Krishna, who had trained her and Arjuna's son in the arts of war, guiding him with the same discipline and care he had shown to his own brothers. Krishna had been both mentor and a father figure of immense strength and wisdom in Abhimanyu's eyes. She had often watched them train together, their bond growing stronger with each passing day. Baldau and Krishna had been preparing him for greatness, but not for this. Never for this.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps approaching. She looked up to see Arjuna, his face twisted in a mask of rage and grief, his eyes burning with a fury she had never seen before. He marched toward her, his steps heavy with purpose, his hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.

"Jayadratha," he hissed, the name seething through clenched teeth. "I will avenge our son. He will not escape my wrath."

Subhadra felt a surge of fear for her husband, knowing that the fury in his heart could drive him to his own destruction. But before she could speak, before she could reach out to him, Arjuna had already turned away, his focus singular, his resolve unshakable.

.

The heavy silence of the night hung over the tent as Subhadra and Arjuna sat together, each lost in their own grief. The dim light of the oil lamp flickered, casting long shadows on the walls, but neither of them noticed. Subhadra's eyes were red-rimmed, her tears long since dried up, but her heart ached with a pain that was too deep for words. Across from her, Arjuna sat with his head bowed, his hands clenched into fists as he struggled to contain the storm of emotions raging within him.

For a long time, neither spoke. The weight of their shared loss pressed down on them, making the air in the tent feel thick and oppressive. Subhadra could see the strain in her husband's posture, the way his shoulders were hunched as if carrying the weight of the world. She wanted to reach out to him, to offer comfort, but she hesitated, unsure of how to bridge the chasm of grief that separated them.

Finally, Arjuna broke the silence, his voice hoarse and trembling. "I failed him, Subhadra. I failed our son." His words were laced with self-recrimination, each syllable heavy with the burden of guilt. "I wasn't there when he needed me the most. I couldn’t protect him… my own flesh and blood."

Subhadra's heart twisted at the pain in his voice. She knew the depth of his anguish, knew how much Arjuna had loved Abhimanyu, even if circumstances had kept them apart for much of their lives. She herself had often felt the sting of Arjuna's absence during those long years of exile, raising their son alone, but she had always reassured herself with the thought that one day, they would be reunited as a family. Now, that hope was shattered, and all that remained was the cruel reality of their loss.

"Arjuna," Subhadra began softly, her voice gentle but firm, "you cannot blame yourself for what happened. Abhimanyu was a warrior, just like you. He knew the risks, and he fought bravely, with all the skill and courage you taught him." She reached out, placing a hand on his, her touch warm and steady. "You gave him the strength to face the world. You made him the man he was."

Arjuna shook his head, his expression twisted in grief. "But I wasn't there, Subhadra. I didn’t see him grow up, didn’t guide him as a father should. I was away, fighting battles far from home, while our son… our son was left to fend for himself." His voice broke, and he looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

Subhadra felt her own tears threatening to spill over again, but she fought them back, knowing that she needed to be strong for him. "We did what we could, Arjuna," she said, her tone resolute. "We cannot change what has happened. But Abhimanyu would not want you to be consumed by guilt. He would want you to honor his memory, to continue fighting for what is right."

Arjuna’s face hardened as he met her eyes, the sorrow giving way to a fierce resolve. "Jayadratha," he spat, the name dripping with venom. "It was he who blocked the way, who ensured that our son was trapped, surrounded, and slaughtered like an animal. I will not rest until I have avenged Abhimanyu’s death."

Subhadra nodded, recognizing the fire in his eyes. "Then do what you must, Arjuna. But remember, you are not alone in this. I am with you, always."

Arjuna took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. "I swear, Subhadra," he vowed, his voice low and intense, "before the sun sets tomorrow, I will kill Jayadratha. And if I fail… I will enter the fire myself. I will not return to you without fulfilling this oath."

Subhadra felt a cold dread settle in her chest at his words, but she knew there was no stopping him now. She could only pray that the gods would grant him the strength to succeed, for the thought of losing him as well was more than she could bear.

As Arjuna stood and prepared to leave, Subhadra rose with him, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. "Come back to me, Arjuna," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Come back to me."

Arjuna held her close, his grip fierce as if drawing strength from her. "I will, Subhadra," he promised, his voice softening for a moment. "I will return, and I will make sure that our son's sacrifice is not in vain."

With one last, lingering glance, Arjuna turned and walked out of the tent, leaving Subhadra standing alone, her heart heavy with a mixture of fear and hope. She watched him go, silently praying for his safety, even as she knew that tonight will be the last night Jayadratha will laugh and celebrate his victory which burned her whole world.

Request by @desigurlie ✨

@harinishivaa @mahi-wayy @yehsahihai @houseofbreadpakoda @blossommoonart @myvarya @zeherili-ankhein @warnermeadowsgirl @krsnaradhika @desigurlie @ramayantika @mrityuloknative @thegleamingmoon @sumiyxx @chaliyaaa @stxrrynxghts @sambaridli @sanskari-kanya @ulaganayagi @voidsteffy @krishna-sangini @nidhi-writes @kaal-naagin @thecrazyinktrovert @sada-siva-sanyaasi @chaanv

[nixiefics]

Fire and Runes - Chapter One

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x OC (Reilla)

Tropes: Arranged Marriage

Warnings: Targaryen typical incest, smut, canon typical violence and death, swearing, drinking

The clang of steel against steel echoed through the courtyard of Runestone as Reilla sparred with Ser Arlan Granes, the master-at-arms. Sweat glistened on her brow as she parried his strike, her movements swift and precise. Ser Arlan, a seasoned knight with greying hair and a weathered face, was relentless in his training, pushing Reilla to her limits.

"Good, Reilla," Ser Arlan praised as she deftly sidestepped his thrust. "Your form has improved greatly. Not keen for another tumble in the mud?"

"Not again soon, Ser," Reilla nodded, her focus unwavering as she countered with a series of quick strikes.

As they continued their sparring session, Gerold Royce approached, his stern visage softened by a hint of pride as he watched his niece. He waited until the bout concluded, and Reilla had disarmed Ser Arlan with a final, decisive blow.

"Well done, Reilla," Gerold said, his voice carrying a note of approval. "Your mother would be proud."

Reilla smiled, breathing heavily as she lowered her practice sword. "Thank you, Uncle Gerold."

Ser Arlan bowed to her and took her training sword with a proud grin. He wandered off towards the armoury with a light whistle, still as lithe and nimble as any young knight.

Gerold cleared his throat, his expression turning more serious. "We need to talk. The political climate is shifting rapidly, and there are matters we must discuss."

Reilla followed Gerold to a shaded alcove overlooking the courtyard where her Aunt Alyssa sat with a furrowed brow. Reilla wiped her own with a cloth, her curiosity piqued by her uncle's grave tone.

"What news do you have, Uncle?" Reilla asked, her violet eyes studying his face.

"The realm is on the brink of war," Gerold said, his voice heavy with concern. "King Viserys is dead. The factions are gathering their forces, and it is only a matter of time before the bloodshed begins."

Reilla's heart sank at the thought of the impending conflict. She had heard tales of the devastation wrought by dragons, and the prospect of a civil war between her own kin filled her with dread. Yet, there was also a sense of duty and loyalty that stirred within her.

"What of the betrothal?" Reilla asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. "Does it still stand?"

Reilla had always known that her future was tied to Aegon Targaryen. The betrothal had been arranged by King Viserys as a means of securing her safety and ensuring her loyalty to the crown. Reilla always felt a mixture of apprehension and curiosity when she thought of her betrothal. She wondered what kind of man Aegon had become, and whether he shared the same sense of duty and honour that she held dear. The thought of marrying a stranger was daunting, yet she knew it was her duty to uphold the alliance.

Gerold exchanged a glance with Alyssa who nodded solemnly, her expression one of resolve. Alyssa was a great political strategist and Reilla admired her strength of character for it - and hoped that she might one day be just as good at politics. "Queen Alicent and the Hand plan to crown Aegon immediately," Alyssa said. "Your betrothal to Aegon remains intact, and so your presence in King's Landing is crucial."

"What of Rhaenyra's claim?" Reilla fidgeted with the ring around her thumb, a note of uncertainty creeping into her voice. "She will not take lightly to her birthright being taken by her younger brother."

"Queen Alicent has a declaration from King Viserys, signed on his deathbed, proclaiming Aegon the heir." Alyssa said quietly, blue eyes piercing. "Rhaenyra will still fight it, but Aegon has a valid claim now. He is male."

Reilla frowned down at her feet. It was unfair that all of Westeros were vying for a male heir over Rhaenyra - Reilla herself had been running Runestone successfully for several years now and so, she thought, was no less qualified than Ser Gerold to do it. "What should I expect?"

Gerold placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "King's Landing is a different world from the Vale. It is a city of danger but also one of opportunity. You must be cautious, but also assertive. Remember who you are, and do not let anyone undermine you."

Alyssa stepped forward, taking Reilla’s hands in her own. "You must be vigilant, my dear. The court is filled with deception. Trust few, and always keep your wits about you."

"I will, Aunt Alyssa," Reilla promised, feeling a swell of gratitude for the woman who had been a mother to her. "I will make my House proud."

The arrival of a delegation from King's Landing marked a turning point in Reilla's life. The letter, sealed with a gold sigil of House Targaryen, was delivered to her by a stern-faced messenger. Reilla broke the seal with trembling hands, her eyes scanning the elegant script.

Princess Reilla,

It is with great anticipation that I extend an invitation to you to join us at the Red Keep. The realm is in need of unity, and your presence is requested as we navigate these turbulent times. Your betrothal to Aegon Targaryen remains a cornerstone of our alliance, and we look forward to welcoming you to King's Landing.

Regards,

Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower

The days leading up to her departure were a whirlwind of preparations. Reilla's chambers were filled with the constant hum of activity as seamstresses, maids, and couriers bustled in and out, ensuring that every detail of her journey and her new life in King's Landing was meticulously arranged.

New gowns were a necessity, as her usual riding habits were deemed inappropriate for life at court and for her role as a future queen. Reilla stood still as seamstresses measured her, their hands deftly working to create dresses that would befit her new status. The fabrics were rich and luxurious, in colors of deep emerald, royal blue, and regal gold. The gowns, however, felt restrictive in a way her usual riding pants and tunic never did. Each dress was heavy with layers of silk and brocade, the bodices cinched tight, making her feel as though she were being squeezed into a form that was not her own.

"I can't breathe in these," Reilla muttered under her breath as she tried on yet another gown, this one a deep green with intricate silver embroidery. "How do they expect me to fight or ride if I can't even move properly?"

Alyssa, ever the practical aunt, smiled gently at her. "You will learn, my dear. It’s all part of the role you are stepping into. But remember, your strength lies not just in your ability to ride or fight, but in your presence and your wisdom. These gowns are merely symbols of the power you wield."

Reilla sighed but nodded, understanding the truth in her aunt's words. She stood before the mirror, trying to see herself as others would see her - regal, composed, every bit a queen.

Choosing her wedding cloak proved to be another significant task. According to tradition, Aegon would remove her cloak during the ceremony and replace it with his own house cloak, symbolizing her transition from her family's protection to his. Reilla wanted this gesture to carry a deeper meaning. She spent hours in the family vault, searching through the cloaks of her ancestors, each one telling a story of strength, honour, and legacy.

Finally, she found the cloak her mother had worn at her own wedding. It was a beautiful piece, made of rich bronze fabric adorned with black gemstones, representing their house banner - black iron studs on bronze, bordered with runes. Holding it in her hands, Reilla felt a surge of emotion. This cloak represented her mother's strength and legacy, a reminder that she was her mother's daughter, bound by blood and heritage, and no one else's - not even Daemon's.

"This is the one," she said firmly, her voice steady as she looked at Alyssa, who had accompanied her. "I will wear my mother's cloak. It will be a statement that I am a Royce first and foremost."

Alyssa nodded approvingly. "It’s a fine choice, Reilla. Your mother would be proud."

On the morning of her departure, Reilla stood before the gates of Runestone, her horse saddled and ready. The early morning light cast a golden glow over the stone walls, and the air was filled with a sense of both anticipation and sorrow. Gerold and Alyssa were there to see her off, their faces lined with worry and hope.

Gerold stepped forward, his usually stern face softened by the emotion of the moment. "Be safe, Reilla," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "Remember your training and your heritage. You are a Royce first and foremost."

Reilla embraced her uncle, feeling the strength and warmth of his arms around her. "I will, Uncle," she promised, her voice steady. "I will make you proud."

Alyssa hugged her tightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You are destined for greatness, my dear. Trust in yourself and in the legacy of your mother. The Vale will always be your home, and we will always be here for you."

Reilla nodded, feeling the weight of their words settle over her like a mantle. She mounted her horse, her gaze fixed on the horizon. As she rode away from the Vale, the wind whipping through her hair, she felt a sense of determination and purpose. She was heading towards an uncertain future, but she would face it with the strength and courage of her ancestors.

Each day on the journey from Runestone to King's Landing brought new landscapes and challenges, and as they traversed through the rugged terrain of the Vale, Reilla found herself reflecting on the weight of her responsibilities and the uncertainties that lay ahead.

They rode through towering mountains that seemed to touch the sky, the air crisp and invigorating. Reilla often found solace in the natural beauty around her, the sweeping vistas and cascading waterfalls a stark contrast to the looming shadow of war that darkened her thoughts.

Ser Arlan, ever watchful at her side, maintained a steady presence. He was more than her protector; he was a mentor, offering guidance and wisdom during their long days on the road. They discussed strategy, the political climate in King's Landing, and the delicate balance of power among the noble houses.

One morning, as they camped in the foothills of the Riverlands, Reilla decided to join a hunt with her guards. It was a chance to enjoy her skill with a bow and arrow, a skill she had honed since childhood under the tutelage of House Royce's finest archers.

The woods were alive with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant birdsong as Reilla tracked a massive buck. She moved with silent grace, her steps sure and deliberate. Ser Arlan watched from a distance, a faint smile on his weathered face, as Reilla lined up her shot.

The arrow flew true, striking the buck cleanly and bringing it down with a single shot. Reilla approached the fallen stag with a mix of pride and satisfaction. She instructed her guards to prepare the stag's head and rack for transport, a grin tugging at her lips. "This," she declared with mock seriousness, "shall be my wedding gift to Prince Aegon. A token of my prowess with a bow."

Her guards chuckled at her jest, but Reilla's thoughts turned sombre as they resumed their journey towards King's Landing. She wondered what Aegon would think of her, a girl from the Vale raised in the shadow of mountains, with a heart torn between duty and desire for a peaceful realm.

The looming war weighed heavily on her mind. She knew that her betrothal to Aegon was not just a union of hearts but a strategic alliance forged in the fires of political necessity. As they neared the capital, Reilla couldn't help but think of Daemon Targaryen.

She harboured no illusions about him - his ambitions, his ruthlessness, and his calculated manoeuvres to secure power. His absence in her life had left a void filled with questions and resentment. Yet, despite her feelings towards Daemon, Reilla knew that her destiny was entwined with House Targaryen. The alliance between their houses was meant to bring stability to a fractured realm, to unite the warring factions under a single banner.

As they finally approached the gates of the capital city, the sight of the Red Keep rising against the skyline filled Reilla with a mixture of awe and apprehension. The great castle seemed to loom over her, its towering walls a stark reminder of the power that resided within.

The guards at the gate recognized the sigil of House Royce, their armour gleaming in the sunlight as they ushered Reilla and her retinue through the bustling courtyard. The sounds of the city enveloped them - the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the calls of merchants hawking their wares, and the distant murmur of the people going about their daily lives.

Reilla dismounted gracefully, her riding habit dusted with the road's grime. She took a moment to straighten her attire, adjusting the cloak adorned with the Royce colours before stepping forward to follow the guards into the Great Hall.

Inside, the atmosphere was both grand and solemn. The Great Hall of the Red Keep was adorned with green banners bearing the sigil of House Targaryen in gold, their colours shimmering in the light streaming through stained glass windows. At the far end of the hall, Queen Alicent Hightower awaited her, flanked by her advisors and courtiers.

"Welcome to King's Landing, Princess Reilla," Alicent's voice carried across the hall with warmth and authority. "We have awaited your arrival with great anticipation."

Reilla curtsied gracefully before the queen, her violet eyes meeting Alicent's with respect. "Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, her voice steady despite the flurry of emotions within her. "It is an honour to be here."

Alicent's gaze lingered on Reilla for a moment, assessing the young woman who would soon join their court. "You have travelled far," the queen remarked, her tone measured. "I trust your journey was not too taxing?"

Reilla inclined her head slightly. "It was a challenging journey, Your Grace, but one I undertook with determination. I am grateful for the hospitality extended to me and my retinue."

Alicent nodded approvingly. "Your presence here marks a new chapter in the history of our realm."

As their conversation concluded, Reilla's attention shifted to the figure standing beside Queen Alicent - an young man whose presence exuded a sense of quiet intensity. Prince Aegon Targaryen stood tall and composed, his silver-blonde hair catching the light as he regarded her with a calculating gaze.

Aegon stepped forward with a faint smile playing on his lips, his violet eyes assessing Reilla with a keen intensity. "Princess Reilla," he greeted her, his voice smooth and assured. "It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

Reilla met his gaze squarely, her own expression composed yet perceptive. She took his hand in a firm grip, noting the strength and confidence in his demeanour, but also sensing an underlying vulnerability. "The pleasure is mine, Prince Aegon," she replied, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling within her.

Aegon's violet eyes studied her intently, as if searching for something beneath the surface. His usual facade of confidence wavered, revealing a hint of inner turmoil. "I have heard much about you," he admitted softly, his tone thoughtful. "Your skills and your unwavering loyalty to your house."

Reilla inclined her head slightly, her violet eyes meeting his with understanding. "And I have heard tales of you as well, Prince Aegon," she replied diplomatically, sensing the weight of his unspoken burdens. "It is an honour to stand before you."

Aegon's lips twitched slightly, a wry hint of amusement playing across his features. "Let us dispense with formalities, shall we?" he suggested, a flicker of vulnerability visible in his eyes. "We are to be wed, after all. It would be prudent to become acquainted."

Reilla's lips quirked in response, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She appreciated his candour and the subtle admission of their shared uncertainty. "Indeed," she agreed warmly, feeling a measure of relief at his easy manner. "It seems we have much to discuss."

As they settled into the quiet of Reilla's chambers within the Red Keep, Ser Criston Cole stood vigilantly by the door, his presence a reminder of the propriety expected of their meeting. Aegon poured himself a goblet of wine but hesitated before taking a sip, acutely aware of Ser Criston's watchful gaze.

Reilla, seated across from Aegon, observed his hesitation with a gentle smile. "What weighs heaviest on your mind, Prince Aegon?"

"Straight into the thick of it, then?" He chuckled and sat down, sighing as he pondered the question. Aegon glanced towards Ser Criston briefly before meeting Reilla's gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in his violet eyes. "Rhaenyra, my sister," he admitted, his voice tinged with bitterness. "She was always the favoured one - the true heir, groomed from birth to wear the crown. I've spent my life in her shadow, second place in everyone's eyes."

Reilla nodded empathetically, understanding the weight of familial expectations all too well. "And your mother?" she inquired with curiosity.

"Queen Alicent," Aegon said her name with a mixture of reverence and resentment. "She sees me as a pawn in her game for power, a means to secure the throne she believes rightfully belongs to our line. I've never felt like I belonged to her."

Their conversation unfolded with an undercurrent of restraint, Ser Criston's silent vigil a constant reminder of their roles and the propriety of their meeting. Reilla, by rights a princess of the realm, shared her own apprehensions about leaving the familiar confines of the Vale, where her training and sense of purpose had been forged.

"Duty can be a heavy burden," she admitted, her voice steady with resolve. "Especially when it demands sacrifices we may not be prepared to make."

Aegon nodded solemnly, his features softened by Reilla's understanding. "I've never desired the crown," he confessed quietly. "It's a weight I fear I may not bear - never groomed to rule, always feeling inadequate."

Reilla regarded him with empathy, her gaze momentarily meeting Ser Criston's before returning to Aegon. "Yet here we stand," she said, gently taking his hand, "bound by duty and fate, navigating uncertain waters together."

Their conversation deepened into shared hopes and aspirations. Aegon spoke of a longing for peace and stability, far removed from the turmoil of court intrigue and familial expectations.

"I want a realm where people can live without fear," he admitted, his voice earnest. "Where the burdens of power don't overshadow the need for compassion and justice."

Reilla's eyes softened with understanding. "And I want to honour the legacy of my bloodlines," she confided, her voice tinged with quiet determination. "To bring strength through unity, and to forge alliances that endure beyond the whims of politics."

As the evening wore on their shared vulnerability became a bridge, connecting their hearts and minds in ways that mere duty could never achieve. When the hour grew late, Aegon escorted Reilla to her chambers' door, Ser Criston following respectfully behind. The weight of their conversation lingered in the air like a promise of understanding and support.

"Goodnight, Princess Reilla," Aegon said softly, his gaze holding hers with newfound sincerity.

"Goodnight, Prince Aegon," Reilla replied, a gentle smile curving her lips. In that moment, she felt a glimmer of hope for their future - a future built not just on duty, but on mutual respect and the shared journey they had begun together.

As she settled into her chambers, the sounds of King's Landing fading into the background, Reilla reflected on the day's events. She had arrived as a paragon of House Royce, but she knew that her future now lay intertwined with House Targaryen. With Aegon by her side, she felt a renewed sense of purpose - a determination to navigate the treacherous waters of courtly intrigue and war with grace and strength.

The betrothal that had once seemed a distant obligation had now become a reality, and Reilla was ready to face it head-on. With the spirit of her mother guiding her, she closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting to the challenges and triumphs that lay ahead.

In the heart of King's Landing, amidst the echoes of a realm in turmoil, Reilla Royce prepared herself for the role she was destined to play - a role that would shape the fate of Westeros in the turbulent days to come.

As the days in King's Landing passed swiftly, Reilla found herself navigating the intricate web of court politics and preparations with a mixture of apprehension and determination. The Red Keep buzzed with activity, each corridor and chamber echoing with the footsteps of servants and nobles alike, all preparing for Aegon's coronation and the impending wedding.

Queen Alicent's guidance was a steady presence in Reilla's life during this tumultuous time. One evening, they strolled through the serene gardens of the Red Keep, the air fragrant with the scent of blooming roses and the distant sound of courtiers' voices.

"You must be vigilant," Alicent counselled, her tone serious yet warm as she glanced at Reilla. "The realm is divided, my dear. There are factions that would see us weakened, and your presence here is a symbol of unity and strength."

Reilla nodded thoughtfully, her gaze sweeping over the meticulously manicured hedges. "I will do my utmost, Your Grace," she replied earnestly. "Unity is our greatest asset in these troubled times."

As they continued their stroll, Reilla found herself increasingly drawn into the heart of court life. She attended meetings where strategies were discussed, listened to the concerns of advisors and lords, and observed the delicate dance of alliances and rivalries that shaped the future of the realm.

Amidst these preparations, Reilla and Aegon's interactions deepened. Initially reserved, Aegon gradually opened up to her, sharing his anxieties about his impending role and the weight of expectation upon him.

One evening, in the quiet of Reilla's chambers, Aegon confessed softly, "I never asked for this, Reilla. The crown feels like a noose around my neck, tightening with each passing day."

Reilla, sitting across from him, reached out to touch his hand, offering silent support. "You are not alone in this burden, Aegon," she reassured him gently. "Together, we will navigate these troubled waters."

Their bond grew stronger with each passing day, founded on mutual understanding and a shared sense of duty. They discussed the challenges ahead, strategized on how to unify the realm, and found solace in each other's company amidst the chaos of courtly life.

However, as plans for the coronation took shape, a tense discussion arose during a special council meeting in the Small Council chamber. Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, proposed that Aegon's coronation should take place in the Dragonpit - a symbolic gesture to reaffirm Targaryen supremacy and strength.

Reilla listened intently, but a gnawing worry grew within her. When the opportunity arose, she voiced her concern respectfully yet firmly, "My lords, I fear the Dragonpit may not be the safest choice given the current tensions. It is an open venue, vulnerable to potential threats."

Otto Hightower, a stern figure with a reputation for pragmatism, frowned slightly. "Princess Reilla, the Dragonpit has hosted many royal ceremonies without incident. It is a historic site, a symbol of his Targaryen lineage."

Reilla met his gaze evenly, her violet eyes betraying her concern. "I understand its significance, my lord Hand. However, in these uncertain times, perhaps the Great Hall of the Red Keep would be a more secure option. It can be fortified easily, ensuring the safety of all attendees."

The council chamber fell silent as the advisors exchanged glances. Finally, Aegon spoke up, his voice carrying a note of consideration, "Reilla makes a valid point, Lord Hightower. Safety must be our foremost concern."

After a moment of deliberation, Otto Hightower nodded reluctantly. "Very well. The Hall it shall be. Preparations to include the smallfolk will have to be changed but it will be done."

"We would hold a viewing," Reilla said, swallowing thickly. "After Prince Aegon is officially crowned before the court, we could present him to the smallfolk in front of the Great Sept of Baelor - it would allow him to be seen while also allowing him to be protected - the Sept can also be fortified in case of… unrest."

Aegon clapped his hands and grinned at Otto. "Brilliant, this little wife of mine. Have it arranged, Lord Hand."

Otto bowed his head and shared a look with Queen Alicent, who had been watching Reilla with some measure of scepticism and awe. "Yes, your Grace."

With the matter settled, Reilla felt a surge of relief mingled with determination. She was beginning to find her voice in the intricate dance of court politics, asserting herself not only as Aegon's future bride but as a voice of reason and foresight in shaping the realm's future.

As they left the council chamber, Aegon clasped Reilla's hand gratefully. "Thank you," he murmured softly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and admiration. "For understanding for making it a smaller ceremony."

Reilla smiled warmly, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "We are in this together, Aegon," she replied with conviction. "As partners, facing the challenges ahead as one. I would see you protected at all costs."

Their journey towards the coronation and wedding continued, each step bringing them closer not only to the culmination of their union but to a future where their shared vision of unity and stability might take root amidst the complexities of the Iron Throne.

However, amidst the preparations and political manoeuvres, Reilla sought a private audience with Alicent one evening in the Queen's solar. The room was bathed in the warm glow of candles, casting flickering shadows on the ornate tapestries that adorned the walls.

Reilla sipped at a vintage of Arbor red that Aegon had introduced her to, brows furrowed in though. "Why did King Viserys not declare openly before he passed? If he meant to strengthen Aegon's claim, why not make it more public?"

Alicent's expression softened slightly. "Viserys was a complex man, torn between familial duty and political manoeuvring. I believe he came to realize Aegon's potential too late. He had been muttering for several nights that he had a dream of Aegon on the throne - the prince that was promised. I believe he had time to reflect with the Gods on his children and realised that Aegon had been the heir he had been longing for all along."

The older woman opened a delicate box and presented a letter to Reilla bearing the King's seal. It was a declaration of Viserys' wish to declare Aegon as the rightful heir of the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms - signed by three witnesses and the king himself (though shakily).

Reilla handed the letter back and bit her lip. "Rhaenyra will claim it a forgery. She will fight for the throne - all the lords bowed to her, once."

"I understand that. I have been trying for years to reconcile Rhaenyra to the fact that her father might change his mind but she recused herself and is now isolated on Dragonstone with Daemon, who is no doubt dripping poison into her ear." Alicent replied gravely, "You must stand by Aegon, Reilla. Protect him, guide him, as his queen."

As Reilla absorbed the weight of Alicent's revelation, she nodded slowly, a sense of duty and determination settling upon her shoulders. "I will do whatever is necessary for Aegon and for the realm." Even if it just meant spiting Daemon Targaryen.

Alicent's gaze softened with approval. "You possess a strength and resilience that will serve you well, Reilla. The realm is fortunate to have you by Aegon's side."

Watching Alicent's composed demeanour, Reilla felt a surge of resolve. She had stepped into a role far greater than she had imagined, but with Aegon and Alicent's guidance, she would navigate the challenges ahead with courage and grace.

Later that evening, as Reilla looked out over the moonlit city from her chamber window, she reflected on the path that lay before them. Aegon's coronation would mark the beginning of a new era - one fraught with uncertainty yet filled with the promise of unity and renewal. And as she thought of Aegon, of the burdens he would soon bear, Reilla reaffirmed her commitment to him and to their shared destiny, whatever it might bring.

The days leading up to the coronation were filled with tension and anticipation. In an effort to find some peace amidst the chaos, Reilla and Princess Helaena Targaryen decided to escape the confines of the Red Keep for a beachside picnic. The salty breeze and the rhythmic crashing of the waves offered a refreshing contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the court.

They settled on a soft blanket, a spread of delicacies laid out before them. The sea stretched out endlessly, its vast expanse mirroring the uncertainty of their futures. Helaena, with her gentle demeanour and keen interest in nature, greeted Reilla with a warm smile that reflected her genuine curiosity about the world around her.

"Cousin Reilla," Helaena said warmly, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard much about your bravery and grace."

Reilla returned her smile, touched by Helaena's kind words. "Thank you, Princess Helaena. The pleasure is mine," she replied graciously, taking in the serene atmosphere of the beach.

Helaena's eyes sparkled with genuine interest as she glanced at the shoreline, where seabirds dipped and soared. "Isn't it marvellous?" she remarked softly, gesturing to the sea. "The way nature weaves its own stories."

Reilla nodded, drawn into Helaena's appreciation for the natural world. "Indeed, it is," she agreed warmly. "Each wave, each bird, has its own tale to tell, if we take the time to listen."

They continued their conversation, Helaena sharing anecdotes about her explorations along the beach and her fondness for observing the behaviors of sea creatures and birds. Reilla found herself enjoying Helaena's gentle spirit and insightful observations, which offered a refreshing contrast to the intense political discussions that often dominated court life.

"I must admit, Helaena," Reilla said with a smile, "your perspective on life is quite refreshing. It's easy to get caught up in the complexities of court."

Helaena nodded thoughtfully, a small smile playing on her lips. "I find solace in nature," she confessed softly. "It reminds me that there's a beauty in simplicity, a rhythm that grounds us amidst the chaos."

Their conversation drifted from topic to topic, weaving through tales of court intrigue and Helaena's musings on the future of the realm. Reilla appreciated Helaena's thoughtful insights and genuine curiosity, finding in her a kindred spirit who valued both inner reflection and outward exploration.

As they sat on the blanket, their conversation naturally turned to Aegon, who was soon to be crowned king. Helaena paused, her gaze thoughtful as she spoke.

"You know, Aegon has always been burdened by the weight of expectations," Helaena mused softly, plucking a shell from the sand and turning it over in her hands. "Mother and grandfather, they see him as an instrument in their bid for power. But you, Reilla, you could be different for him."

Reilla regarded Helaena with interest, sensing a depth to her words. "How so?" she inquired gently, curious about the princess's unique insight.

"You understand him in ways that others may not," Helaena explained, her voice carrying a note of sincerity. "You see beyond the crown and the politics. You see the person—the doubts, the fears, the dreams he holds close. That's a gift, Reilla."

Reilla considered Helaena's words, struck by their honesty. "I want to support Aegon," she admitted earnestly. "To help him find his own path, not just the one others expect of him."

Helaena nodded in understanding. "You can guide him, Reilla," she said gently. "Together, you can shape the future of the realm in ways that defy expectations. Aegon needs someone who believes in him, who sees his potential for greatness."

Their conversation continued, weaving through Helaena's observations on Aegon's inner struggles and the role Reilla could play in his journey as king. Reilla listened intently, grateful for Helaena's unique perspective and genuine concern for her brother.

"As you prepare for the coronation and the wedding," Helaena concluded thoughtfully, "remember this: Aegon may doubt himself, but with you by his side, he can find the strength to rise above those doubts."

Reilla smiled gratefully at Helaena, touched by her insight and encouragement. "Thank you, Helaena," she said sincerely. "Your words have given me much to think about."

Watching Helaena disappear into the distance, where the sand met the waves, Reilla felt a sense of gratitude for the unexpected friendship they had forged. In Helaena, she found not only a companion in the quiet moments of reflection but also a reminder of the beauty and serenity that could be found amidst the challenges of courtly life.

As the sun dipped low over King's Landing, its rays casting a warm, golden hue across the city, Reilla stood on the balcony of her chambers, her thoughts swirling with anticipation and apprehension. The bustling streets below echoed with the sounds of preparation, a stark contrast to the serenity of her quiet moment alone.

The realm was on edge, teetering on the brink of conflict, yet amidst the turmoil, there was a glimmer of hope—hope that she and Aegon could forge a path to peace and stability. She gazed out at the distant horizon, where the last vestiges of daylight painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, contemplating the weight of responsibility that lay ahead.

In the distance, the rhythmic beat of drums and the blare of horns signalled the arrival of noble houses, their banners fluttering proudly in the evening breeze. The coronation loomed large on the morrow, a solemn occasion that would mark Aegon's ascension to the Iron Throne and their union as king and queen.

Lost in her thoughts, Reilla was startled when she sensed Aegon's presence behind her. She turned to find him standing quietly at the entrance to her balcony, his expression a mixture of weariness and uncertainty. Without a word, he crossed the threshold to join her, his eyes scanning the cityscape below.

"Aegon," she murmured softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. "Are you alright?"

He met her gaze, his shoulders tense with the weight of impending responsibility. "I couldn't sleep," he confessed quietly, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "There's so much resting on tomorrow."

Reilla nodded in understanding, her heart aching for the burden he carried. "Come," she said gently, guiding him back into the warmth of her chambers. "Sit with me."

She led him to the deep sofa in her sitting room, guiding him to lay his head in her lap. Aegon hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of allowing himself this vulnerability, but he finally acquiesced, resting against her with a sigh. Reilla smoothed his tousled hair with a gentle touch, her fingers tracing soothing circles on his brow.

For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the only sound the soft murmur of the city below and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Reilla began to hum a soft, comforting melody, a lullaby Alyssa had sung to her in times of uncertainty. The familiar notes filled the room, wrapping Aegon in a blanket of reassurance.

As the tension gradually melted from his frame, Aegon's grip on Reilla's dress loosened, his breathing growing slow and even. His face, usually etched with worry, softened in repose. Reilla continued to stroke his hair tenderly, her heart swelling with a deep affection for the man who would soon be her husband and king.

In the quiet of that intimate moment, with the weight of their shared destiny pressing upon them, Reilla found solace in the simple act of offering comfort. She knew that tomorrow would bring challenges they could scarcely imagine, but in this fleeting respite, she held onto the belief that their bond would be their strength.

As Aegon drifted into a peaceful slumber, Reilla sat with him, her gaze fixed on his serene expression. She whispered words of encouragement into the night, promising to stand by his side through whatever trials awaited them. In that quiet sanctuary, amidst the swirl of uncertainty outside, they found a brief respite—a moment of peace that fortified them both for the trials ahead.

[scumbag-the-hedgehog]

Credit to @the-hydroxian-artblog for this incredible doodle I commissioned of “Badman” Scourge, I can’t stop looking at it

[arcanepactguile]

@hellsgreatestsideshow ꜱᴇɴᴛ 👋🍑😈 ᴛᴏ  ꜱᴘᴀɴᴋ  ᴍʏ  ᴍᴜꜱᴇ

The tears that were falling, landing on the backs of his hands, in the beginning were insufficient to be noticeable. To make a difference. According to everybody who so much as saw his visage painted on a poster, the Radio Demon never showed emotion. Never cried.

It was a huge step in the awkward relationship with the King of Hell, Lucifer, that the Radio Demon had felt compelled to unleash the countless emotions packed inside his mind. Enslaved to the forced smile, constant vigilance, when they were together — alone, Alastor strangely no longer felt bound to the everlasting commitment of a static smile. At least for the duration of their private time spent in privacy, no longer being judged or applauded for their perpetual bickering out in public.

In his mind's eye, Alastor withheld a deeper, burgeoning feeling towards his superior.

Honour bound to his King, for providing him a release for the cumulative soaring emotions, Alastor's shuddering breaths were confounding the deer's newly formed feelings for the height-challenged King. Things were becoming too complicated... his quickened pulse, the sudden tears, his determination to rebel and supress ALL emotion — the Radio Demon was losing his private war with himself.

Coerced into this unexpected development, the new dawn of their intimate relationship was breaking fast for Alastor — standing, bent double over Lucifer's bed, the Radio Demon's position was stiff.

As instructed, the buck's hands were flattened on the bed. Elbows straight, head down, eyes open. His backside lifted, his undone belt hung loose around his thighs, his long legs pushed together, hobbled anyway by his underwear and pants tugged down to expose the pert mounds of his naked ass. His coat thrown to drape either side of his hips, Lucifer hadn't afforded him the blissful escape that hanging his coat’s skirt over his head would have given: hiding his face from view. It was against the rules, concealing his shame and humiliation.

Bunched up instead over his bony hips, Alastor had to bear the extra humiliation of his King checking in on his expression as well as delivering his punishment.

The Radio Demon's gasps hitching in his throat once the first spank landed, the buck had struggled to maintain his position. Tail bristling, the fifth blow from the wooden hairbrush — or paddle? — had brought one of the deer demon's legs up in reflex, folding it back to cover the buttock that was just hit, the deer's startled outburst a blend of hissed cursing and a choked sob. His asscheeks were beginning to change colour, the pale skin turning pink, the center of the smacks a deeper colour.

Each blow rocked the Overlord forward onto his toes, his back bowing momentarily with a stifled whimper before he rolled back onto his shoes, heel-to-toe flushed with the carpet.

Lowering his leg reluctantly, ears flushed back to graze his hunched shoulders, Alastor's voice was shaky, the sulking Overlord blinking back hot tears, pushing his reddening rear back out again for the next spank as he settled back into the ordered position again. The steady, painful throbs in his buttocks were exceptional — Alastor hadn't been aware Lucifer was capable of such strength.

“F-five."

"Look, I’m so— I apologise. I shouldn't have contradicted you in front of Charlie. That was a grievous error.

I…is this really necessary… ?’

[unfriendlyamazon]

by any other name (pirate au)

y'all are getting all sorts of things out of my archives but talking to @alectoperdita reminded me of this pirates au i've had sitting in a folder for a long time and i wrote this silly little piece just to kind of play with crew dynamics i guess

no warnings just a silly little scene and this takes place after joey and seto have begun a relationship (and if you like pirates you can read my kaijou scene from my au project a few years back)

It’d been an industrious morning for the crew of the Summoned Skull. Ammunitions weighed and secured, cargo stacked, deck swabbed, and the ship drifted through the open Atlantic, winds carrying half-filled sails south along the coast. A lazy afternoon sun made the brass and wood too hot to work over. Even the terrifying skull faced visage protruding from the bow seemed to wilt beneath the sunlight. Seto lounged on the stairs of the quarterdeck and scraped his sword across the whetstone, enjoying the satisfying metal sound of his work. Beneath him, first mate Wheeler had dropped down onto the steps and swept his fingers through his sweat soaked mop of hair. It distracted Seto momentarily, but he kept his hand steady. Their quartermaster Miss Gardner had stopped her work as well to lean against one of the barrels that Tristan had been trying to move, forcing him to slump against the ocean stained wood. Their surgeon Bakura had taken to lounging on the floor as Duke braided his hair. If the captain minded such a lazy show, he didn’t say anything at all from where he stood at the wheel of the ship. Seto’s eyes drew up to Captain Atem, whose eyes were on the distant horizon. Even in the shining sun, without moonlight or the red of a burning ship reflecting in his eyes, he still managed to live up to the name the Shadow King.

And then, Seto’s cold and calculated tongue said without much thought, “Why does he get a nickname?”

The gathered paused in consideration. Tea shrugged her shoulders and said, “He’s a pirate captain. It comes with the territory.”

“Shadow King’s a little dramatic,” Seto said with a furrowed brow.

Joey huffed out a laugh and dropped his head back to smile up at him. “Like you don’t know anything about that.”

“I only mean,” he said, sliding the stone across the blade, “it seems a little silly for him to be the only one. You’re all pirates as well.”

“You are too,” Duke reminded him. They finished the first braid and twined a red ribbon to cap it with a bow. “I’ve already got everyone calling me Duke Devlin. Hard to come up with a better name than that.”

“It does roll off the tongue,” Ryou said. “I’ve heard several crew members refer to me as the Ghost.”

“I started that,” Joey admitted, raising a hand. “It’s only because you were so quiet when we first took you on.”

“That and you look like a ghost,” Tristan said.

“Fair,” murmured Ryou.

"Joey was Iron Hands on our last crew," Tristan said.

“Only because I beat a man to death with my bare hands one time,” he said. “I don’t make a habit of it.”

“Mad Eyes Wheeler is a better name for him,” Tea said, and she flexed her own biceps in a strong man pose. “I think Tristan would be the Hammer. You hit hard and strong and also you use hammers.”

“I like that,” he said. “Duke’s Duke, obviously, we’ve got Mad Eyes and the Ghost–”

“Hey,” Joey protested, and Tristan ignored him.

“And the lord would be something like Two Blades Kaiba,” he finished.

Seto’s stone slid off the blade. “Why is that the best you can come up with?”

“No, it makes sense,” Joey said. “You carry two swords.”

“Everyone here has a sword,” Seto said.

“And you’ve got two of them,” Tea said. “The logic stands.”

Seto ground his teeth together. “It’s not the most dynamic name.”

“Pirates don’t tend to be very creative,” Ryou lamented. “You’ll note the characters of Blackbeard and Calico Jack are best known for having a black beard, and wearing calico clothes.”

“Mai!” Tea called as the lady herself crossed the deck. “Do you have a pirate name?”

She peered up at them, purple lips pursed, and then she tossed her blond hair over her shoulder as she struck a pose. “They call me Lady Valentine.”

“See,” Duke said. “She gets it. Pick a name that everyone wants to say.”

“Shouldn’t you scags be working?” she called and started up the steps. “Is this the example you set for this crew?”

“We’ve done most of the work,” Joey said with a wave of his hand. “We’re coming up with a pirate name for the lord.”

“Oh, is that all.” Mai stood in front of them, pinching her chin with her thumb, and her eyes narrowed in on Seto. “Have you tried Two Blades?”

“Why does everyone say that?” Seto groaned. He sliced his sword forward, eying down the blade. “It should be something good. Like the Blue Devil.”

Joey snorted out a laugh. “Because you wear a lot of blue?”

“It’s a gentleman’s color,” Mai said. “What about Mad Eyes? He’s got a crazed look half the time.”

“Joey called it,” Tea said.

He cut her a glare. “I didn’t call it.”

“You could be Black Dragon,” Ryou piped up. “Because of the tattoo.”

“Why does he get to be a dragon?” Seto asked, letting his blade drop.

Joey laid back onto the stairs. “You said you didn’t want a tattoo.”

“I think these names have to come naturally,” Tristan said. “You can’t force everyone to start calling you the Blue Devil.”

“Depends how stabby you’re feeling,” Mai said. “But then you just get a name like Stabs.”

“That’s a good name for Duke,” Tea said with a finger snap.

“Then how does he,” Seto said, gesturing vaguely above him, “end up with a name like ‘the Shadow King’?”

Mai twirled her finger in a turn around motion, and when Seto turned his head he jolted back. The captain sat just behind him, crouched forward on the quarterdeck steps, kohl covered eyes staring straight at him. Strands of coiled hair were kept back out to show off his wild eyes and shark’s grin.

“Because I am sneaky,” he said, warm North African accent burning the edges of his words, “and I am quick, and I make people kneel.”

Seto didn’t flinch his gaze from his, and Atem stared him down a heartbeat longer before rocking back onto the seat and laughing loudly. Seto considered he’d spent too much time in this crew, getting to know them as people, that sometimes he forgot about the shadows that attacked his ship and the fire that lit behind them.

“Names come with time,” the captain promised and offered a hearty pat to Seto’s back. “We’ll all hear of the legend of the Blue Devil someday. Now, Miss Gardner.”

She stood straight as he snapped his fingers, and cleared her throat before bellowing out, “What are you doing lazing around here? Get to work, scags!”

They scrambled up to their feet as she thumped the barrel, and Mai made a hard turn back to her work. Joey grabbed Seto’s wrist and pulled him onto the deck, head back laughing as he dragged him off to their stations. Tea’s thumping sent a few more people scattering.

“Alright, Blue Devil,” Joey said. “Back to work it is.”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Seto groaned. “All those names are so stupid.”

“I think it might be how you sell it,” he said. He reached up to pinch his cheek, and Seto caught his hand before he could. He brought his hand up, kissing the bruised knuckle, before releasing him.

“Keep the bloodshed to a minimum,” he said and with a smirk added, “Mad Eye.”

Joey yanked his hand away with an eye roll despite the red warming his cheeks. It was satisfying, at least, that he had no response as he stalked off to his own duties. Perhaps those silly names did serve a purpose after all. He’d have to see what else he could come up with, in his own time.

[hxrundxne]

who: @jaehaerysiitargaryen when and where: some time after the death of silverwing, in the king's solar under the watchful eyes of his guards

aemma could not remember a time since the false king ascended the throne that she wanted to be in kingslanding. truly since the crown graced his awful head she had spent more and more time away from a city that she should love. she saw his influence in the cracks in the cobblestone streets, in the dark atmosphere that seemed to hang like a storm cloud low over the city. she knew a meeting with the king was sure to come, since she had received word of queen alicent's passing. the skirmishes with dorne had pushed back the inevitability of the meeting. with the death though of silverwing, aemma felt almost giddy waiting for their conversation. this same excitement was bubbling up in her stomach as she paced the king's solar waiting for him to return from whatever meeting it was he needed to attend. she had to fight herself not to smile. the death of a dragon should be a solemn thing, but aemma couldn't help but be pleased that someone had taken something from jahaerys. aemma moved to a small table that held a hug of wine and poured herself a goblet. she had to calm herself down, she was certain that the guards who stood inside the chamber watching her, though her mad. her only regret regarding the great dragon's death was that she had not dreamt it. not even a small vision of something silver falling or the feeling of blood and sand intertwined. she had been shocked by the death as much as anyone else. 

a clamouring came from the other side of the doors, the familiar sounds of armour clanging and voices of those bowed in deference. aemma quickly chugged the rest of the wine in her goblet. brushing away the remnants of it from around her mouth with the back of her hand. the doors swung open to reveal jahaerys, aemma had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. the king certainly looked worse for wear. a better woman would feel pity for him, but aemma was not a better woman, she was a targaryen. she curtsied, bowing her head one part in deference, another part to compose herself. she never usually struggled to be composed, but jahaerys always had a way of pulling at the strings of her careful demeanour.

"your grace, it has been too long since we last spoke," each word was a careful test of resilience.

"it seems loss has latched onto your family, i am terribly sorry," not, aemma watched the faces of the guards posted inside, cool visages unmoved by her words. good, someone easy to focus on, to keep herself centered.

[airanke]

//SLAMS IN HERE

Hi hello dear friend i have seen your call to do something!

I request Shion, Amita, and Abi!

HOHOHO this is interesting to do for Shion so it will be interesting to look back at that and see what might have changed!

Shion Rejamike

Flower: Originally, the flower I chose was the daisy! Now, though, I think the flower that suits Shion the best is the spider lily. Though they are commonly associated with death, they also represent rebirth and renewal. Given my new plotline for Shion, this suits him much better! Gemstone: Originally was Andradite Garnet; if he was a gemstone now, he would be the emerald. Element: still air/wind, maybe we'll throw in some storm for spice! Shion is still super chatty if you get him talking about the things he loves! Color: still Purple! It's his favorite color, and he favors any armor and weapons that have purple in them. Word: still Hyggelig - “taking pleasure from the presence of gentle, comforting, and soothing things; a feeling of friendship, warmth, peace, and contentment in a comfortable and cozy atmosphere”. Food: Originally I chose a drink called Sweet Poison for him, but I think now he'd be any kind of animal jerky! Weapon: still a double-barreled shotgun! He uses bows more often now, but if HE was a weapon, then yeah. Double-barreled shotgun.

I CANNOT FIND IF I DID ONE FOR AMITA??? OKAY

Amita Dakini

Flower: God if she was a flower, she would be a rose!!! There's just so many meanings that suit but honestly the fact that it is generally accepted to be the flower of love is the biggest reason~ Gemstone: Moonstone! Why would she be anything other than the stone of the moon~ Element: I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm gonna say nature - NO!!! Amita as an element is WATER!! I think this suits her super well as a druid (and dragon at that), because they are so malleable as a class and species (choosing forms and visages and such), and water is just as malleable~ Color: the color of the ocean when the moon reflects off it :T Word: Kilig, "the rush or the inexplicable joy one feels after seeing or experiencing something romantic"! Food: FRIED BANANAS!!! Not only are they Amita's favorite food, BUT!! They are sweet and delectable and everything that Amita is (along with having a bit of a gooey centre LMAO) Weapon: a bladed fan to be honest. Elegant, poised, but oh my god will she cut you to ribbons if you are not careful.

And finally, LOML Abiteth <3333

Abiteth Kenka

Flower: Peony, king of the flowers, flower of the fae, don't touch her or the wrath of her family will come down on you with PRECISION. Gemstone: moss agate!! I chose it for her Gem if she was in Steven Universe, and it's called the gardener's stone and IDK it just fits her so well!! She would totally be that! (Also moss agate comes in pink SOOO). Element: okay hers is obvious, if she was an element she would be earth - the very thing that is stalwart and takes great force to move, but also nurtures the growth of all things (animals, buildings, people, plants). Color: Pink. You will not take that from her, and you will not take that from me, she is pink forever and ever and ever. Word: I was gonna pick a super cute word for this, but realistically if Abiteth was a word she would be Monachopsis, "the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place". Food: hands down she would be candied peony petals!! Sugary sweet and melt in your mouth!! I also debated on her being chocolate covered tarantulas 👀 Weapon: as a weapon, Abiteth would be a whip. I was gonna' say halberd, but that's HER weapon of choice, not what weapon she would be. Also she would be a Trevor Belmont sort of whip, not a regular whip. As if regular whips are not dangerous 😂😂

[ashyronfire]

Consequences || Chapter 03: All Your Love Will Be Exorcised

Title: 03 - All Your Love Will Be Exorcised Rating: M Characters: Grimm, The Pale King Warnings: Disturbing Content, Horror, Gore, Unreliable Narrator, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Read On Ao3: Beginning || Current Chapter

Summary:

Live as we lived. Suffer as we suffered. Die as we died. Over and over again, until you understand.

Author’s Notes: I think tumblr is just doomed to be perpetually a week behind Ao3, sorry Tumblr

CHAPTER 03: ALL YOUR LOVE WILL BE EXORCISED

Reverberating echoes danced through the cavernous walls, and the horrible, high-pitched screech that they bore cut through the Pale King to his core. He’d heard it before. He’d heard it more than once. Though his dreams were untouchable by she who ruled them, he could hear her screams even long after he’d had her sealed, and eventually the sound of them became something resonating with the vessel in which she was housed. Where hers had a melody like a song, its was a cracking, broken, nuanced thing, more voices than one should have held, and it haunted him. It’d chased him through his palace, chased him to waking, chased him to death, and the endless falling purgatory of darkness gave him no reprieve. He knew the sound.

It was not his voice.

Fate saw fit to give him one with which to scream, but it was hers, it was hers, it was only hers.

He’d favored telepathy in life, and that, too, was denied to him. Not that he’d tried with Grimm, but he knew just the same that he was no longer allowed such methods of communication. The instruction of the void was clear:

Live as we lived.

Suffer as we suffered.

Die as we died.

Over and over again, until you understand.

And then let it continue, until you plead for absolution and have it be denied to you.

Then and only then will you understand the meaning of your mantra: No voice to cry suffering.

The Pale King fell lax, collapsing into himself, his head bowing. He felt scarlet eyes boring into him, staring him down with an intensity of recognition, and he wondered how much Grimm truly understood about what was happening to him. His claws drew up to his face, scraping at decaying flesh, and he heard a dark chuckle. Satisfaction. Whether he knew in advance or not, he was certainly pleased with the development. The growl that settled in the wyrm’s throat was low.

“How it must chafe, that you speak with her tongue. That your promises of an idyllic future, of a kingdom untouched by death, find themselves graced by her honeyed words.” Claws settled on his jaw, Grimm forcing him to look up again, and the butterfly smiled. Teeth stretched too far, in a maw that did not fit on his face, jagged and interlocking. “Forever and ever, until death do you part.”

He rose to his feet, that awful visage of scarlet-and-black, of wings too long and eyes too bright, and then he turned to regard the rest of the climb.

“Still, I must amend my earlier assessment. You have words after all. It is your voice that has been taken from you.” Grimm put one claw on his mask and chuckled. For a moment, the Pale King thought that he saw a flicker of something behind that white fabrication of bone – something sinuous and undulating, not entirely different from the burrowing little pests that he still felt within his shell. “Are you quite done with your tantrum?”

Tantrum.

He called it a tantrum.

The Pale King raked his lower claws against the stone to a screech, gouging jagged and unpleasant lines under their edges. He uncurled himself, shifting, his tail slamming the ground behind him in his disdain, and his head inclined toward Grimm.

He did not want to speak. It would be her voice, and to speak with that felt more like an insult even than the scream had been.

And Grimm knew it.

His words, his countenance, his candor – he was fully aware that though the Pale King did possess a voice, it was not one he would use willingly. It would continue to be a one-sided conversation, with him having to endure barbed commentary from the pest, unable to properly address the judgment that he saw in those scarlet eyes, and the impotence of his position was infuriating.

A punishment to fit his crimes – but they were crimes that he’d had no choice in committing, the wyrm would have argued to that faceless darkness, and his pleas would continue to go ignored.

It cared not for his defenses. He’d learned that very early on.

Grimm, ignoring his obvious tension in favor of his own agenda, reiterated, “Climb. I will see you at the top.”

The butterfly made to leave, and he held out one claw in desperation.

He could not physically make it.

He could not make the climb.

And the Nightmare King knew it.

Grimm knew that he could not make the climb and was forcing him to try. He knew, then, the symbolism of what he’d demanded, and he’d done it regardless. No. He’d done it because of that symbolism. There were tram stations (that led to the archaic cemetery of the moths – would that somehow have been better?), there were stags – there were innumerable other, better options than this, and yet…

Did he think himself clever, the butterfly?

Begrudgingly, the Pale King could admit that it was. What he did not understand was the motivation. Grimm held no love for Hallownest and had known nothing of the vessel plan. It was not his counterpart’s interests that he was acting upon, for if it was, it would not have been climbing that he chose.

And yet it was an insurmountable wall laden with spikes and jutting out, broken woods that splintered. It was a cliff face and the distant sound of dripping water from Isma’s Grove. If he screamed, would Ogrim hear him, his champion that yet lived? Could he bear the weight of being seen in his current state?

He could not make the climb, his mind reiterated. He kept his hand outstretched toward Grimm, who looked back at him with an uncomfortable silence. The butterfly knew that he was ill-equipped for this demand, knew that he could not meet this task, and he was…

…making him ask.

Making him beg for help.

Help that he was not even sure would be given, with a voice that was forced upon him against his will.

His hand fell away. He looked back at the wall, considering. If he could make it higher… if he could just reach where it was wood, he could use his claws to drag himself upward by force. He’d scaled trees that way when he was still small enough to be as prey to larger wyrms and other predatory creatures in the wastes. Always had he been small, always had he been perceived as weak, and always had he persevered. If he could survive in such circumstances, a mere wall posed no obstacle to him.

Far worse was the thought of being rebuffed for his troubles, being cast aside, being laughed at again by a creature whose entire existence was dependent upon devouring the creations of others.

Determination settled within, twisting a knife in his guts, and though it burned, though it seared, though he ached – he tucked his claws into the surface of the rockface and he pulled himself up. His tail twisted underneath him and, with spite-fueled rejuvenation, he hauled himself upward. Chitin cracked, the sound loud in the darkness. He did not hear the tell-tale shuffle of fabric-like wings, of Grimm following him, but he dared not look down lest he lose his purchase. His shell splintered downward, discolored hemolymph sliding warm, wet trails down each arm.

Up.

He felt plating roll back, twisting unnaturally as if it were leaves. He felt the remnants of his wings twist, break, and tumble downward. Fluid, like trying to molt, the pieces of his body peeled away, and the pain seeped deep enough to become a numb, tingling sensation with interwoven searing sensations.

The wooden planks loomed above, promising rest.

He reached one hand out toward them and the stone beneath his claws fractured. Fear like a vice seized his heart as it dropped down through his chest, into his stomach, and he froze.

Assess. Analyze. Determine. He could make it. If he managed to reach the hardwood, he would be rid of the unsteady surfaces.

Grimm still had not moved. Or, if he had, he hadn’t made a sound in his ascent – but the Pale King was quite certain that, mocking specter that he was, the butterfly was still right where he’d been when the wyrm began to climb, watching the spectacle with all the fascination of the carrion creature he so mimicked – waiting, hoping, for him to fail.

Another tentative, shaky movement, and the rocks he’d been clinging to only moments before went tumbling down. He heard them clatter on the ledge he’d stopped on and in the back of his throat, he felt dusty wings all over again. Had he any shell left? He would check when – when –

He reached the wooden divider. Atop it was a mouth of spikes, glistening silver, and more still jutted out like sawblades. For the moment, he ignored them, using the lip to settle himself, and there he stopped to look his injuries over.

He found none.

Despite the symphonic snapping of shell as he’d gone upward, there were no new signs of necrosis, nor was there any of the blood that he’d felt certain was covering each limb. As he stared at his claws, though, he heard the phantom sound of small wings attempting to glide; he heard the singing of nails colliding into one another; he heard weeping and his daughter’s voice, words obscured by distance.

“Not her,” the Pale King hissed. The words came out scratchier for his damaged throat, the voice alien enough to make him want to rip his own neck apart, and yet the fierce intensity of their meaning lingered. “Not her. You may use all you wish as weapon in your goals, Grimm – all else, save her.”

Then it came: the laughter he’d expected from the onset, raucous from below. Essence strings danced around him as Grimm shot through the air, to float as though weightless directly beside him. The Nightmare King settled his hands at the small of his back, macabre smile on his face, leaning forward to crane his back at an angle no natural bug ought to have been able to accomplish, before purring.

“Whatever you think that I have done, wyrm, I assure you… it is not I who haunts you.”

“Liar,” the wyrm countered, crawling forward. His hands hooked on the edge of the platform, and he pulled himself up onto the top. Once, that narrow passage would have worked as a pulley system to allow the exchange of waste from different regions into the Royal Waterways and later into the junkpit. That plan had been scrapped when one too many worker had mysteriously disappeared, likely at the maw of the flukes.

Someone had added the extra… teeth to the equation. He would have attributed it to the Beast if it were lower in the chasm. Such things were not out of the realm of possibility for her.

She was dead now.

They were all dead now.

“Am I? Of the two of us, who has told more? I, who usher in the sweet end of days with merriment and festivity… or you, who promise things that you cannot hope to ever truly deliver?”

Grimm edged backwards, allowing him more room, and he responded by shoving his claws deep into the wood to scramble his way upward. As predicted, as soon as he’d gotten through the widest part of the cavern, the climb became easier, and he ignored the butterfly to make his way higher still.

There was no point arguing. To do so was to admit that Grimm was right, and though he was loathe to acknowledge it, he could find little fault in the argument. The best defense he had was that the Nightmare King’s counterpart built her entire empire on lies, too, and was he not made of the same fabric that had birthed her? Had he not been born of fragmented pieces of what she once was? Her scraps, discarded, that hadn’t thought to die, but instead chose to rise like a lich?

They were more alike than ever, it seemed.

They were going to be let out at the capital, Grimm had said.

They were going to be let out near the Watcher’s Spire.

Lurien.

Thinking of the moth made his chest tighten, breathing sparse. His maw parted to give himself more air as he forced himself higher. Each gulp tightened in his throat, rotted the tissue, reminded him of his disheveled state, and in the back of his mind, he remembered.

Remembered Lurien’s voice.

Remembered his trepidation about the vessel plan altogether.

Remembered the open way that he’d mourned when he’d first met the Pure Vessel, whispering, ‘It is but a child, sire,’ as if the proclamation could change his fate.

Love for Hallownest sent him into the dream as a seal. Love for Hallownest and blind, unwavering faith in his king, to see it through.

Lurien was dead and his spire, his final resting place, was his tomb. Visiting it at all, even in passing, felt like a desecration. The Pale King longed to apologize to him – to find him, to whisper that it was not all for naught, even though it was a lie. Would he have changed anything if he had the ability to turn back the hands of time? What would he have done differently? …nothing. Nothing at all.

Helplessness was bitter.

From one ledge to another, he had to leap, the strain physical and demanding. He bled. He ached. He climbed through it all, interlocked fangs grinding into one another to keep from grunting his frustration.

Eventually, he reached the top.

Grimm had flown up ahead of him and was leaning against pillars that acted as foundation for the city. Stone wrought and carved with deft claws, they helped maintain the structural integrity of the winding corridors even through the impressive weight of structures high above.

What good did they serve now, when all were dead?

He collapsed on the landing platform and ignored the lingering stare on his fallen form. His claws raked down his face as if that would somehow rectify the shooting pains that twisted through his shell, pulled on the muscles below; as if it would somehow correct the nausea welling in his belly, despite there being nothing left inside of him to come out. Except for tiny little parasites that his mind insisted were there – that he did not know the truth of, one way or another.

His heart beat a steady melody within his chest that he felt certain fell in perfect harmony with the screams that he heard, over and over. He’d – he’d hoped they would stop, once freed from the prison of void. He’d hoped it would be –

Be what?

Better?

Did he deserve better?

He’d done the best that he could, the wyrm wanted to argue. He’d done his best, when he had no other options. She would never have stopped. She was winning. She would have killed everyone in her bloody rage; she would have wiped out the entire population of Hallownest, shameless, in her aim to punish him for her perceived slight. Accusations of being a false idol, of theft, of playing at divinity without being a god in truth – she looked at him and she saw an enemy, and all was fair if it accomplished her goals. Ruthless creatures could be relentless. ‘No cost too great.’

“Breathe,” Grimm instructed, and he realized that he hadn’t been.

Instead, he’d been staring at the stone beneath his claws in a desperate bid to make sense of his thoughts, a fragrantly sweet, floral note snaring his throat. Honey. No. Infection. Where they were going was thick with it and dread worked chains around him, snapped all of his limbs to his chest.

The butterfly closed the distance and crouched in front of him. The Pale King did not look up at him, eyes locked downward, but he felt claws ghost the sides of his horns. Tension rolled through him, and it was soon rewarded as his head was jerked back sharply so that he was forced to meet the scarlet phantom’s gaze.

“Is this truly the best that you have for me? The wyrm who conquered my counterpart’s lands, reduced to little more than a weeping mess, sobbing uncontrollably on the ground?”

He wasn’t sobbing, he wanted to argue, but as soon as the thought rose, he felt moisture on his face. He was leaking.

Humiliating.

“And to think, your queen was very quick to tell me your kingdom would never accept me,” Grimm continued, relentless. His claws left the Pale King’s horns and settled between his own knees. “They could do far worse. I expected… more. Far more. Your progeny surpass you in every arena. Perhaps it is her influence, that imprisoned light deep within the tangled growth.”

His Root yet lived.

The wyrm laughed harshly, though it came out as little more than a croak. The dust in his throat rubbed it raw, made the sound worse, and it was her laugh – though he’d never heard it before in his life. He’d never heard anything but her angry screams. Not even words, really. They’d never tried to parlay. One did not negotiate with someone who was willing to result to mass murder to accomplish her goals.

“She exceeds you in all ways,” the Pale King spat. It heartened him to know that she lived. Part of him immediately wanted to go to her, to beg her for aid. The other, louder part, knew what she’d see: a shambling corpse, worm-rotted and perverse. She would never accept him as he was, nor should she. He should not have existed.

Grimm smiled. “Is that what it takes to energize you, wyrm? Reminding you of what you have loved and lost?” The beat that he waited was not long enough to formulate a cohesive response. Grimm rose to his feet and turned to the trailing ledges that led upward. “If that is so, then I relish at last having a conversation partner in our next destination. Can you smell it? The infection, thick in the air? It will only grow stronger.” He moved, leaping up a ledge, and without turning back, he added, “Your queen was quick to tell me that Hallownest would never accept me and mine… but Hallownest is dead. Those who would protest us have long lost their capacity to do so. All that remains are corpses – as far as the eye can see.”

The wyrm slowly, shakily, rose to his feet.

He did not want to enter the capital. Grimm was right.

There was nothing and no one left to dispute his claims to the contrary.  

[barbaracleboy]

Bugtober 2024 Day 14: Bounties

This was a fun one to do, even if it doesn't have much to do with Bounties specifically.

...I dunno, the False Monarch's neat. Have fun!

Out in the Forsaken Lands, far away from both the Ant and Termite Kingdoms, lay a city of perfectly normal insects that don't go around luring in randos that they then proceed to kill and maybe eat. The people of this society live entirely average lives, doing nothing dangerous or out of the ordinary, living just as anyone else would. Their faces are often sideways or upside down and some of them have more eyes than they maybe should and in general the kind of Insect that they are is ambiguous but they're still your usual, average, every day folks.

So, like, the king of this place was sitting on his throne one day, minding his own business, when one of his subjects came up to his throne with a funny-looking paper.

False Citizen: Greeting, my king [singular]. I will now bow to you because this is what followers of a monarchy are supposed to do lest they be thrown into a dungeon or something to that effect.

False Monarch: Wah, indeed! What's that you're holding? Is it paper? Or skin? What is skin, anyway?

False Citizen: It matters not, my lord [again, just the one]. It has writing on it, as well as your...visage? Visage, is that a word?

False Monarch: Wah dunno.

False Citizen:...Anywho, Take a look:

BOUNTY

FALSE MONARCH

REWARD: A LAST STAND MEDAL

LOCATION: THE FORSAKEN LANDS

False Monarch: Weh, it is me! And what are those scribbly bits above and below myself?

False Citizen: I dunno, looks like garbage.

False Monarch: Waha, I love garbage! Give it here!

The False Citizen gives their (as in singular "they", obviously) king the paper, which he proceeds to stick into his cloak and chew up.

False Monarch: Wehhhhh...6/10, I've had better trash.

It's at that point that a loud burst of murmuring breaks out amongst the other members of the certainly-not-false society. The False Monarch and the False Citizen he was speaking to exit the throne tent room and find a bizarre trio of Bugs staring at them, with a tiny Chomper following along.

Horned Green Bug: Dibbydibbydubdub, dooby dug!

Little Yellow Bug: Buzz booz, buzz booz?

Lanky Blue Bug: Fffsseh fseh, ffffsoffso.

Tiny Chomper: Fuck.

False Monarch: Weh, hello visitors! Welcome to our humble home! "Our" referring to my entire kingdom, of course, and not me individually, for I am indeed an individual.

False Citizen: I think you specifically are allowed to just say "our", actually, even solo.

False Monarch: Wah, really? Oh cool! (To the weird Bugs) Doesn't that sound cool, guys?

LYB: BUZZABUZZABOOZABOOZA!

The Little Yellow Bug throws a weird, crescent-shaped thing at the False Monarch, and not only does it smack him upside the head it flies back to do it a second time.

False Citizens: GASPING SOUNDS!!!

False Monarch: Waaaaooowww, wah'd you do that for???

LBB: Fsssfsssfss...

LYB: Booz, bozz.

After that they group start doing a bizarre series of things: the Green Bug shoves a rotten meal down the Yellow Bug's maw, the Blue Bug starts yelling at the Yellow Bug, the Chomper just kinda dances in place, and the Yellow Bug starts eating these funny-shaped brown beans.

False Citizen:...Yo boss, I think these guys are kinda stoopid.

False Monarch: Wehhhh, are you okay-

The False Monarch gets obliterated by the Yellow Bug, and by the time it's done all that's left is a small purple robe and his busted up face. The False Citizens all run off in terror, meanwhile the terrifying Yellow Bug grabs the Monarch's crown off of his remains.

LYB: Booz buzz booz!

HGB: Doba doba doba!

TC: Fuck!

The weirdo Bugs yuk it up and head off, taking the stolen crown with them. Once it's confirmed that they're gone the False Citizens step out in varying levels of fear. They look to the purple robe...and watch as several pained, frustrated Mothflies come out of it. One gets up and is particularly angry-looking.

Mothfly A: Damn it! How long have we been sitting around, trying to be a society, only to get interrupted by douchebags coming out of nowhere and just attacking us!?!?

Mothfly E: My buttocks hurt.

Mothfly A: We're trying to be civilized! We got buildings!

One of the buildings collapses.

Mothfly: We got culture!

A False Citizen: Your mom.

Another False Citizen: Is that a joke?

A False Citizen: Yes.

Another False Citizen: I hate you.

Mothfly A: We've even got commerce!

False Citizen Next to a Food Stand: And soon we'll even have soul-crushing capitalism! :D

Mothfly A:...Y'know what? Let society rot ! Let """""civilization""""" rot! Let all those fancy shmancy creations of so-called cultured insects eat my round-ass ass!

The False Citizens all cheer and begin flying out of their costumes, revealing all of them to be Mothflies, proud and true.

Mothfly A: We're Mothflies, and that's that! If they don't like it?

Mothflies: They can SUCK! OUR! NUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mothfly A: (While doing a crotch chop motion) We! Are! Moth! Flies! Yeah, yeah, yeah!!!!!!!

In a large, terrifying swarm, the Mothflies rise into the air and laugh collectively.

Mothfly A: We'll show all those other Bugs who's really at the top! And I know just where to start...

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Patton the Acorn Weevil was sitting in his lab, napping in his arms again whilst at his work station. Eventually he woke up to a weird smell.

Patton: Ehhhh bubbabubba, bleh, ech...*sniff* *sniff*...

There is frass all over his floor.

Patton: Gods damn it! You can't even go into torpor without someone poo'ing on your property!