#King of Wrath is a captivating

[booksteacupandreviews]

King of Wrath by Ana Huang - best book with an arranged marriage trope

King of Wrath is a captivating, entertaining, relatable billionaire romance with hate to love and an arranged marriage trope. Other books I have read by the same Author – SynopsisReviewI highly recommend King of Wrath if you like,Book Links King of Wrath (Kings of Sin #1) by Ana Huang Publication Date : October 18, 2022 Read Date : December 8, 2023 Genre : Romance Pages :…

[luvsupa]

“SHALL WE RESUME, MY LADY?”

tags: heianera!sukuna, trueform!sukuna x fem!reader, kissing, servants are bullies :(, BLOOD + KILLING, smut-ish (?), ANGST, readers called little one, my lady, my queen, sukuna lovessss reader but doesn’t wanna show it.

w.c: 1.8k

a/n:ITS BEEN LONG SINCE I WROTE PART 3 FOR SUKUNAAA, so pls read (part 1 + part 2) to understand this :p (or don’t 😔)

-part 1 was my first ever story so pls don’t mind the terrible writing 🤕

+ likes and reblogs are appreciative!!

for weeks now, since your intimate encounter with sukuna in his chambers, his words have echoed relentlessly in your mind:

“you belong to me, mind, body, and soul.”

unable to shake his haunting assertion, you find yourself lost in a fog during your duties, drawing the king’s scorn for your clumsiness—pathetic, he silently judges.

you’ve been desperately trying to avoid sukuna, feeling his ominous presence lurking near the servants’ quarters, dangerously close to your room. each night, you pretend to be asleep, hoping he won’t enter.

uraume and the other servants and concubines have noticed your distraction, their whispers and spiteful glances intensifying your growing distress.

just as you’re lost in your thoughts, walking towards the grand kitchen, you feel yourself being harshly pushed—nearly losing your balance. you turn to face the two brunettes who always accompany sukuna in his chambers.

“look at her,” one sneers, her voice dripping with contempt. “she looks even more pitiful than usual. you’d think she’d try harder, especially with tomorrow’s annual gift-giving ceremony.”

your heart drops, and you feel the blood drain from your face as the realization hits you—you had completely forgotten about it. shit.

the other brunette catches your expression and smirks, leaning closer.

“oh, you did not know?” she mocks, her eyes glinting with malicious pleasure. “did you truly forget? lost in your own little world? pathetic. do not think sukuna-sama has not noticed your incompetence. if i were you, i would be prepared to face his wrath tomorrow.”

before you can respond, the brunettes walk away, laughing cruelly amongst themselves. fear grips you as you stand there, contemplating the consequences of your forgetfulness. this time, he might seek to end my life.

sukuna spared your life once before, but now? you’ve truly done it.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

morning arrives, finding you sleepless and anxious, having spent the night wrestling with decisions on what gift would appease the king of curses. regret gnaws at you—you could have been better prepared.

if only you had listened to uraume’s instructions, you wouldn’t be scrambling now to please sukuna.

a loud groan escapes you, not just from lacking a suitable offering but from the impending threat of losing your life in front of everyone.

your thoughts shatter as your door creaks open. uraume enters, carrying a basket laden with ceremonial attire.

“sukuna-sama will return soon from his mission,” uraume states matter-of-factly, approaching your bedside and handing you the basket. your gaze fixes on the black and gold kimono. “in the meantime, prepare your gift for our king,” they remind you, prompting your heart to skip a beat. you nod gratefully as uraume exits the room.

you linger, captivated by the elegance of the wooden basket. slowly, an idea begins to take shape.

i hope this idea will work…

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

you hurriedly slip into the black and gold kimono uraume handed you, the fabric draping elegantly over your curves as you smooth out its silk folds.

grabbing the basket, you rush out of your room, navigating through the crowded hallways filled with servants, concubines, and guards all preparing to present their gifts to the king.

anxiety grips you as the chatter rises, signaling the ceremony may have already begun. finally reaching the garden, you drop to your knees, swiftly gathering orchids, red camellias, and wisterias.

heart pounding, you carefully arrange the brightly coloured flowers in the basket, leaving space for more. glancing around the vast garden for inspiration, you freeze as you spot a familiar figure in the distance, surrounded by guards and soldiers.

shit.

your pulse quickens as sukuna approaches the estate. you force yourself to calm down, needing clarity to finish your task.

turning to the fruit garden, you ignore the dirt on your kimono as you hurriedly gather peaches, oranges, and pomegranates from the trees, arranging them neatly in the basket.

with your last-minute gift finally perfected, you hope he will at least appreciate the effort. as cheers and applause erupt, signaling sukuna’s arrival, you hasten back to join the line of gift-givers, heart still racing with fear.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

the ceremony unfolds in a chamber unfamiliar to you, far larger than sukuna’s usual domain, filled with hundreds and hundreds of servants seated on comfortable cushions, rows of expectant faces awaiting the ceremony’s commencement.

as you wait nervously, you glance around at the lavish offerings others have brought—paintings, gleaming gold jewelry, fine silk robes, ancient artifacts, perfumes, and oils. in contrast, your basket of fruits and flowers seems painfully simple.

whispers and snickers ripple through the crowd, directed at your low-value gift, almost insulting to the king, as the laughter grew louder and more pointed. the embarrassment increases, now overwhelming you.

“silence.”

his voice cuts through the room like thunder, instantly quieting the chatter as all heads bow. only you remain defiantly gazing at sukuna from his elevated throne. he looks magnificent, his towering frame draped in a dark cotton robe that accentuates his scarlet eyes—those unsettling eyes that draw you in despite your fear.

“do you consider yourself more worthy than others to not bow?”

his voice pierces through you, shocking you out of your thoughts. you hadn’t realized you were staring at him so openly. a nearby servant nudges your head down forcefully, a silent command to acknowledge sukuna’s authority.

uraume then signals the first row to approach sukuna with their gifts. as he settles into his throne, one of his lower eye fixates on you with a chilling intensity, reminding you of the difference of ground upon which you stand.

the two brunettes, who supposedly despised you, were the first to present their gifts. all eyes watched as they offered lavish amounts of gold and diamonds to sukuna. you couldn’t help but notice the satisfaction that spread across his face, a subtle amusement evident as he casually placed the gift with one of lower arms behind him.

they took their places on either side of his throne, making way for the next in line. as the line shortened, your turn approached rapidly.

you watched with nervous anticipation as sukuna accepted one of the servants gifts— the beautifully sculpted artifacts and golden treasures—

slash!

the servant’s head was cleanly severed, a loud thud echoing through the room. gasps filled the air as the shock spread through the assembled crowd. some of the seasoned servants were used to sukuna’s impulsive acts, but this was the first time you had witnessed such brutality. blood splattered across his face, yet he remained unfazed, awaiting the next offerings.

you covered your mouth, stifling a scream of horror. the fear of becoming the next victim intensified as you compared your gift to the high valued gift he had just received.

how could he appreciate your offering if he did not enjoy the artifacts?

you were on edge, continuously hearing numerous slash and thuds that kept racing your heart. his gaze seemed to linger on you, intensifying your dread.

unaware that it was your turn next, you suddenly found yourself on the elevated floor, your gift clearly visible to all below. laughter erupted among the watching servants, their anticipation of your downfall.

you felt all four of his eyes fixated on you, observing your trembling form, your eyes flickering nervously as you struggled to stay composed. stepping cautiously over a puddle of blood, you nervously approached his throne.

with trembling hands, you presented the basket of flowers and fruits. below, the two brunettes knelt, their mocking laughter ringing in your ears.

sukuna silently observed the basket, his large hands delicately holding the tiny fruits. he plucked out peaches, pomegranates, and oranges with two hands while the other two hands carefully examined the flowers, bringing them to his nose to inhale their earthly fragrance. then, to your surprise, sukuna’s lips curled into a mischievous smile.

“little one,” he said in a low velvety voice that sent shivers down your spine. “you surprise me.” 

the crowd exchanged puzzled glances, uncertain of how to interpret sukuna’s unexpected reaction. the two kneeling servants looked up at sukuna in disbelief, their faces turning pale as they realized their own gifts, despite their value, had not elicited such a response.

sukuna carefully placed everything back into the basket, then lifted a ripe peach to his lips. his intense gaze locked onto yours as he took a deliberate bite, savouring the sweetness. loudly humming at the sweet taste.

unexpectedly, two of sukuna’s free hands reached out and gently grabbed your waist. you squealed in surprise at the sudden contact as sukuna swiftly spun you around, placing you on his lap with your back is against his chest. his third hand delicately tilted your chin, looking up towards him.

“‘kuna…” you began, mindlessly calling him by a forbidden nickname. but his lips cut off your words in a hungry kiss. the taste of peach lingered on his lips, blending with the sweet intensity of the moment. his kiss was fierce, brimming with a raw passion.

sukuna’s large hand snakes up to the crevice of your neck, and to your surprise, another mouth formed on his hand, trailing down to suck and kiss a sensitive spot on your neck. a soft moan escaped your lips, muffled by his kiss, and he grinned at your reaction.

the brunettes stared up at the two of you with utter jealousy, never having received such intimacy from their king. the entire room gaped in shock; they had never witnessed the king of curses succumb so readily to a mere servant.

sukuna then pulls away, leaving you dizzy from the closeness. his presence seems to envelop you, making you feel intoxicated by his mere touch. with a gentle touch, sukuna adjusts your slouched posture, his hands holding you firmly against his broad chest. leaning down, he kisses your ear softly.

“you will judge which gift is worthy,” he begins, his closeness making your head spin even more. “if anything displeases you, I will take care of it,” he murmurs, hinting at even more slashes. another hand snaking up to your neck, softly applying pressure to restore your stability.

if anything you feel a rush of arousal.

“i will obey your every command, my queen. i am yours to command,” he declares softly, causing you to whimper in response. gasps fill the room as they witness the king of curses submitting himself to you.

“shall we resume, my lady?”

[cherryblossom-heart]

How life ends

Sukuna x sorcerer!Reader

A/N: A little intro to a series I want to make later

“Sukuna?”

A voice called him, like a siren in the sea. The soft melody of the voice traveling through each syllable of his name, a strange sensation invading the slumber of the Disgraced One

“Ryomen Sukuna?”

The King of Curses opened his eyes. The feeling of being underwater, an spectator of whatever endeavors Yūji Itadori would get himself into as he was stuck in this flesh prison he thought he could control. The brat had found himself to be troublesome for the King of Curses, his control over his body and soul stronger than expected.

Night sky and stars where the first images that welcomed Sukuna. Where was he? Didn’t the brat went to sleep for the night? It felt as if every part of his body was turning on one by one, his skin now prickling by it’s contact with whatever he was laying on. The smell of grass and dew found it’s way to his nose, filling his lungs as he understood he was in a forest.

“Sukuna?”

That voice, there it was again.

With speed impossible to capture with a human eye, stood up. It was a woman, a sorcerer, nonetheless. He had seen her around the school where the brat and the annoying white haired prick would do their so called training. The few handful of times he had seen her she was chatting up with the fake “Strongest one.”, her head leaned back as she laughed at something he had said.

One second later he was in front of you, his eyes scanning your face. There was no fear in your eyes, in fact it seemed you were slightly annoyed at him. He was amused at your demeanor, even if it’s disrespect warranted death but what captivated him the most it was your eyes, he was sure he had seen them before, his brain itching to get an answer.

“Good, you’re awa–“

Dismantle

A swift cut to your throat and your body fell to the floor, blood spilling all your clothes. A shame, he thought, you were attractive to the eye. He turned around, not bothering to hide your lifeless body from the moon light. How foolish of you to stand up so proudly in front of him, your head high as you faced him. Sukuna began walking away, thinking of ways to enjoy his free reign he had for the moment.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

You again.

His head darted to you, back to where you had been seconds ago. It would almost seem like nothing had happened if it wasn’t for the trail of crimson that fell over your body. Your eyes that had lost their life as soon as his attack reached you and now they were full of life, once again. You brushed your hair with your fingers, trying to clean it from the grass and blood it had.

Cleave.

This should be enough, he thought to himself. A red line showed across your chest, beads of red all over it. He found you interesting, even if you lasted for one more attack. A shame to have to end your life.

This time you didn’t go down though, the gates of blood that pooled down your body stop as quickly as they come back, the exasperated look on your face still standing strong.

“Are you done?”

He moved close to you, swiftly making his way to touch your neck. One more cut will surely do the job.

Cleave

Cleave

Cleave

Each one as effective as the last one, your clothes now completely stained scarlett but you were still left standing.

Every.

Single.

Time.

He goes for your heart, palm open as he rushes to you. Even if you can’t seem to be kept put down he still has the upper hand, his strength and speed superior than yours. Sukunas palm barely grazes your skin, the wicked smile splatter over his face, when a microsecond later, you disappear.

“It’s not going to work, you idiot.”

Idiot. You dared to call him an idiot.

His fist traveled in the air, aiming for your face. You blocked him, crossed arms stopping his fist from contacting with your face. You pushed him back, your own hands now in fists. His grin intensified, the challenge in front of his eyes igniting the flame of wrath he always carried.

“You are a foolish woman if you think your little tricks will work, I’ll take your life one way or the other.”

“Well, that’s what I want.” You deadpanned.

The rush for violence was quickly replaced by confusion.

“I… what?”

“Why do you think I’m here? It’s not because of your enthralling conversation skills.”

Dismantle.

Cleave

Dismantle.

Cleave.

Dismantle.

One after the other but none of them made any progress. Perhaps if he couldn’t bring you down maybe his domain would. His finger began the so feared form, the words in the tip of his tongue. Sukuna would enjoy your death like a trophy.

“Enough!” You yelled.

Sukunas body froze, as if strings suddenly appeared behind him and pulled in the opposite direction. His jaw was stuck, midway of pronouncing the two words that would take your life. Even his tongue felt trapped, stuck in this impassive state he fought against. What kind of sorcery was this?

Your eyes shined, a white ring over the colored iris.

It couldn’t be.

He didn’t remember much about you. Truth to be told he hadn’t really pay much attention to you, your face one of many that had gone after him. Your group of sorcerers had been slayed, all of them cut in half as the King of Curses laughed at their inferiority.

Sukuna had felt your power, or at least what you called power, a measly crumble of a technique that had saved your brother’s life from his slashes. Red eyes had seen yours, the white, bright iris staring back at him. How endearing, he had thought before his hands had suffocated your life, the iris of life gone once your neck cracked.

You had taken your last breath. He had felt it.

Yet here you were.

His eyes must’ve betrayed him as a mocking smile took over your face.

“Remember me now?”

You were alive, as yourself. Not as a trapped soul in a body that didn’t belong to you as you had to inhabit the same flesh prison. You were you, the exact same you he had murdered a thousand years ago.

“Yes, it really is me. I’m a little surprised you remember me, I wasn’t very memorable back then.”

Snap

The invisible threads that held his jaw and tongue hostage broke, making him gain control of his own body again. He moved his jaw, joints tense at the uncomfortable position it had been frozen in. Your power had grown, the first time you had face him it was only strong enough to stop his hand.

“How are you doing this, wench?”

You saunter in front of him, an obnoxious smile decorating your lips. “Oof ‘wench’? A bit archaic don’t you think.”

His muscles moved on instinct, his hands beginning to pull so he could choke the life out of you, but the strings that hold him still pulled his arms further back making a groan coming out of his lips.

“Tsk, you don’t learn, don’t you? You can’t fucking move, not without me allowing it.”

“I will rip your heart out of ribcage and feed it to yourself!” He screamed, his words carried by the echo of the night.

“Anger problems much?”

Sukunas blood boiled with each word you spoke. The nonchalance that you carried when you addressed him, as if he wasn’t the King of Curses that could end the world. As if he hadn’t already sealed your fate as soon as he saw you.

“You seem to forget who I am. I have killed you once already.” Sukunas words were sharp, almost as sharp as technique.

“You didn’t do a good job at it though, didn’t you?”

You were right. Whatever was that he had done hadn’t been effective enough the last time you had face each other. Perhaps his mistake was using his hands to end your life, in his younger years he had a dramatic streak, the sound of a neck snapping in two a sweet melody for his ears.

“Either way, that’s why I’m here.”

Sukunas eyebrow cocked in interest. This was the second time you had mentioned your death to him and most surprisingly you were not pleading to stop him from killing you. You had reprimanded him for his lack of success.

“I can’t die.” You started, anger lacing every word you talked. “For a millennium I have tried everything conceivable for the human mind and beyond, and nothing seems to work.”

Your eyes locked on his again and Sukuna could’ve sworn he saw a thousand years of tiredness in them.

“I was about to give up but then you came along as a nasty pest in Itadori’s body. So I thought ‘if anyone is going to be kill someone immortal then it definitely would be the King of Curses, right?’ After all, you were able to end a whole bloodline of sorcerers, one person shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

Sukuna’s mind raced through the information you had disclosed, his lips sealed as he thought of what you were saying. You had survived for this long and. Is you were seeking him for your own doom.

You wanted to die. How pathetic.

“What makes you think you are worth of my assistance?”

“Because I’ll owe you a favor.”

Sukuna scoffed.

“I’ll bring you to the surface, take over Itadoris body for a certain amount of time.”

Now that was finally information worth his time.

“How can I be sure you will be able to even achieve that?”

“How do you think you’re here? Luck?”

You smirked at him and Sukuna couldn’t remember when was the last time he craved a sorcerer’s death more. He was going to extinguish life out of you, the deal you offered was just a mere treat for him.

He would enjoy watching the light running from your eyes once more. This time permanently.

Thank you for your support! Comments and reblogs are appreciated

[sky-high-standards]

Yandere dragon x knight reader

Warning!!!: mild smut capturing

Just a twist on the yandere knight x dragon reader my single pringles~💜

Yandere dragon~ Who's the most feared dragon in all the land and has destroyed many Kingdoms with his wrath.

Yandere dragon~ Who, like any other dragon, collected precious and beautiful things and kingdoms would normally offer treasures in return for mercy and that's exactly what your kingdom did.

Yandere dragon~ Who soon got bored and displeased with the treasures offered and decided to take the princess instead and you had to rescue her since you're the most honored knight in the kingdom.

Yandere dragon~ Who was amused to see you demanding he release the princess. It was cute to see a tiny little knight facing the most feared dragon and he decided to toy with you for a bit before devouring you.

Yandere dragon~ Who was quite impressed with your skills but easily wore you out and was about to burn you to a crisp when suddenly your helmet fell off.

Yandere dragon~ Who is temporarily stunned by you. You were astonishing the most beautiful treasure he's ever come across.

Yandere dragon~ Who watches you ride away on your stead while he's distracted to safety his deep amber eyes lingering on your form.

Yandere dragon~ Who flies to your kingdom and makes s deal with the king, the princess in return you.

Yandere dragon~ Who grins at how the king immediate agreed and the villagers quickly give you to him and have you tied up so pretty like a gift on Christmas morning.

Yandere dragon~ Who shows you his human form in order to scare you a little less and in hopes it'll be easier for you to take him as your mate since he knows how captivating he is in that form.

Yandere dragon~ Who treats you like glass humans do tend to be quite fragile after all and he could never harm his little treasure.

Yandere dragon~ Who breeds you as soon as you warm up to him and makes sure to be extra gentle with you if he's just a little too rough he'll be sure to break you.

Yandere dragon~ Who covers you in jewels and rubies as a way to show you're his you didn't seem to like the love bites, but he still gives you some on occasion.

No one will ever harm you or our family my treasure…I'll make sure of it~

[twstedfreak]

Not Even the Gods Can Keep Me from You

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵pairing !! : Odysseus! Gojo Satoru x Penelope! Y/n

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵Summary !! : What is perseverance, if not love? What is strength, if not the will to return? Satoru Gojo was never meant to be a man of peace. A warrior crowned in legend, a king bound by duty, a man who challenged the will of gods themselves. He had conquered battlefields, torn through myths, and stood unshaken before death. Yet, for all his victories, there was only one war that truly mattered—getting back to you. Ten years of war. Ten years of wandering. And still, his heart only knew one home. You. Always you.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵contains !! : heavily! epic the musical inspired. heavy angst with eventual comfort. yearning. war themes. divine intervention. unwavering devotion. Gojo being dramatic as always. poetic prose slow-burn but inevitable love. a decade of suffering. a reunion worth every second of it. forced separation/longing. implied captivity (calypso arc). enough pining to make even the gods weep. Greek mythology elements.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵word count !! : 2,095 words

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵playlist !! : here

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵A/N !! : no beta reading we die like men. Okay, so hear me out! this idea grabbed me by the throat and refused to let go. I was just minding my business, vibing to EPIC: The Musical, and then suddenly my brain went, “What if Gojo Satoru was Odysseus?” And now I’m here, emotionally invested in a story where my baby is out here fighting gods, monsters, and curses all because he just wants to go home to you. Like, yes, he’s the untouchable but at the end of the day? He’s just Satoru. He’s fought wars, conquered empires, and defied death itself—but nothing, nothing compares to the battle of getting back to you. If that’s not peak romance, I don’t know what is. jkjk let’s be real, Gojo is exactly the kind of person to get cursed by the gods and just laugh in their faces. Zeus could strike him down and he’d be like, "Damn, that’s all you got?" And then proceed to survive out of sheer spite. ANYWAYS. This is just the beginning because, of course, I couldn’t stop at just one headcanon. This is a whole series now. I am deep in the trenches of this story, and I plan on taking you all down with me. If you want to be tagged for future parts, drop a comment! I love you all so much—thank you for the support, the reactions, and for indulging my unhinged brain 🫶💙

Odyssey? More Like Gojo-ssey. Now, let’s watch Gojo Satoru try (and probably suffer dramatically) to get home.  😌✨

⇢ read on ao3 here !!

Odysseus! Satoru who was never meant to be a man of peace. From the moment he first gripped a sword, fate carved his path in blood and war. He was the strongest, the untouchable, the king who could not fall.

Odysseus! Satoru who was never meant to stay in one place. His soul was made of storms, his heart set to the rhythm of conquest. 

Odysseus! Satoru who was the strongest warrior, the sharpest mind, the man who could bend the world to his will. But for all his power, truly one thing he longed for. Home. However, home had never been a place. Home was you.

Odysseus! Satoru who had never feared the gods, not even when they whispered warnings of fate and ruin. He laughed in the face of destiny, dared to challenge the will of Olympus itself. He mocked them, defied them, dared them to strike him down. But the moment he met you, the moment he saw a future beyond war in your eyes, he knew he had something far more terrifying than divine wrath—something to lose. The moment he took your hand, the moment he called you his wife, he realized that strength was not in defying the gods, it was in having something worth defying them for.

Odysseus! Satoru, who was not a patient man, but love, had taught him patience. This man fell in love like a storm crashing against the shore. sudden, unstoppable, inevitable. You were not just another prize, another conquest. You were the one who saw him, saw past the whispers, saw past the power, saw past the arrogance that kept the world at a distance. As in return, he swore to be yours in a way he never truly belonged to anyone else. In this lifetime and futures to come. 

Odysseus! Satoru who would sit in the gardens with you, listening to the way you spoke, memorizing every shift in your expression, every lilt in your voice. He who had faced death countless times, but nothing unnerved him more than the way you could bring him down to his knees with a just a single look. The strongest man in the world, utterly undone by you.

Odysseus! Satoru who was a force of nature in battle, and yet, he was the softest thing when he was with you. He could split mountains with a strike, command armies with a word, yet he would abandon it all just to press a kiss to your temple in the quiet hours of the night. The world could call him untouchable, unstoppable—but you had always known the truth. He was only human in your arms.

Odysseus! Satoru who swore he would never leave you. He never wanted to leave you. But war does not care for love, and kings do not get to choose their fate. When duty called him to Troy, he kissed you one last time and vowed, “I’ll come back to you, my love.” A promise whispered against your skin, a prayer uttered to gods he never truly believed in, but for you, he prayed. But war does not wait for love, and kings do not get to choose peace. The moment he stepped onto that ship, the moment he sailed toward a war he had no choice but to fight, he made a silent promise.

Odysseus! Satoru would come back. No matter the cost.

Odysseus! Satoru who had faced monsters before, but nothing compared to the beasts that awaited him on his journey home. The sea churned with curses, the land crawled with creatures that wanted nothing more than to tear him apart. But he did not waver. He did not fear. Because what was pain, what was suffering, if it meant holding you again? And so, he fought through curses, blood, and suffering, but the only thing stronger than the wrath of the gods was his will to get back to you.

Odysseus! Satoru who had never known helplessness. He was a man who bent the world to his will, who carved his own fate with bloodied hands and an indomitable heart. He had faced gods and monsters, defied curses and storms, and laughed in the face of death itself. But for seven years, he was caged. Seven years stolen from his hands, wasted in the embrace of a goddess who was not you.

Odysseus! Satoru, who had washed up on her shores broken along with his wrecked ship, his men lost, his body battered by the sea’s wrath. She found him like that, defeated in a way he had never been before, and she took him in. Nursed his wounds. Promised him peace. Promised him eternity. However, eternity meant nothing if you were not in it.

Odysseus! Satoru who was worshipped as a god on that island. She adorned him in silk, kissed the battle scars on his skin, whispers of forever in his ear. She called him hers. She swore to love him, to keep him, to give him a kingdom untouched by war and pain.

However, Odysseus! Satoru who was already yours. No matter how soft the sheets, how gentle the hands that held him, the weight of you never left him. Your absence clawed at his chest, a dull, aching wound that never healed. He was fed the sweetest fruits, given the finest wines, and yet, everything tasted bitter.

Because you were waiting. Because he had sworn to come back. Because seven years was too long to be away from home.

Odysseus! Satoru who was given the choice to stay. to be immortal, to be unburdened, to be worshipped as he had been all his life. But gods, if there was one thing he had learned after all these years, it was that peace was nothing without you. So he demanded to leave. He raged against the walls of paradise, cursed the heavens, swore that nothing, not gods, not time, not fate itself, would keep him from you.

And in the end, the gods relented. the moment he stepped back onto the sea, the moment the wind carried his ship forward once more, he whispered a vow “I’m coming back to you, my love.”

Odysseus! Satoru who after 10 yeras of war and 10 years of isolation in a gilded cage. After all the temptation, after all the stolen time. Nothing had changed. You were still his home and he was still yours.Odysseus! Satoru had always been told that the greatest glory was in war. That men like him were meant to be remembered for their victories, for the blood they spilled, for the kingdoms they claimed. But as he carved his way through gods and monsters, as he fought tooth and nail to return to you, he realized—glory was meaningless if you were not there to share it.  He was a man who had something worth fighting for. Each island, each battle, each moment of agony was a step closer to you. 

Odysseus! Satoru who would fight for eternity if it meant getting back to you. Because the world could take his crown, his titles, his power—but they would never take his love for you. He knew that time would change things. That Ithaca would move on, that suitors would circle you like vultures, that the world might convince you to forget him. But he never doubted you. Not once. Because if there was one thing in this world stronger than him, stronger than war, stronger than the gods. it was your love.

Gojo Satoru was a man of great renown. A warrior who had never lost, a king who stood above all, a force so untouchable that even the gods whispered his name with caution. He was myth and legend, conqueror and survivor, the man who had defied death itself. And yet, in your eyes he was just Satoru. Not a king. Not a warrior. Not a name etched into history. Just a man. A man who laughed too loudly at his own jokes, a man who pressed kisses to your temple when no one was looking, a man who smirked like a child when he won an argument. A man who made himself at home beside you, tangled in linen sheets and lazy mornings, whispering secrets only meant for your ears. The world called him untouchable. You knew better. You knew the warmth of his hands, the softness of his voice when he murmured your name in the quiet of the night. You knew the weight of his heart, the way he carried the burden of war, of loss, of the endless battle between duty and desire. You knew the boy beneath the legend, the fool who fell in love like it was the only battle worth losing. And he had lost. To you. Because for all his victories, for all his power, the greatest thing he had ever done was love you. Not war, not glory, not the sea of men he had left in ruin. You. Always you. It had taken years, lifetimes, an odyssey of gods and monsters and curses. In the end, he had won the only war that ever truly mattered. Because after everything, after all the pain, after all the years stolen from him. He came home and when he looked at you, and you looked at him, he knew. You had never stopped waiting.

The moment he stepped across the threshold, the weight of a decade settled onto his shoulders. The war, the gods, the monsters—all of it had been nothing compared to the torment of being away from you. And now, as he stood before you, a man worn down by time and trials, he found himself breathless.

You stared at him, silent, unmoving. As if blinking would make him disappear. As if you had seen him in your dreams so often that you weren’t sure if this was another cruel trick.

“Satoru…” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it shattered something inside him.

He inhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breath for years. Maybe he had. “I’m home.”

A silence stretched between you. It wasn’t empty. it was full. Full of lost time, of unspoken words, of all the things the universe had tried to take away.

Your fingers twitched at your side, hesitant, trembling, before you reached out. The moment your hand brushed against his face, tracing the lines that time had carved into his skin, something in him broke. He leaned into your touch as if it was the first warmth he had felt in years. His hands found your waist, hesitant at first, as if he feared you would disappear. But when you didn’t, when you only gripped him tighter, his restraint crumbled. He pulled you against him, arms wrapping around you so tightly it was almost desperate.

"You took your time," you murmured against his chest, voice thick with something between relief and sorrow.

He huffed a quiet laugh, though it was weak, exhausted. “I had to make it dramatic.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers curling into his tunic. There were so many questions, so many things you wanted to say. But in the end, you only whispered, “This time… will you stay?”

His grip on you tightened. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

You let out a breathless, a broken soundhalf a laugh, half a sob. “You idiot… You think after all this time I’d want anyone else?”

Satoru gave a smirk, but his voice was quiet, almost fragile. “I don’t know… figured you might’ve realized I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

You shook your head, a real, genuine smile breaking through the tears in your eyes. “You always were.” Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through his silver hair like a lifeline. “But you’re my trouble.”

Satoru swallowed hard, his thumb brushing against your cheek as if memorizing you all over again. “And you’re my home.”

A sob escaped before you could stop it, and that was all it took for him to press his forehead against yours, closing the last remaining distance.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “No more wars. No more running. No more losing time.” His voice softened, turning into a promise. “Just us.”

Your fingers curled tighter around him. “Just us.”

The words settled between you like an unshaken vow. And for the first time in forever, there were no battles left to fight.

No gods to defy.

No time to lose.

Only him. Only you.

Only home.

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[kwilquib]

Promised 9

chapter - 0

Fromis_9 x Male reader

Word Count: 4.5k+

Chapters: One | Two | Three

a/n: This is just set up of the story, no smut in this chapter. but this chapter is important, for the story.

The classroom buzzed with the faint whispers of students exchanging notes and furtive glances at their phones. You sat slouched at the back, staring blankly at your open notebook, the pages still pristine except for a single doodle in the corner: a coffee cup. You idly tapped your pen against the desk, your thoughts drifting far from the lecture.

“Mr. Kang Junho!”

The sharp voice of your Professor Min snapped You back to reality. The room fell silent, and all eyes turned toward you. You straightened, blinking rapidly as the professor leveled a stern gaze at you from the podium.

“Care to join us in this riveting discussion, or are you busy solving life’s great mysteries back there?” Professor Min’s voice was tinged with sarcasm.

“Uh, no, sir. I mean, yes, I’m listening,” You stammered, scratching the back of your neck. A few chuckles rippled through the classroom.

Satisfied, the professor adjusted his glasses and continued, pacing slowly across the front of the room. “As I was saying, today’s topic is about myths and their reflection of humanity. Take, for instance, the legend of the Promised Nine.”

The room quieted, the students now leaning in slightly. Professor Min always had a way of making even the dullest of topics sound compelling.

“Long ago, during a time when humanity was steeped in chaos, war, and unrelenting greed, there was a king—a wise man, yet weary of the barbarism that plagued his people. No matter how many treaties he signed or how many battles he fought, peace was fleeting. He despaired, knowing that humanity’s greatest enemy was not the sword but the emotions that drove men to wield it: pride, envy, wrath, greed, gluttony, sloth, lust, apathy, deceit…”

Junho’s attention perked up. There was something strangely familiar about the words, though you couldn’t place why.

“So the king, in his desperation, climbed the tallest mountain in the land to plead with the deity who ruled the heavens. He begged for salvation, not for himself, but for humanity. The deity listened, moved by the king’s earnestness. But salvation comes with a cost.”

Professor Min paused dramatically, glancing at his captivated audience. “A promise was made—a sacred pact between the king and the deity. Aid would be sent to humanity, not as armies or riches, but as nine beings, each representing the most volatile of human emotions. Their purpose? To keep the balance of these forces, preventing anyone from consuming the world.”

He walked over to the whiteboard and wrote the words The Promised Nine in bold letters.

“But there was a catch,” he continued. “The deity warned the king that these emotions, though tempered, could never truly be eradicated. The Promised Nine would struggle with the very forces they were meant to contain. And should even one of them fall to the temptation of their burden…”

Professor Min trailed off, his gaze sweeping the room.

“What would happen?” a student near the front blurted, unable to resist.

“Should one of the Nine succumb, their emotion would consume them entirely, turning them into a force of destruction. And that destruction could spread unchecked, tipping the scales and plunging the world into chaos once more. To prevent this, the Deity decreed that the Nine would be connected to a chosen mortal—an anchor. This anchor would serve as their confidant, grounding them when the weight of their burden became too great to bear.”

He turned back to the whiteboard, writing in large, bold letters: The Promised Nine.

“The anchor is as important as the Nine themselves,” he said. “Without them, the balance could not be maintained. The king agreed to the Diety’s terms, knowing full well the cost. And thus, the Promised Nine came into being.”

Professor Min stepped back from the board, his expression somber. “But the Diety’s warning still lingers in the echoes of time: no balance lasts forever. The story of the Promised Nine reminds us that humanity’s greatest strength—and its greatest threat—lies within ourselves.”

The shrill ring of the bell echoed through the room, breaking the spell. Students began packing their bags, the hum of chatter returning.

“Read chapters six through eight for next week!” Professor Min called over the noise.

You gathered your things slowly, the tale still turning over in your mind. As you slung your bag over your shoulder and made your way to the door, you muttered to yourself, “Promised Nine, huh? Sounds like something out of a fantasy novel.”

—

You exit the lecture hall, slipping into the stream of students flowing out into the bustling campus courtyard. The sun dips low in the sky, casting long shadows and a warm orange glow over everything. You glance at your watch—just enough time to get to your part-time job.

The café isn’t far, a cozy little spot just outside the university gates. Its charming wooden sign, Golden Brew, sways slightly in the breeze. The place is always busy, a favorite among students and faculty alike. But there’s one reason it stands out from the dozens of other coffee shops around: its owner, Gyuri.

You push through the door, greeted by the familiar hum of chatter, clinking cups, and the hiss of the espresso machine. The café smells like roasted beans and freshly baked pastries—a comforting combination that feels like a second home.

“Junho, you’re late!”

The voice is soft yet commanding, and you immediately straighten, turning to the counter. There she is—Gyuri, the radiant owner of Golden Brew. Her beauty is the kind that leaves people momentarily breathless. stood effortlessly graceful in her casual white t-shirt and mint-green cap, her gentle features framed by stray strands of hair and a gaze as warm as the morning sun

“I-I’m sorry, Ms. Gyuri,” you stammer, bowing slightly as you head toward the staff room to put your bag away.

“It’s fine, just don’t make a habit of it, okay?” she replies, her voice as warm as the golden light streaming through the café windows.

“Yes, of course!” you reply quickly, though you can’t shake the sense of unease you always feel around her.

It’s not fear, exactly. Gyuri is unfailingly warm and generous. She treats her staff like family, remembers the names of regulars, and always has a smile for everyone who walks through the door. Still, you find yourself hyper-aware of her moods, as though disappointing her might lead to something far worse than a lecture.

When you emerge from the staff room in your apron, Gyuri is already behind the counter, expertly steaming milk for a cappuccino. “Can you handle table seven’s order? They’ve been waiting a bit.”

You grab the tray, carefully balancing two lattes and a slice of cheesecake, weaving your way through the maze of tables. It’s almost automatic at this point—sidestepping bags, dodging half-turned chairs—but when you reach the corner table, you stop.

She’s there.

Seoyeon.

She’s a regular, not a student or faculty, just... always here. You’ve seen her enough times to notice the details: the dark circles under her eyes, natural and striking, framing her otherwise delicate features. She’s beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you—her sleepy, almost lazy demeanor masks something deeper.

She’s hunched over her laptop, typing slowly, as if testing each word before committing to it. The oversized navy shirt drapes over her frame, and her hair carelessly tied, some falls messily around her face. You set the tray down gently, not wanting to disturb whatever she’s working on.

“Thanks,” she mutters without looking up, her voice soft, almost as if she’s halfway to falling asleep.

You nod, even though she doesn’t see it, and glance at her screen. It’s filled with text—lines upon lines of words you can’t make sense of from this angle. Stories, maybe? Essays? You don’t know, and it’s not your place to ask.

As you turn to leave, she stretches, her movements slow and languid, like she has all the time in the world. For a moment, you wonder what keeps her coming back here, day after day, to sit in that same spot, typing away.

But you shake the thought off. You’ve got other tables to serve.

.You make your way back behind the counter, tray in hand. It’s a small relief to retreat to this spot, even if only for a few moments. Manning the cashier is easier—less weaving between tables, fewer chances to trip or spill something. The register beeps softly as you organize receipts and prepare for the next wave of customers.

The door opens, and the atmosphere in the café shifts. It’s subtle, like a faint breeze stirring through a room, but you notice it immediately. Heads turn—students and faculty alike—and conversations falter as if someone hit pause.

You glance up and freeze.

Jiheon.

Her name is spoken in hushed tones across campus, her presence both admired and untouchable. She moves with an effortless grace that feels out of place in the mundane setting of the café, her bright smile commanding attention without even trying. But it’s her eyes that hold you—the way they curve into crescent moons with a hint of something sharper, more mischievous, just beneath the surface.

To your utter disbelief, she walks directly to the counter. Your counter.

“Hi there,” she says, her voice smooth and casual, like she’s greeting an old friend. Her gaze locks onto yours, and her smile widens slightly. “You’re Junho, right?”

You blink, caught so off guard that you almost drop the pen in your hand. “Uh… yeah?” Your answer comes out as more of a question than a confirmation.

Her smile grows, as if your awkwardness amuses her. “Thought so. I’m Jiheon.” She leans in just slightly, resting one hand on the counter. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your wariness kicks in. Jiheon—the Jiheon—is talking to you? Asking for your name? It feels like the kind of thing that only happens to other people. Your eyes flick briefly to Gyuri at the other end of the counter. She’s busy steaming milk, not even sparing a glance in Jiheon’s direction.

“Nice to meet you,” you manage, your voice steadier this time, though your thoughts are racing. “Uh, caramel macchiato?” You blurt the question out more out of instinct than anything else.

Her laugh is light, lilting, but there’s something playful in it, like she’s already decided you’re her new source of entertainment. “Hmm. Good guess,” she teases, tapping a finger against the counter. “Sure, I’ll have that. But I’m impressed you remembered. I didn’t think I was that predictable.”

You feel your face heat up, fumbling to punch her order into the register. “It’s not that, I just—uh—” You stop, realizing anything you say will just dig you deeper.

She watches you, clearly enjoying the way you stumble over your words. “Relax, Junho,” she says, her tone soft but undeniably amused. “I’m just messing with you.”

Handing her the receipt, you attempt a smile. “Coming right up.”

Instead of moving to find a seat, she lingers by the counter, her eyes drifting lazily around the café before landing back on you. “Nice place. Gyuri’s done a great job here, hasn’t she?”

Your gaze flicks to Gyuri again. Still busy. Still not looking this way. “Yeah, she has,” you reply, keeping your voice neutral.

Jiheon tilts her head, her smile still firmly in place. “You two seem close,” she muses, her tone light but probing. “Gyuri’s lucky to have someone like you helping her out.”

The way she says it makes you feel like she’s toying with you, testing your reaction. “I just do what I can,” you say cautiously.

Her eyes light up, as if you’ve said something particularly amusing. “I bet you do.” She straightens up and takes a step back. “Well, Junho, it’s been… enlightening.” Her smile takes on an almost cat-like quality. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll be around.”

As she walks away to find a seat, the tension in your shoulders eases, but her presence lingers like a shadow. You glance at Gyuri one last time, hoping for some kind of reaction, but she’s focused on the drinks in front of her, her usual calm smile in place.

And yet, for just a moment, you swear there’s something almost knowing in the way she glances at Jiheon’s retreating figure..

—

The bell above the door jingles as the last customer leaves, and you let out a long breath, leaning against the counter. The café feels different now—quiet, peaceful, but heavy with the lingering scent of coffee and pastries. It’s nighttime, and the warm glow of the overhead lights gives the empty space a cozy but slightly eerie feel.

“Good job today, Junho,” Gyuri says, flashing you one of her signature warm smiles as she locks the cash register.

“Thanks, Ms. Gyuri,” you reply, your voice softer than usual in the now-empty café.

After finishing up your closing duties—wiping down tables, stacking chairs, and sweeping the floors—you grab your jacket and step out into the cool night air. The streets are quieter now, with only a few scattered groups of students heading home. You adjust your backpack, your thoughts already drifting toward the comfort of your cramped boarding room.

As you turn a corner, someone bumps into you.

“Ah, sorry,” you mumble automatically, stepping back.

The girl doesn’t even glance up, her eyes glued to her phone. She’s wearing what looks like an e-sport jersey jacket, its bold colors contrasting with the dark street. Her brown hair catches the ambient glow of the streetlights, faintly shining as she moves past you. For a brief moment, her face is illuminated, and it’s enough to leave an impression.

She’s stunning.

Before you can fully process it, your impulse kicks in. You take a step forward, clearing your throat. “Hey, uh, I’m Junho...”

But she doesn’t respond. Her focus remains solely on the screen of her phone, and she keeps walking, oblivious to your presence.

You stand there for a second, feeling a bit foolish, then shake your head. The image of her lingers in your mind as she disappears into the night, leaving you with nothing but the quiet hum of the street.

When you finally reach your room, you fumble with your keys and push the door open. It’s as small and cramped as ever, but it’s yours. You toss your jacket onto the single chair by the desk, only to realize something’s missing. Your bag. You groan, running a hand through your hair. You must’ve left it at the café in your rush to leave. There’s no helping it—you’ll have to go back.

The walk feels longer this time, the quiet streets amplifying the sound of your footsteps. As you get closer, a strange unease settles in your chest. The air feels heavier, the streetlights casting elongated shadows that seem to move just out of sync with your steps. Your skin prickles, as if something unseen is watching.

When you reach the café, you notice something strange. Cars are parked outside. Not just any cars—luxury vehicles, sleek and expensive, the kind you’d expect to see in a high-end district, not outside a cozy student café. Their polished exteriors gleam under the soft glow of the streetlights, each one a testament to sophistication and taste.

Your gaze drifts across the lineup, catching details that feel oddly personal. A jet-black SUV, imposing and understated. A sapphire blue Porsche, sharp and vibrant, eerily luring you in. Your eyes stop briefly on a compact car that feels out of place among the giants—a Mini Cooper. Its emerald green paint shimmers, the kind of green that feels rich and alive, paired with racing stripes that speak of personality rather than pure extravagance. It’s less ostentatious but undeniably stylish, a subtle standout among its peers.

As you approach, an inexplicable resistance builds inside you, like a pressure against your chest. Your feet feel heavier, your thoughts fuzzier, and for a brief moment, you consider turning around. The café seems distant, almost unreal, like it’s shifting away even as you step closer. But you shake it off, forcing yourself forward.

You head to the backdoor, fishing out the spare key Gyuri gave you for emergencies. Pushing it open, you step into the staff area and spot your bag right where you left it. Relieved, you sling it over your shoulder and turn to leave.

That’s when you hear it.

The faint jingle of the front doorbell breaks the silence, followed by muffled voices.

You freeze. The café should be empty, but there’s a light seeping through the crack of the door leading to the main lobby. Slowly, you step closer, curiosity outweighing caution.

Peeking through the door, you see her.

She steps inside like she owns the air she breathes, her presence commanding yet effortless. Her long, jet-black hair cascades down her back, perfectly straight, with sharp bangs framing her face. Under the glow of the café lights, her striking blue eyes seem almost unnatural, as if they were cut from the sky itself.

For a moment, her gaze sweeps the café, and then it lands directly on you.

Your heart skips a beat. You’re sure you’ve been caught—your face heats up, and you’re ready to stammer some excuse about being here after hours. But her expression doesn’t shift.

Her lips curl into a smile, slow and deliberate, as if she’s been waiting for this very moment. It’s the kind of smile that feels personal, like it holds a secret meant only for you.

But then, as quickly as her eyes found yours, they slid away.

It’s deliberate—you’re certain of that. She must have seen you. And yet, she acts as if you’re invisible, as if your presence is of no consequence. She turns, her hair sweeping behind her like a silk curtain, and addresses the others in the room.

From your hidden vantage point, you take in the scene.

The café, which should have been empty, is instead alive with movement. A group of women fills the space, each one radiating an aura of distinct confidence and beauty. They aren’t just sitting or lounging; they seem to command the room, transforming it into something that feels foreign, almost sacred.

“Chaeyoung,” one of the women calls out, her tone both teasing and sharp, “you’re late.”

Your eyes dart to the source of the voice, and your breath catches—it’s her. The same woman you bumped into earlier, the one engrossed in her phone. She’s still wearing that e-sport jersey jacket, looking as effortlessly confident as she had before.

“And Nagyung? You’re not late?” Chaeyoung fires back, her tone teasing, her smile sharper now.

The casual banter between them feels like watching something private, yet you can’t look away.

Your gaze shifts to the rest of the table. The initial shock of seeing Chaeyoung fades as you take in the others, each of them equally striking in their presence. You almost stumble backward when you spot familiar faces.

Gyuri, whose warmth you’ve come to rely on, sits with an unfamiliar coolness about her. Her brow is furrowed, a faint trace of annoyance crossing her usually gentle features. It sharpens her striking appearance, making her seem like someone you’ve never truly known. There's a tension in her posture that makes you feel like you're seeing a side of her that’s been hidden until now.

Seoyeon leans lazily toward the women beside her, her relaxed posture contrasting the air of composure around the table.

The woman Seoyeon is leaning into feels strangely familiar, as if you should recognize her. She matches the others in beauty, her jet-black hair framing a delicate face. A soft smile plays at her lips, radiating warmth and charm. With luminous skin and deep, expressive eyes, she exudes an effortless elegance that captivates without even trying.

And as if that weren’t enough to leave you reeling, on the other side of the table, you recognize Lee Saerom.

The Saerom. The top celebrity, known for her flawless visuals and commanding performances.

Sitting next to her is Song Hayoung, the famous songwriter and soloist whose music dominates every chart. 

They’re casually leaning into the conversation, as though their combined fame and aura aren’t enough to make this room the most exclusive place in the city.

“Is Jiwon not here yet?” Chaeyoung asks as she slips into a seat, her voice nonchalant, but her eyes scanning the room with interest.

The front doorbell jingles, and the door swings open.

“I’m here!!” a bright, piercing voice calls out.

Your head swivels toward the source, and there she is. Jiwon, bounding through the entrance like a whirlwind of energy, her grin lighting up the room before her words even have a chance.

“Jisun, did you bring food?” Jiwon’s question comes rapid-fire, her tone playful but undeniably demanding.

The woman Seoyeon was leaning into rose. She moves with calm precision, her composure stark against Jiwon’s lively presence.

"Of course, I brought food. Wouldn’t want you to starve." Jisun says, her voice soft but firm, as she produces a stack of containers seemingly out of nowhere. She places them on the table, the gesture practiced, as though she had been anticipating the request long before it was asked.

It hits you then. Roh Jisun. The world-famous chef. Known for her culinary brilliance and beauty. You've seen her multiple times before in magazines, tv, or online articles. You can hardly believe she's here, so close, exuding an effortless elegance.

“Can we finally get started? I still have to clean up after all of you,” Gyuri complained, her annoyance clear.

Now that the group had gathered, all eyes shifted to Saerom, who was waiting for their attention.

“Our youngest is losing control,” Saerom began.

“We all constantly are,” Nagyung shrugged off the concern.

“This isn't the same, you know that,” Saerom replied firmly.

“Don’t try to ignore these meetings, Nagyung. I’m losing millions just being here,” Jiwon said, flaunting her wealth.

“Must be nice having all those millions,” Hayoung remarked. While her gaze focuses on the only fork on the table, in the hands of Chaeyoung.

“You’re a millionaire too. Why are you eyeing my money?” Jiwon shot back defensively.

“Ahem!… Losing control?” Gyuri steered the conversation back on track.

Saerom, now commanding their full attention, spoke with purpose.

“We need to consider finally finding an anchor.”

“Then we’ll get an anchor. Meeting is done,” Soyeon said with a yawn, stretching.

Charyoung, still twirling the fork between her fingers, smirked. “Do we have to? I’ve been liking her attitude recently.”

“It’s time,” Saerom replied, her tone serious. “We can’t risk it. If deceit consumes her…”

“It will consume all of us,” Gyuri finished, her voice dark.

You stay frozen, trying to make sense of the conversation. Consume? Anchor? Deceit? The weight of their words sinks in, and though you know you should leave, something keeps you rooted to the spot. The truth behind their cryptic conversation is just out of reach.

Then, without warning, a soft voice whispered near your ear.

“Curiosity can be dangerous, you know.”

You nearly jump out of your skin, spinning around to find Jiheon standing inches away, her signature eye-smile curved upward in amusement. You’re certain she wasn’t there a second ago. How could she have gotten so close without making a sound?

“Wha—how—?” you stammer, instinctively taking a step back, only to hear the door creak open behind you.

Seoyeon, now fully awake, leans forward slightly, her drowsy facade giving way to genuine surprise. “How did he get here?” she asks, her voice carrying a rare edge of curiosity. Her eyes scan you, but it’s not just scrutiny—it’s disbelief, almost as if you’re some kind of anomaly.

“Who’s this?” Nagyung asks, clearly not remembering you.

“Junho,” Gyuri says softly, her voice now laced with concern and confusion. “How are you here?” Her warm demeanor has returned that almost makes you feel safe. Almost.

Your mind scrambles for an explanation, but Jiheon, ever calm, steps forward, her gaze fixed on you as if she’s reading your very thoughts.

“He overheard,” Jiheon says simply, her tone neither accusatory nor dismissive.

“Clearly” Jiwon crosses her arms, her lively energy dampened by suspicion. “Why did you let him through?”

Jiheon doesn’t answer. Instead, she steps forward, closing the already narrow distance between the two of you. Her eyes glint with an eerie amusement, her head tilting slightly as she examines you like a puzzle she’s just begun to piece together.

“Regardless of how,” Saerom says, her voice cutting through the murmurs and drawing every gaze. She rises slowly, her commanding presence quieting the room once more. “What matters is why. What did he hear?”

“I didn’t mean to listen!” you blurt out, your voice shaky as you raise your hands in defense. “I—I just came back for my bag, and then I heard voices, and—”

“And stopped to eavesdrop,” Chaeyoung interrupts, her voice playful but her eyes uncomfortably sharp.

“No! I mean—yes, but not like that!” you stammer, feeling the weight of their collective stares crushing you. “It’s not what you think! I swear I won’t tell anyone!”

Gyuri sighs, stepping closer. “Junho, you don’t understand. This... what you’ve heard... it’s not something you can just walk away from.”

“I don’t know how you got through the mist ” Jisun adds, her tone firm but not unkind. “But this isn’t something just anyone can know.”

“Maybe,” Chaeyoung says, her lips curving into a sly smile, “he’s not ‘just anyone.’”

“Enough.” Saerom’s single word silences the room, her authority undeniable. Her eyes pierce through you, weighing your very existence. “What’s done is done. The question now is what we do with him.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. “Wait!” you cry, your voice desperate. “I swear I won’t say anything! I don’t even understand what I heard! Just let me go, and I’ll forget everything!”

“That’s not how this works,”  Hayoung says from across the room, her voice carrying an edge as she’s now holding the fork she was eyeing earlier.

Jiheon smirks, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she takes another step closer. “Oh, Junho,” she purrs, her voice dripping with playful malice. “It’s not your fault, really. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She tilts her head, her smile widening. “But... well, it’s a little late for regrets, don’t you think?”

Her hand lifts, faint cyan light dancing at her fingertips, and you can’t tear your eyes away. The glow reflects in her eyes, making her look ethereal and otherworldly.

“Jiheon, stop!” Saerom’s voice cuts through, but Jiheon doesn’t even flinch.

“Relax,” Jiheon says lightly, her tone almost soothing as she looks at you. “I’m just helping him... rest a little.”

“Jiheon!” Saerom’s command comes sharper this time, but it’s already too late.

Jiheon’s fingers flick, the cyan light tracing an elegant pattern in the air. “Just a little nap,” she whispers, her voice lilting and playful.

The moment the light touches you, an overwhelming drowsiness washes over your body. Your knees buckle, the edges of your vision darken, and Jiheon’s playful smile is the last thing you see as the world fades to black.

a/n: Before you move one the next chapter, can you guess who's who, with their pairing emotion?

(Pride, Greed, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Wrath, Sloth, Deceit, and Apathy)

Next ->

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Blood and Cheese does not happen. Instead, Daemon plots with his connections to kidnap Aegon’s most prized possession: his wife. They ask Agon and the Greens to give up the throne and she will be returned. Aegon is furious

Requests for HotD are opened again! I have a few in the work already, so make sure you are on the taglist to be notified when I post them <3

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

The guards standing on each side of the small council chamber bowed their heads at their king. Aegon hated these meetings, finding them lengthy and uninteresting, but now that he wore the crown, he couldn't escape them.

He pushed the large door open and stepped in. Inside, one person sat at the table: his mother. Beside her, a man in armor stood. Their hushed conversation ceased as he arrived.

Alicent glanced at her son with a somber expression. ‘’Please have a seat,’’ she beckoned.

Aegon furrowed his eyebrows. ‘’Where is everyone else?’’ 

‘’Council meeting is canceled today,’’ she informed him gravely. ‘’We have more urgent matters to discuss.’’ 

Seating himself at the table's head, Aegon braced himself for what was to come. The tension in the chamber was palpable, and he knew something serious had happened.

Alicent hesitated for a moment, her eyes betraying the weight of the news she carried. ‘’There's been an incident,’’ she began, her voice strained. ‘’Before I explain further, I need you to stay calm.’’ Her eyes held Aegon’s, waiting for a silent promise before pursuing. ‘’We all know that Daemon still has connections in the city. Some of his men breached our defenses and infiltrated the castle and she…she was taken by the Blacks.’’

Aegon laughed dryly. This had to be a joke.

But he found no sign of jest in his mother’s solemn expression. 

The king turned to the lord commander standing to her left. ‘’Where is my wife, Ser Criston?’’ he implored, still in disbelief that you had been taken. 

Ser Criston's gaze fell to the ground, his silence speaking volumes. ‘’I regret to conform, your grace,’’ he murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow. ‘’The queen has been taken.’’ 

Aegon felt as if the ground had been ripped from beneath him. His wife, his beloved, stolen from him — kidnapped — by the hands of their enemies. 

‘’We've received a raven from Dragonstone,’’ Alicent informed, clearing her throat. She forwarded the rolled piece of parchemin to Ser Criston, who handed it to Aegon.

He unrolled the parchemin and read the message: As a result of stealing from the rightful heir, something of yours has been taken. Abandon the throne and she will be returned. 

Aegon's jaw clenched so tightly that the parchment in his hand crumpled beneath his grip. His violet eyes filled with wrath as rage spread through his blood. 

He rose to his feet, his voice dripping with fury. ‘’Ser Criston, tell the dragonkeepers to get Sunfire out of the dragonpit. I will go to Dragonstone myself and—’’

‘’I’d rather not,’’ Alicent interjected, her tone icy. ‘’Going to Dragonstone is driving yourself to your own death.’’ 

‘’I will not stand idly by while my wife is held captive by our enemies!" In a surge of anger, Aegon tore the silver crown from his head and flung it to the ground with all the force of his rage, the clang of the Valyrian steel reverberating off the stone walls like a thunderclap.

At his outburst, Alicent's lips pressed into a thin line. ‘’You may leave us, Ser Criston.’’ 

The lord commander nodded and exited the small council chamber in silence, leaving the king and his mother alone.

‘’You have no idea the sacrifices that were made to put you on that throne?’’ she stated, her tone heavy with implication.

Aegon's frustration boiled over, and he leaned against the back of his chair. He ran his hands through his silver hair, tugging at the roots in a gesture of despair and anguish. ‘’I never asked for that throne!’’ he exclaimed, his voice cracking with emotion. 

All he wanted was his wife back, it was all he needed — you. 

During his father’s reign, the castle had never been threatened. Viserys was a peaceful king, one who stayed away from conflicts. Therefore, he never had to worry about the loyalty or competence of his kingsguard.  

Now that he had fallen and that a civil war had begun, the safety - and life - of those who lived in the castle was at risk. In the days following Aegon's coronation, all who had refused to swear to him had been beheaded. So, how could this have happened?

‘’I want these men’s heads,’’ he declared, his voice filled with a mixture of vengeance and determination as he straightened. ‘’Plot against the king and I will pay it back a hundred times over.’’

—

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[earlgreydream]

His. | Loki x reader smut

I finally the Loki tv show… this does NOT have any spoilers, it’s set on Asgard with a newly appointed king and his coronation gift…

cw: d/s

“Leave any traces of fear in this room.” The command was clear, spoken sharply by a royal attendant.

Your gaze didn’t leave the fragrant water of the bath you knelt in, the attendant taking care to wash every inch of your skin. Other women pulled fluttering silks from a wardrobe, lying it out for you and finding jewelry to match. So much led to this moment, and yet it didn’t seem real — anticipation and anxiety buzzing in your head. You’d been told once already to contain the obvious fear that lingered in your chest, but the daunting task of doing so seemed impossible when your fate was waiting on a silver platter, the moment you left the private chamber you were being bathed in.

“Come, out of the water before your skin wrinkles,” you were hauled to your feet, wrapped in towels and rubbed down by several girls with movements so quick, you were barely left time to react.

Hands massaged your tense limbs, covering them in oils that bloomed with exotic scents, leaving your skin gleaming. At the same time, your hair was fixed, emeralds — his favorite — twisted into the locks and fastening to bare your neck.

“It’s customary to dress her in white,” a handmaiden spoke of you as if you were not there.

“The prince prefers black.” The will of your all-powerful god silenced any protest, everyone moving to do his bidding.

The women fretted — you had to be perfect for him. They prepared you to be presented to the god, as a divine gift to honor the crown prince of Asgard. You were bathed, decorated, and dressed, all to please the god you were gifted to, an expectation that you’d been bred for. It was a great honor to be taken from the hills, to the castle of the gods, to walk amongst the divine, even if it meant your role was to do as your master saw fit, obeying every command. You had come to terms with it, knowing that upon prince Loki’s rise to the throne, you were the sacrifice — the gift — of the kingdom, a promise of good fortune and favor granted in return.

It all seemed like a far-away, distant dream in a future that would never come. Despite that, here you were, relinquishing your whole self to Asgard’s throne. You had never met the god, and never seen him up close. Of course you’d heard the stories, the wrath and prowess of the young prince, and even seen him from a distance — but being in his presence was something entirely new, before being expected to spend the rest of time at his mercy.

Asgardian silk draped over your skin, so light you wouldn’t know it was there. Your decency was concealed beneath expensive black fabric, hiding what was only meant for Loki to see in the moments after this. The handmaidens’ fussing finally ceased, ending the long evening of preparation.

“Come with me, and do as you’re told,” the woman in charge ushered you forward, opening the chamber doors, releasing you out of known captivity into unpredictability.

You swallowed the fear in your throat, steps silent as you followed her to the throne room, the festivities growing louder as you approached your fate. Before you were given a moment to hesitate, you were led into the cavernous room of gold and heavenly magic.

All at once, it fell silent as soldiers escorted you to the throne. There he was — the god himself, draped over his golden throne. Loki was the only one adorned finer than you, a golden helm atop his onyx waves, wild cerulean eyes that bore straight into your soul.

“Your majesty, a gift in exchange for your benevolence,” the ceremony’s representative from your kingdom presented you to Loki, a hand on your shoulder forcing you to kneel before the throne.

A dangerous smile curved the god’s lips, placing his scepter aside as he rose to his feet.

“A very generous gift indeed,” Loki’s lyrical voice wrapped around your throat, stealing the air from your lungs.

He was impossibly tall and lean as he approached you, toned muscles visible even through the heavy layers of leather and gold that adorned his figure. Loki was no mere prince, but a god of mischief, holding an entire world in the palm of his delicate hand. A dark mischief glittered in his eyes, the gorgeous royal leaning down to look closely at you.

He tilted your chin up, looking him directly in the eye, immediately disarmed and vulnerable as you did so. His expression changed almost imperceptibly, gone from his eyes in a flash as he looked away from you, addressing the court who had handed you over.

Your ears were ringing too loudly to hear what he said, your head spinning. A solider moved to guide you to sit at the base of the throne, at Loki’s feet, when you were suddenly snapped back into the present moment.

“You will not lay a hand on what is mine!” Loki’s shout thundered through the chamber, stopping the man before he could touch you.

The soldier quickly fell back, recognizing the lethal danger of disrespecting Loki. An entire room held its breath, the seconds agonizing, exhaling only when Loki motioned for festivities to resume.

Despite the advice to hide your fear, Loki could practical feel your startled fright. Everything else blurred into the background, the celebration entertaining itself, leaving you and Loki at the center of your own universe.

Loki leaned down with an outstretched hand, his expression softening as you met his gaze. He had not yet spoken directly to you, but you didn’t need instruction to place your hand in his, allowing his strength to move you forward. Loki guided you to kneel at his feet as he resumed his place on the throne, slotted between his long legs.

Delicate fingers gently tilted your chin to look up at him, the touch startlingly gentle, a stark contrast to what you’d been warned of.

“There is a long night of festivities ahead, you may rest on me if you grow weary,” Loki granted you permission to lie your head against his thigh, to sink back into the new shelter.

You gave a small nod of understanding, looking back down as his attention was demanded from another round of celebration.

Despite the dizzying commotion of Loki’s ceremony, your limbs became heavy and keeping your eyes open was a losing battle. Loki peered down at you as you slowly laid your head against his leg, letting your exhausted body rest for the first time.

A fierce desire to protect you swelled in Loki’s chest, suddenly cross with the noise and lights that combatted your sleep. As he continued to entertain offerings of exotic fruits and tributes from his kingdoms, Loki moved a leg in front of you, glaring at anyone who so much as looked too long in your direction.

He couldn’t imagine how drained you were, to sleep through the chaos. Your weight rested against his leg, though you didn’t let yourself fully drift into deep sleep, some part of you making sure that you were upright, not wanting to displease him.

Loki carefully supported you as he stood, lifting you off the floor with godly strength. The festivities continued without him — kings, gods, and valkyrie reenacting stories of battles and playing with magic in the great halls.

He’d had quite enough of the noise and empty affection, and desired nothing more than some quiet time alone with his offering.

“Careful,” he warned softly as you began to stir, strengthening his grip to keep you from falling.

“M’sorry,” you mumbled, your first words spoken in a haze of exhaustion.

“It’s alright, you’re free to rest,” Loki laid you down on his bed the moment you entered the privacy of his chambers.

Golden floors were etched in sweeping illustrations of history and mythology, telling the stories of your god beneath the bed draped in dark green silks. Huge doors opened to a veranda, a summer breeze ruffling the curtains, allowing glimpses of glittering astronomy overhead.

Your mind yearned to stay awake, to learn your surroundings and stay vigilant in the presence of Loki. Despite that, your body screamed for sleep, sinking into the soft bedding he had placed you on.

.

Loki watched you sleep.

Exhaustion kept your body rigidly still, not moving once the entire night. You stayed curled up in the very corner of the expansive bed, out of reach of Loki, who eventually took his place as the sun cracked the horizon.

The only indication you were real, was the gentle rise and fall of your back as you breathed. As you slept, the frightened expression vanished from your face, softening the your features. Loki couldn’t take his eyes off of you, studying your almost peaceful face.

Loki drifted in and out of sleep, not bothering to wake you after such a late and overwhelming night. You must have been weary, because you couldn’t have been comfortable, making yourself as small as possible at the very edge of the bed, not wanting to take up too much of Loki’s space.

You slowly opened your eyes, sunlight streaming in through the open veranda. The morning seemed impossibly peaceful, despite waking up into a new life of servitude. This didn’t feel like what you’d expected — waking up in a comfortable bed with the warm sun on your face, the scent of breakfast wafting from a huge spread on the chamber’s dining table.

“Good morning, darling,” Loki’s voice was much softer in the privacy of the chambers, without an audience.

You sat up, looking over as he stood from a couch, setting aside a novel. He was more relaxed, wearing loose black linen, his hair tied up loosely.

“Hi,” you whispered, at a loss for words — partially in awe of how gorgeous he was, and partially cautious, as if he were a cobra waiting to strike at any wrong move.

He watched as you observed your surroundings, inspecting your golden cage in the light of day. Loki’s chambers were beautiful, bright, and serene. It seemed so divorced from the perception you had of the god before being let in to the most private part of his existence. Loki moved smoothly throughout the room, delicate hands attached to a lean, muscular body. Loki’s face was sculpted out of marble, so stunningly beautiful it left you breathless. Green eyes pierced straight into your soul, laid bare when he looked at you.

“Eat something,” he gestured to the feast at the table, as if he were the devil, offering food to a goddess to keep captive in his lair forever.

It was your job to obey, your body moving before your mind even considered protest. The shimmering gown you were wearing the night before swept the floor as you walked, Loki admiring how beautiful you were, even slightly disheveled.

You hesitantly took a berry from the table, bringing it to your lips, licking the sweetness off your fingertips. The sight stirred something inside of Loki, his gaze focusing on the contours of your body that were visible through the just-sheer parts of the fabric draped over you.

“Master?” You could feel the weight of his gaze, invisibly drawing you to him.

Loki stepped toward you, pleased as you sank to your knees without any encouragement, easing into his submission. You wanted it, needed it, like your lungs needed air. A shimmer of green made your clothing disappear, baring you fully to Loki’s intoxicated gaze.

“Look at you, fit for a god,” he praised, slowly circling you as you kneeled, appreciating you from every angle.

“Only for you, master.”

“Loki,” he permitted you to call him by name, a request that pulled the corners of your lips up with small satisfaction.

The floor was cold beneath your knees, and your skin began to prick beneath a cool breeze from the veranda. Loki swelled over the recognition that you were his, and his alone. He was hard in the loose linen pants, eager to claim full ownership of you in such an intimate way. You willingly surrendered to him, practically desperate for him to take you, to consummate your submission to the god.

Your hands smoothed up the solid muscles of Loki’s thighs — limbs you wish to be bent over — before clutching the linen waistband and dragging down his trousers. The sight of him hung heavy made your mouth water and your cunt throb, desire swirling in your belly.

“Go ahead. Touch me as you please, I’m as much yours as you are mine,” Loki murmured, realizing you were waiting for permission, to do as you were told.

Long fingers wove into your hair, cradling the side of your head, pulling only slightly as you licked the tip of his cock, sending a shock up his spine.

He leaned back against the wall, smirking as your left palm flattened over his toned abs to brace yourself, pleased that you were trusting his words.

“Gods,” Loki swore when you took him in your mouth, letting him push you down until he was filling your throat.

Pretty tears welled at your lashes at his size, your throbbing need beginning to smear between your thighs. Your free hand worked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, your tongue dragging up his shaft. He was both long and thick, his skin like velvet on your tongue. It was a feat to take even half of him in your mouth, and you moaned and the thought of him fucking you, and how you’d beg to take it all.

“If worshipping my cock makes you wet enough to drip on my floor, I’ll let you do it every morning,” Loki purred with a grin, clearly taking notice of the effect he had on your body.

“Please,” you whimpered respectfully, dragging your fist up his length, giving your mouth a break.

“I’m close, darling, you’re doing beautifully,” he praised, watching your thighs squeeze together at his words.

“I want to come in that gorgeous mouth, feel myself in your throat.”

You tilted your head back just a bit, both to gaze up into his eyes and to let him in deeper. A low whine vibrated around his cock as his hand wrapped around your throat, gently squeezing.

“Fuck,” Loki hissed, spilling over into your mouth, filling your senses with his salty taste.

“Swallow it,” Loki commanded, and you were all too willing to obey, wanting to please him.

His thumb swiped over your lips, cleaning up the bit of mess he made, kneeling in front of you as you both caught your breath.

“Was that okay?” the question slipped out before you could stop yourself, puzzling Loki.

“Of course, it was perfect. Haven’t you done it before?”

“No, I’ve been kept pure for you,” you answered, earning a profane string of Norse as his dick twitched.

“You’ve made me insatiable,” Loki pressed a quick, messy kiss to your mouth that was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“No!” Loki shouted, standing up, displayed in his full glory to the guard who opened the door.

The furious god stood in front of you, blocking any eyes from catching even a glimpse of your body.

“Get out, now, or I shall have your eyes torn out!” Loki thundered, fiercely possessive over you.

“I’m so sorry, your highness. Odin has called on you—”

A sharp burst of Loki’s magic sent the man flying backward with a yell, the door slamming shut behind him.

“I’m sorry-” you began, as if you needed to apologize for being nude.

“I will never let anyone else touch you, see your body, or covet what is mine.”

A warmth spread through you at the words, taking his hand to stand up. He took a cloth, carefully cleaning you up, before guiding you into a closet that was full of the finest Asgardian fabrics.

“We’ll continue this later, darling, but for now, you’ll accompany me on whatever nonsense I’m being summoned for,” Loki explained, moving to dress himself as he left you to choose what maids had left for your arrival.

You chose green, pleasing the god as you adorned his colors, another sign of your growing devotion. Loki kissed your wrist, before a band of gold appeared in a shimmer, bringing a smile to your face.

He wordlessly led you out of his chambers, a hand at the small of your back. Being with him was intense — but the castle and all of its people was overwhelming. You found yourself leaning into Loki’s side, away from the noise of shouting and chaos of the everyday happenings.

He looked up from the throne to see what was bothering you before pulling you to sit between his legs where you could sink back into him and ignore the noise.

“We’ll leave as soon as I’m finished. Until then, you can entertain yourself by picturing what I’m going to do to your precious little pussy,” Loki whispered against the side of your face, gently nipping your ear.

You shuddered against his chest, feeling him chuckle beneath you as his arm tightened on your waist. Warmth flushed your cheeks and you turned your face into his arm, shy at the filthy words from Loki. He could feel your heart racing inside your ribs, anxious to tear the emerald gown from your body.

You were lost in your thoughts when Loki banished everyone from the expansive throne room, giant doors embedded with gemstones slamming shut, sealing you alone with him.

“Now, where were we?” Loki asked, mouthing hot kisses along your neck and shoulder.

“I believe you were about to fuck me, Loki,” you chirped.

“I love hearing those dirty words on your lips, all for me.”

“Only you,” you promised, closing the gap as he hovered above you.

The kiss was heady, his tongue warm and dominating as he pushed it past your lips. The sensation nearly distracted you from his hands, that were tearing the fabric around your torso, letting it flutter to the floor in shimmering pieces.

“I’m going to fuck you here, on this throne, like a proper king.”

You parted your legs, letting his hand drop between them. Loki smirked into your neck as he cupped your sex, feeling how wet you were, desperate for him as heat radiated from your center.

He didn’t bother to turn you over, perfectly happy to fuck you while you were on top of him, lying on his chest as he sat upon his throne. He glided his cock along your wet lips, only a moment until you were squirming with desperation.

He wanted to hear you beg, but even he couldn’t wait any longer, slowly sinking into you, every inch stretching you impossibly further. The sweet sting made you cry out, your head dropping back on his shoulder when he nestled himself fully inside you.

“You’re perfect for me,” Loki praised through gritted teeth, fighting not to slam into you like an animal. He could feel your walls throbbing around him, muscles burning as they were forced to take the stretch to fit him inside — and you loved it.

You doubted anything would ever feel so good, until his hips started to roll forward, the god fucking you deep and slow, holding your body against his chest. He buried his face in your shoulder, soaking up your squeals of pleasure as he lost himself in you.

Before he even thought to play with you, your cunt began to clench around him with an impending orgasm. Your startled whimper shot straight to Loki’s dick, and he fucked you harder, unable to help himself.

“Come around me, darling, let me know how good you feel,” Loki urged, nearly spilling into you as you trembled in his arms, coming with a scream that echoed off the walls.

“There you go,” he murmured, twitching before he filled you with his seed, painting your insides with him.

Your breaths were ragged and uneven, mind completely foggy in the aftermath. He breathed in your scent as he stayed inside you, preserving the moment for as long as possible.

“I’m yours, forever,” you whispered, as if reading his mind.

[novaursa]

Legacy (what was promised)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: long live the king

- Next part: the judgment

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The heavy door creaked open, and Tywin stepped back into the chamber, his face as composed as ever, though his sharp gaze immediately swept over the room. The air was warm and thick with the scent of herbs, sweat, and the faint coppery tang of blood. The midwives bustled quietly around the bed, their hands deft as they tended to both you and the newborn.

Pycelle, still stationed awkwardly near the wall, stepped forward slightly and inclined his head toward Tywin. “My lord,” he rasped, his voice trembling with a mix of nerves and lingering irritation. “It is a son.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, though his piercing green eyes flickered briefly with something unspoken. He moved toward the bed with measured steps, his presence commanding as he approached the midwife who held the swaddled infant. She looked up, her hands steady but her demeanor reverent, as though handing over the child to a king.

“My lord,” she said softly, placing the child into Tywin’s waiting arms.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Tywin looked down at the tiny bundle. The child’s face was delicate but unmistakably strong, even in its infancy. Wisps of fine hair crowned his head, a striking mix of silver and gold that shimmered in the dim candlelight. His eyes, though barely open, revealed a vibrant violet hue flecked with pale green—an eerie but captivating blend of Targaryen and Lannister traits.

Tywin studied him in silence, his expression unreadable as he cradled the infant in his large hands. The weight of the moment was not lost on anyone in the room. Here, in his arms, was the future of House Lannister—a child born of two powerful bloodlines, a child who could command loyalty and fear in equal measure.

He turned toward the bed, where you lay propped up against the pillows, your face pale and glistening with sweat but your eyes bright with determination. The midwives had cleaned you up and tucked you under the covers, their whispered reassurances fading into the background as Tywin approached.

“You did well,” he said quietly, his tone softer than usual as he stopped beside the bed. His eyes met yours briefly before he held the infant slightly forward. “A son.”

Your breath hitched as you looked at the baby, your heart swelling with a mixture of relief, love, and exhaustion. You reached out, your hands trembling slightly, and Tywin lowered the child into your arms. The weight of him felt almost surreal, his tiny form warm and vibrant against you.

“He’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you brushed your fingers gently over the soft tufts of his hair. The baby stirred, his small hands curling into fists as he let out a faint whimper.

Tywin stood over you, his gaze fixed on the child with an intensity that betrayed his usual stoicism. “He is strong,” he said, his voice low but firm. “He will carry the legacy of both our houses.”

You glanced up at him, your exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “Have you decided on a name?”

Tywin didn’t hesitate. “Damon,” he said, his tone resolute. “It is a name that commands respect. A name worthy of his heritage.”

You looked down at the child again, the name settling over him like a mantle. “Damon,” you repeated softly, the syllables rolling off your tongue. It felt right—strong, regal, and steeped in history.

The baby stirred again, his tiny face scrunching up as he let out a soft cry. You rocked him gently, murmuring soothing words as you held him close. Tywin watched silently, his expression unreadable but his presence grounding.

“He has your strength,” you said finally, your eyes meeting Tywin’s. “And your determination.”

“And your fire,” Tywin replied, his gaze unwavering. “He will be more than either of us. He will be great.”

The room fell quiet again, the weight of Tywin’s words settling over everyone present. The midwives exchanged glances, their movements hushed as they continued their work. Pycelle, still lurking in the background, cleared his throat as if to speak, but Tywin silenced him with a single glance.

For a moment, it was just the three of you—the powerful lord, the resilient mother, and the newborn heir. Damon, a child born of fire and gold, was the bridge between two dynasties, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

The dungeon was cold and damp, the only light coming from the flickering torches along the stone walls. Tyrion sat on the uncomfortable bench, his hands resting in his lap as he stared at the floor. The clinking of keys echoed through the corridor, followed by the measured footsteps of Varys, whose shadow preceded him.

“Ah, my favorite spider,” Tyrion drawled, looking up as the eunuch stepped into view. His voice was sardonic, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity. “Come to spin me another web of half-truths and cryptic warnings?”

Varys gave a small, almost apologetic smile as he stepped closer, his hands folded neatly in front of him. “I come bearing news, my lord. Whether it’s welcome or not, I leave to you to decide.”

“News?” Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Cersei wants me dead. Or is it that I’m to be executed before the trial even begins? Do tell, Varys, don’t leave me in suspense.”

The eunuch tilted his head slightly, his expression calm. “You are correct in part. The queen regent is… insistent on seeing you punished for her son’s death. However, there will be a trial. Your father, as Hand of the King, has ensured that much.”

Tyrion let out a bitter laugh, leaning back against the cold wall. “Oh, a trial. How magnanimous of him. I’m sure it will be entirely fair and just. And by fair and just, I mean a complete farce orchestrated to appease Cersei’s bloodlust.”

“Your sharp tongue does you no favors, Lord Tyrion,” Varys said softly, his tone carrying a hint of reproach. “You’ve antagonized your sister and the late king more times than I can count. Did you truly believe it would not come to this?”

Tyrion shrugged, his smile grim. “Cersei would want me dead no matter what I said or did. It’s not as though I could have charmed her into civility.”

“Perhaps not,” Varys admitted, his gaze steady. “But threats, no matter how veiled, are never wise when dealing with someone as volatile as your sister—or the late King Joffrey.”

Tyrion snorted. “Volatile is a generous word for them, Varys. But do go on. You didn’t come here to lecture me on my lack of tact.”

“You’re correct again,” Varys replied, his voice lowering slightly. “There is another matter.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Oh? Do enlighten me.”

Varys stepped closer, his tone quiet but deliberate. “Lady Sansa is nowhere to be found. She vanished shortly after the chaos began during the wedding feast.”

Tyrion’s expression darkened, though his voice remained light. “Gone, you say? Good for her. I hope she’s far away from this nest of vipers. Though I suppose that will only give Cersei more ammunition against me.”

“Indeed,” Varys agreed. “The queen regent is convinced that Lady Sansa’s disappearance is proof of your guilt. It’s yet another thread in the tapestry she’s weaving to see you condemned.”

Tyrion sighed, running a hand through his hair. “A tapestry I’ll no doubt be strangled with in the end. Lovely.”

“There’s more,” Varys said, his voice even softer now, as though reluctant to continue.

“More?” Tyrion looked at him with mock surprise. “What could possibly be worse than being falsely accused of regicide and knowing my sister will gleefully see me executed?”

“The Hand’s wife,” Varys said, his words deliberate, “went into labor during the wedding feast. While the chaos of the king’s death unfolded, Lady Y/N delivered a son. The child was born one day ago.”

Tyrion blinked, the news momentarily silencing him. “A son,” he said slowly, as though tasting the words. “Tywin’s long-awaited male heir. Of course. The gods do have a sense of humor.”

“Yes,” Varys confirmed. “By all accounts, both mother and child are healthy. Lord Tywin now has what he’s desired for so long—a legacy to carry on the Lannister name.”

Tyrion let out a sharp laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “Oh, how poetic. While one king dies, another is born. Tywin must be beside himself with satisfaction.”

Varys gave no response, his expression carefully neutral.

Tyrion leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor. “A son with silver-gold hair and violet eyes, I presume. A perfect blend of fire and gold. No wonder my father wanted her so desperately.”

Varys inclined his head. “The child is indeed a striking mix of both houses. He will no doubt be a significant player in the years to come.”

“Significant?” Tyrion repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, he’ll be more than that, Varys. He’ll be Tywin’s pride and joy, the embodiment of everything he’s ever wanted. Meanwhile, I’ll be rotting in the dungeons, condemned for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“Not necessarily,” Varys said, his tone pointed. “There is still time to turn the tide.”

Tyrion looked up at him, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, do tell me, dear Varys, what grand scheme do you have in mind this time?”

Varys didn’t answer directly, his enigmatic smile returning as he stepped back toward the door. “I merely suggest you keep your wits about you, my lord. The game is far from over.”

As the door closed behind him, Tyrion leaned back against the wall, his mind racing. A son for Tywin. A son born in the midst of chaos. He couldn’t help but wonder what ripple effects this child would have on their already fragile world.

The sun was setting over King’s Landing as Jaime stepped into Cersei’s chambers. She was pacing near the window, her golden hair catching the fading light. A goblet of wine sat untouched on the table beside her, a rare sign of her restraint. When she turned to face him, her emerald eyes were ablaze with frustration.

“You came,” she said sharply, her voice laced with irritation. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten where my chambers are.”

Jaime sighed, his golden hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “I’ve been busy, Cersei. The city is still in chaos after Joffrey’s death, and father has me overseeing the preparations for Tommen’s coronation.”

“Oh, father,” Cersei sneered, her expression twisting with disdain. “That’s all anyone cares about, isn’t it? Tywin’s plans. Tywin’s legacy. Do you even realize what he’s doing?”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

Cersei stepped closer, her voice lowering as her anger grew sharper. “He’s preparing to name that child—the dragonspawn—his heir. Can’t you see it? Everything he’s done, everything he’s built, will go to that boy.”

Jaime’s expression didn’t change, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes. “And what do you expect me to do about it?”

Her tone turned desperate. “You’re the firstborn son, Jaime! You should take your rightful place as the heir to Casterly Rock. Leave the Kingsguard. Father will listen to you if you claim what’s yours.”

Jaime exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “He’s already offered, Cersei. I refused.”

Cersei froze, her mouth slightly agape. “You… what?”

“I refused,” Jaime repeated calmly, though there was a faint edge of irritation in his voice. “It’s not my place. I swore an oath, Cersei.”

Her shock quickly turned to fury, and she stepped closer, her hands clenched into fists. “You swore an oath? To a king you killed? To a boy who laughed at you? And now to a child barely old enough to hold a crown?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “Tommen is innocent, Cersei. He needs protection, and you know that.”

“What about us?” she snapped. “What about our family? That boy—” She spat the word with venom. “—is not one of us. He’s a Targaryen. He’ll taint everything we’ve built.”

Jaime’s expression darkened, and he stepped forward, his tone hard. “That ‘boy’ is our brother. Whether you like it or not, he’s father’s son. Have you even seen him?”

Cersei’s eyes flared with fury, and she shook her head sharply. “No, I haven’t. And I don’t need to. He’s not my brother, Jaime. He’s a usurper. A reminder of everything I hate about our father.”

Jaime let out a humorless laugh, his golden hand tapping against the table. “Your hatred for father blinds you, as always. This isn’t about the child, Cersei. This is about you wanting to control everything. You can’t stand that father’s attention is on someone else.”

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Don’t you dare lecture me, Jaime. You have no idea what it’s like to be pushed aside, to watch everything you’ve sacrificed for handed to someone else.”

“Sacrificed?” Jaime shot back, his voice rising. “You’ve sacrificed nothing. You’re the queen regent, Cersei. You’ve had everything handed to you, and still, it’s never enough.”

Her face twisted with rage, and she pointed a finger at him, her voice trembling. “You think you’re better than me? Because you play the noble knight, clinging to your pathetic oaths? You’ve thrown away your legacy for what? For pride?”

Jaime’s expression hardened, and he turned toward the door, his voice cold. “At least I’m not consumed by bitterness. The boy is our brother, whether you accept it or not.”

Cersei’s voice followed him as he left. “He’s no brother of mine! And if you had any sense, you’d see that.”

Jaime paused at the threshold, his back to her. “Maybe it’s time you stopped seeing enemies everywhere, Cersei. Not everyone is out to destroy you.”

He walked out, leaving Cersei alone in the fading light. She stood frozen, her chest heaving as her anger boiled over. With a scream of frustration, she hurled the goblet of wine across the room, watching as it shattered against the wall, red staining the stone like blood.

The air was quiet save for the faint coos of your newborn son nestled in your arms. Damon’s tiny hands curled around your fingers, his silver-gold hair shimmering in the light, and his violet eyes, flecked with green, blinked sleepily at you. His warmth grounded you, a comforting presence that momentarily eased the burdens pressing on your mind.

The door opened softly, and Olenna Tyrell stepped inside, her cane clicking against the stone floor. She surveyed the scene with a knowing smile, her sharp eyes taking in the peaceful tableau of mother and child.

“Well, don’t you look the picture of serenity,” Olenna said, her voice tinged with amusement. “And the boy—” she stepped closer, peering down at Damon with an approving nod, “—a fine heir if ever I’ve seen one.”

You smiled faintly, brushing a hand over Damon’s hair. “He’s everything I could have hoped for.”

Olenna settled into the chair by your side, her sharp gaze flicking to you. “I saw Lord Tywin a few hours ago,” she began, her tone casual but edged with mischief. “He was in the hall, looking as stern as ever, but I swear, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, the man was smiling.”

You raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing your face. “Tywin Lannister smiling? That must have been a sight.”

“Oh, indeed,” Olenna chuckled. “Though I can’t blame him. He’s waited for this—” she gestured to Damon, “—for over a decade. Or so I’ve been told.”

You glanced down at your son, your smile softening. “He’s certainly made it clear how much this means to him.”

As the midwives and servants finished tidying up the room and quietly excused themselves, Olenna’s expression shifted. Once the door closed, she leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a more personal tone.

“You know,” she said, her gaze fixed on you, “I wanted to thank you.”

You looked at her, startled. “For what?”

“For helping dispose of Joffrey,” Olenna said bluntly, her tone as sharp as ever but carrying a faint note of gratitude. “That boy was a menace, and the realm is better off without him.”

You stiffened slightly, your fingers tightening on Damon’s blanket. “I didn’t—”

“Please,” Olenna interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t insult my intelligence, dear. You may not have poured the poison into his cup yourself, but you were part of the plan. Your presence gave it legitimacy, distracted the right people, and ensured everything went smoothly.”

You met her gaze, your expression guarded. “I did what was necessary. For Sansa, for Margaery, for the realm.”

Olenna nodded, a glimmer of approval in her eyes. “Exactly. And I, for one, am grateful. But speaking of Sansa…” She trailed off, watching your reaction carefully.

Your stomach tightened at the mention of the girl. “Is she safe?”

Olenna’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Baelish is taking care of her.”

Your brow furrowed, concern flashing in your eyes. “That doesn’t reassure me, Lady Olenna.”

“Nor should it,” Olenna admitted, her tone turning serious. “Littlefinger is an opportunist, always looking for the next move. But for now, he values her. She’s safe under his care, at least until she’s no longer useful.”

You let out a slow breath, your gaze dropping to Damon’s sleeping face. “Sansa has been through so much already. I hate the thought of her being under his influence.”

Olenna leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “The girl has strength, more than she realizes. She’ll survive this. And if she’s clever, she’ll learn to use Littlefinger as he uses her.”

You shook your head, your voice soft but resolute. “I just want her to find peace. She’s been a pawn for too long.”

Olenna reached out, patting your hand gently. “We all play the game, dear. Some of us are just better at it than others. And speaking of the game—” She glanced down at Damon with a faint smile. “—your little lion-dragon here will have his own part to play soon enough.”

You followed her gaze, your heart swelling with a mixture of love and trepidation as you looked at your son. Whatever the future held, you were determined to protect him—and those you cared about—from the dangers of the game you were all forced to play.

The dungeons of the Red Keep were damp and cold, the stench of mold and decay clinging to the air. Your footsteps echoed softly as you descended the stone steps, Ser Barristan trailing a few paces behind. The torches lining the walls flickered weakly, casting specters that seemed to stretch endlessly into the darkness. Despite the discomfort of your recent childbirth, you pressed forward, determined to see Tyrion before the trial drew any closer.

As you approached his cell, Tyrion looked up from the bench where he sat, his features shadowed in the dim light. For a moment, he appeared genuinely surprised, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he doubted the reality of your presence.

“Well, if it isn’t my esteemed stepmother,” he drawled, standing and brushing imaginary dust from his tunic. “Shouldn’t you be resting in the comfort of the Tower of the Hand, basking in the glow of new motherhood? What brings you to my humble accommodations?”

You stopped just outside the cell, your hands clasped before you, your posture composed despite the lingering soreness in your body. “I couldn’t rest knowing you were here, Tyrion.”

He tilted his head, studying you closely. “Careful, my lady. Such kindness might make one think you actually care.”

You ignored his jibe, your tone steady but edged with seriousness. “I came to tell you that I’ll speak to Tywin. Whatever sentence he has in mind, I’ll try to temper it.”

Tyrion let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You’re wasting your breath, my dear. This entire charade is a trap, and we both know it. Father’s decision was made the moment Cersei pointed her finger at me.”

“I know,” you admitted softly, your voice tinged with regret. “And I’m sorry.”

Tyrion’s sharp eyes locked onto yours, his expression shifting as realization dawned. “You know,” he said slowly, his voice dropping. “You know who did it.”

You met his gaze but said nothing, your silence speaking volumes.

He barked a humorless laugh, his hands spreading wide in mock incredulity. “Of course you do. The silent conspirator. And here I thought Varys was the best at keeping secrets.”

“This isn’t a game, Tyrion,” you replied, your voice firm but laced with sorrow. “Joffrey’s death was necessary, but this… what’s happening to you… it’s not right.”

“Ah,” Tyrion said, leaning back against the wall, his tone sardonic. “Spare me the pity, my lady. I’ve lived my life knowing I was a convenient scapegoat for every misfortune that befell this family. Why should my trial be any different?”

You stepped closer to the bars, lowering your voice. “I’ll do what I can. Tywin listens to me.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Does he? Or does he simply indulge you because you’re the mother of his heir?”

You straightened, your composure unwavering. “That child is your brother, Tyrion. And he deserves a chance to grow up in a world where his family isn’t constantly tearing itself apart.”

Tyrion sighed, his expression softening slightly. “Speaking of the boy… how is he?”

A faint smile touched your lips as you thought of Damon. “He’s healthy. Strong. He has his father’s resolve and his mother’s fire.”

Tyrion nodded thoughtfully, his gaze turning distant. “Good. He’ll need both if he’s to survive in this family.”

His tone shifted, becoming more serious as he stepped closer to the bars, his mismatched eyes meeting yours. “Listen to me carefully,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Once I’m gone—and I will be gone—Cersei will turn her attention to you and the boy. She hates you, and she’ll see Damon as a threat to her precious Tommen’s reign.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling heavily on your shoulders. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Stay close to father,” Tyrion said without hesitation. “For all his faults—and there are many—he won’t allow Cersei to harm you or Damon. He’s staked too much on you both.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing his advice. “Thank you, Tyrion.”

He smirked faintly, his tone softening. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m not sure my wisdom is worth much from a cell.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with unspoken fears and regrets. Finally, you stepped back, your gaze lingering on him. “I’ll do everything I can to help you, Tyrion. I promise.”

Tyrion gave a faint shrug, his smile bitter. “I suppose we’ll see how far promises go in this family.”

With that, you turned and began walking away, your steps echoing softly in the dim corridor. As you ascended the stairs, your heart felt heavy, the weight of the coming trial pressing down on you. But Tyrion’s warning echoed in your mind, a reminder that in this dangerous game, survival meant more than strength—it required cunning, alliances, and a steadfast resolve to protect what mattered most.

[metalmewtwo-kxb]

Pokédex Update:

Auroreon - the Iridescent Feather pokemon. A flying type. When it fans its wings and tail, it can manifest beautiful yet powerful beams of light in concentrated attacks and healing moves. If it ever opens its eyes, it will unleash its wrath on the unjust.

Notes:

- Auroreon's feathers always seem to glimmer in the light, causing even its body to give off a faint prismatic glow. They are also sturdy, soft as cinccino velvet, and capable of keeping sheltered pokemon warm. If the weather and conditions are right, Auroreon will spread its feathers over the grass and sunbathe (or moonbathe at night). This makes the moisture in the air above it become a captivating blanket of shifting colors. The shiny variation of this pokemon is said to also manifest colors of light that very few humans are able to see.

- The 'eye spots' on Auroreon's feathers serve as a natural statement of beauty as well as a means of confusing opponents. And the halo above its head is a result of the fur's natural light refraction.

From Recovered Texts and Documents:

- Long ago, a king encouraged the use of these feathers for decorative purposes during his reign. This greatly decimated the population of both eevee and Auroreon in their region. Those with dark feathers were considered "impure" and hunted for sport. A few were kept as pets and servants, which was illegal save for those with the king's written permission.

- Some groups of the past believed Auroreon to be among the pokemon known as "the Heralds of Arceus", messengers and light-bearers who served the Creator of Worlds. There were a variety of pokemon believed to hold this title, each described as "familiar yet unique" to each respective species. They were more powerful than their counterparts, and some rarely spotted if not considered an illusion. They were also quite gentle and well-mannered, and their roles involved giving life and healing to the world. However, these pokemon were considered dangerous in times of conflict.

- It is said "the false king" of their home region was single-handedly responsible for the disappearance of the Heralds, the beginning of conflict between humans and Arceus, and the terrible aftermath of the last great war. Rumors spread that Arceus removed the Heralds from the world of humans to save those pokemon from the cruelty that would follow in coming years.

Notes Continued:

- Further research is being conducted, as a single pair of Auroreon were recently spotted in an isolated area with an unusual eevee. One white, and one dark. The gender of each is unknown, though ancient texts suggest that females have shorter capes than males.

- There is no documentation of what their open eyes look like. Texts only say that no one who saw them directly lived to tell the tale, including the false king.

----------------------------

Decided to take my own stab at creating a flying type eeveelution, and potentially add a second typing later on.

I'm really happy with how it turned out, and glad I had another chance to delve into more of the comic's background lore.

[decagondice]

༓ EXPERIENCE SHAPES PERCEPTION ༓

༓ 'If lies can save a man once, truth can save him twice.' [The Arabian Nights: Tales of 1001 Nights]

༓ Pairing. Trueform!Sukuna x Bride!Reader

༓ Synopsis. Every night, a fresh girl is forcefully taken away from her loved ones per the King's orders, betrothed for a few hours as his wife, and at dawn, an extravagant silk bind is tied around her throat. Unable to tolerate the unjust wrath of the sovereign and promise to do any means necessary to survive in order to put an end to the King's torment, you offer yourself to the King of Curses as his unfortunate bride.

༓ Content. 1001 Nights inspired, sfw, F!Reader, Slightly reluctant reader, KingofCurses/Trueform!Sukuna, Slightly ooc Sukuna, angst (?), fluff (?), Sacrificial reader who eventually finds the good in Sukuna, Slightly depressed Sukuna, Emotional distress, Lonliness, Resentment, Mentions of death, Talks of violence (brief), Hurt, Conflict of feelings, Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 8.8k

༓ A.N. I randomly had a vision of a 1001 nights au of Sukuna and reader last night and its been my mission since to bring that to life since then :P But, I was torn between making this fic 18+, however I think I just wanted to portray Sukuna's lack of love and life filled with rejection in a different format first. (When reading the fic, you will soon realise how much the last few chapters of the manga had an effect on me...) Hmm~ I might consider making and exploring a short snippet of a smut scene in this au, though not yet. This is my first ever piece of writing that I mustered up the confidence to present the world with, thank you for tuning in and please enjoy! :D

[Drawn to resemble the classic Arabian tales, 1001 Nights, narrating the story of Scheherazade's sacrifice to the resentful Caliph, captivating him with a story every night to preserve her life and end the wrathful reign once and for all. Artwork by Léon Carré, part of his collection of illustrations for 'The Book of One Thousand and One Nights', 1929]

The King’s palace was a labyrinth of shadows and whispered fears, a fortress carved from malice and crowned with disquietude. In the heart of it, past echoing halls filled with ancient curses and dread, lay his private bedchambers- a sanctuary draped in silks and shadows. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh as the flickering glow of oil lamps casting a dim, golden light that danced lazily on the walls. Heavy curtains draped from the high ceiling, their rich fabric falling like cascading shadows around the room, veiling the room in an otherworldly haze, as though even the air itself hesitated to settle too close to the King of Curses. Sheer veils billowed softly in the breeze that slipped through the open windows, creating a veil of secrecy, a cocoon of intimacy where the outside world seemed to disappear.

You stood before Sukuna, your hands trembling despite your efforts to still them, your gaze fixed on the dark patterns of the floor rather than meeting those eyes that burned with cruel amusement. You had come here not out of ambition or desire but out of duty—an act of desperation to save the other innocent girls from this fate, to shield them from being torn away from their families and cast into a life of terror at the hands of a monster.

You had heard the tales of Sukuna long before you ever set foot in his palace. His name was a curse whispered in the darkest corners of the village, a warning to children who strayed too far into the shadows. He was the King of Curses, a monster draped in human skin, infamous for his cruelty and insatiable thirst for power. But beneath the layers of horror and bloodshed, there were also whispers of another kind—a story buried in the dust of forgotten tongues, one that spoke of a man who had once been cast out, unloved, and rejected by the world that shaped him into the monster he is today. You knew of the loneliness that had festered within him, the pain of being feared and loathed for reasons beyond his control. And though a part of you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy for that tragedy, you couldn’t afford to indulge it. How could you feel pity for the very beast who was tearing innocent girls from their homes, who was crushing lives beneath his wrath without a trace of remorse? The same hands that once reached out in vain for love were now stained with the blood of those who had never done him harm. He was a monster by his own making, and even the darkest past could not excuse the cruelty that now defined him.

Sukuna sat reclined on the edge of a low, opulent bed, his form barely illuminated by the oil lamps that sputtered and hissed in their brass holders. He doesn't rise to acknowledge you; instead, he tilts his head slightly, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as though your presence is nothing more than an amusing diversion in his endless reign of bloodshed. The silken sheets beneath him were the colour of deep wine, their surface catching the light in a way that seemed to make the room pulse with a dark, muted glow. His eyes, twin embers of malice and something unreadable, tracked your every movement as you entered the chamber, the heavy drapes closing behind you with a shiver of finality.

“Tell me,” Sukuna drawled, his voice as sharp and unyielding as the blade he might have pressed to your throat, “What makes you think you’re any different from the others who came before you? What hope do you have of surviving me?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze despite the terror that gripped your chest. Those crimson eyes stared back at you, full of cruel delight, as if he found your defiance entertaining in its futility. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, reminding yourself of the faces of the girls you were trying to save, the way their fear had mirrored your own.

“I have volunteered to become your bride,” you said, forcing your voice to steady as you met his eyes. “Not because I believe I am stronger or braver than the others—but because I couldn’t stand to see another innocent torn from their family. I thought that if I could offer myself, it might be enough to end this cycle of suffering.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of amusement and disdain. “You think of yourself as a saviour of some sort?” he asked, the mockery in his voice cutting deep. “Do you believe your pathetic sacrifice will sate my thirst for destruction? The world is built on suffering, and I am its rightful king. Do you think yourself capable of changing the fate that awaits you? That your life is worth so much that I would spare the rest for the sake of your trembling courage?”

He leaned forward from where he sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed yet predatory, the movement causing the heavy silk drapes to sway, turning the chamber into a shifting sea of light and darkness.

“You are nothing but another lamb brought to the slaughter by trembling hands.” He leans forward, chin propped on one hand, his fingers tapping the side of his jaw as he eyes you like a predator watching a mouse dance on its hind legs. “Do you truly not know that you stand in the den of a beast who devours without mercy?”

His words cut deep, but you refused to let them break you. You had to survive this, for their sake, and for your own. As his gaze bore into you, suffocating in its intensity, you did the only thing you could think of—something born of sheer desperation.

“I stand before you, knowing well the beast I face. And yet, I do not come to plead for mercy.” Your voice is steady but soft, like a whispered plea against the storm. “I come to offer you something else— a story each night. I will give you a story unlike any you have ever heard, if you’ll listen. In exchange, you spare me for as long as I can hold your interest."

The words spill from your lips in a rush as you try to barter with him suddenly.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his lips twitching into a smirk that spoke of both curiosity and disdain. “A story?” he repeated, as if the idea were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You offer me tales to stave off your death? How utterly quaint. You think words will stay my hand when I tire of you?”

“If they do not, then I will be no worse off than I am now,” you said, meeting his gaze with a defiant glint in your eyes. “But if they do… perhaps I can buy a little more time. Perhaps, in my words, you will find a reason to let me live another day.”

He pauses before speaking again.

“You are a fool to think you could charm a monster with your petty tales, Human.”

His voice drips with scepticism, but you notice the faintest twitch of intrigue in his gaze. It’s a small opening, an aperture in his indomitable armour.

“I don’t believe I can charm a monster,” Your voice unwavering, the words carefully pour out from your mouth. “But, I believe that even a monster seeks a distraction from the loneliness of his throne.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes narrow, something cold and bitter flickering in their depths—a buried wound reopened, a memory of rejection. He hides it quickly, but not before you catch the flicker of vulnerability that you know is your only chance.

His eyes stared at your form, and you could feel his gaze like a physical force, pressing down on you, testing your resolve. Then, slowly, he leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face, though it never touched the cold, glittering malice in his eyes.

You took a breath, your heartbeat thundering in your chest, and said, “I don’t know if I can change anything. But if it means buying a little more time—if it means sparing just one more life—I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He laughed, a sound low and dark that echoed through the chamber like a promise of doom. But there was something in his eyes—something almost curious, as though he were intrigued by your defiance, by the way you held your ground when so many before you had already fallen. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Then let us see how long your courage lasts,” he said. “Tell me a story, if you dare. Spin your tales and try to keep my interest, little lamb, and know that the moment I tire of you, your life will be forfeit.”

And so, night after night, you returned to that chamber, your voice threading through the darkness like a lifeline, weaving tales of sorrow and hope, of longing and loss. At first, Sukuna listened as if you were merely a distraction, something to toy with until his boredom gave way to cruelty. But as the nights stretched on, something between you began to shift, something so subtle and unspoken that it almost seemed like a trick of the light.

You noticed the way his eyes softened ever so slightly when he watched you, how they no longer held the same cold indifference. There were moments, fleeting but undeniable, when his gaze would linger on your face, following the movements of your lips as you spoke, as if he were more captivated by you than by the story itself. And when he thought you weren’t looking, his expression would change, growing almost thoughtful, almost gentle, as though your words were stirring something in him that he had long since buried.

One night, as you spoke of a warrior who fought not for glory but for the love he could never fully grasp, you saw Sukuna’s jaw tighten, the barest flicker of something raw passing across his face. It was a crack in his mask, a moment of vulnerability that seemed to take even him by surprise. He shifted, turning slightly away as if to hide the turmoil in his eyes, but you could still see the shadow of pain that lingered there, the ghost of something he would never voice.

“The warrior,” you continued, your own voice softening as you ventured into the story’s heart, “he fought because he knew that love, even unreturned, was the only thing that could ever make him feel human. It was the only thing that could make the darkness inside him seem like something less than a curse.”

Sukuna’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his knee, his gaze dropping to the floor as though your words had struck deeper than he wished to admit. He let out a slow breath, the sound almost like a growl, as if he were fighting a battle within himself, as if your story had hit too close to the truth of his own guarded soul.

“I told you to amuse me,” he said, his voice rougher now, laced with something almost vulnerable beneath the bravado. “Not to speak to me of things you don’t understand. Love is nothing but a weapon, a lie dressed in silk. Do you think you can wound me with your pretty tales?”

You hesitated, your heart aching at the hardness in his voice, the bitterness that seemed to bleed through his words. “I don’t wish to wound you,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised even you. “I only wish to show you that not everything has to end in darkness. That there is more to this life than the hate and loneliness you’ve known.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked on yours, and in that silence, something unspoken passed between you—a fragile thread of understanding, a bond that was as much resistance as it was connection. His hand reached out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing against yours with a touch that was hesitant, almost reluctant. It was as if he didn’t quite know how to bridge the gap between cruelty and tenderness, how to reconcile the monster he had become with the man who still longed to believe in something beyond his own darkness.

When he pulled his hand back, his eyes lingered on yours, softer now, searching your face as if he were seeing you for the first time. And in that look, you saw the flicker of a man who was more than just a monster, a man who was trying, against all his instincts, to understand the strange, delicate thing growing between you.

And though neither of you spoke of it, though the words remained locked behind walls of pride and fear, you knew that something had shifted irrevocably in those moments. The King of Curses, who had once seemed untouchable, unmovable, was beginning to unravel beneath your touch. His gaze, so often filled with fire and malice, now held something softer when it turned your way—something almost like admiration, like a reluctant longing that he could neither deny nor accept.

Blossoming feelings, subtle and unspoken, budding like a flower in the cracks of a stone wall. Fragile, tentative, both of you too proud, too fearful to admit its existence. But it was there, in the way his eyes softened when they met yours, in the way his defences fell just a little more with each night that you shared. A flicker of light in the darkness, a promise that even monsters could yearn for more than the abyss.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The nights continued in that hidden, veiled sanctuary, where the scent of incense lingered and the golden glow of the oil lamps painted soft halos around your figures. You could feel the shifting of something unnamed, a tenuous thread that connected you to Sukuna, something deeper than the stories you spun to save your life. There was a pull, a force between you that neither could fully grasp or resist—a slow, inexorable gravity drawing you closer, even as you both tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Your tales had become a nightly ritual, the words flowing from your lips like a spell, weaving through the stillness of the room. And Sukuna—this terrible creature of wrath and solitude—listened to them, not as a predator listening to the last words of his prey, but as a man who seemed to find solace in your voice. His gaze, once filled with nothing but cruel amusement and hunger, now seemed to soften in the dim light, tracing the lines of your face as if memorising the shape of every emotion that flickered across it.

There were times when he would reach out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve or lingering near your own hand. The touch was light, so brief that it could have been mistaken for nothing more than the movement of air, but you felt it all the same—each contact sparking something within you, a rush of warmth that you couldn’t quite name or deny. He’d pull back just as quickly, as if startled by his own actions, a frown creasing his brow like he was punishing himself for that momentary slip of vulnerability.

Despite his silent reprimands, you began to notice the changes in him. The way his sharp words seemed to lose their edge when he spoke to you, the way his anger—so fierce, so all-consuming—seemed to hesitate when it came to you. There were moments when you’d catch him watching you with a look that bordered on wonder, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve, or perhaps a memory he longed to reclaim. His eyes, once like cold embers burning in their sockets, now held a trace of warmth when they met yours, a softness that seemed to take even him by surprise.

Yet, even with these changes, there was still a wall between you—thick, immovable, built from years of pain and rage that neither of you could dismantle in a single breath. Sukuna would often turn his gaze away just when you thought he might open up, a shuttered look crossing his face, as if terrified by his own emotions. He was a man at war with himself, torn between the beast he had become and the fragile humanity you were slowly unearthing within him.

One evening, after a particularly harrowing tale of two lovers separated by fate, you noticed a shadow flicker across his face—a hint of sorrow that made your chest ache. You paused, your voice faltering slightly, and for a heartbeat, the silence between you was alive with all the things left unsaid.

“What is it about these stories that you think will change me?” he asked, his voice rough, almost bitter, as he met your gaze head-on. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that he tried to mask with his usual disdain, but it was there—a crack in the armour he wore so tightly around his heart. “Do you think words can heal what the world has done to me? Do you think your voice can mend what was broken long before you were born?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, your own voice barely a whisper, the honesty raw between you. “I don’t know if I can heal you, Sukuna. I don’t know if I can change the darkness that you carry. But I do know that I see something in you—a part of you that still remembers what it means to feel, to long for something beyond this anger and vengeance.”

He stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between a sneer and something softer, something almost like pain. “You see what you want to see,” he said, but the words lacked their usual venom, trailing off into the quiet of the room. For a moment, he looked at you not as a king of curses, not as a monster, but as a man—just a man, vulnerable and lost, standing on the precipice of something he could neither name nor understand.

And then, slowly, hesitantly, as if fighting every instinct that told him to turn away, Sukuna reached out. His fingers grazed the side of your face, a touch so light it was almost a question—a silent plea for something he didn’t know how to ask for. You held still, your breath caught in your throat, afraid that even the slightest movement would shatter this fragile moment between you.

“Your stories,” he said at last, his voice so quiet it was barely a murmur, “they make me remember… things I thought I had buried.” His thumb traced a line down your cheek, his touch both tender and hesitant, as though he were afraid of the warmth he might find there. “You’re like a flame in this darkness, something I want to reach for, even though I know I have no right to. Even though I could snuff it out with my own hands.”

You turned your face slightly into his touch, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope, the vulnerability between you stretching taut like a thread that could either bind you together or snap in two. “And yet, you don’t,” you whispered. “You could end this now, and you don’t. Why?”

He said nothing, but his eyes told you everything. They spoke of the battle raging within him—the struggle between the curse he had become and the man who was trying, against all odds, to remember what it was like to be something else. To be someone else. Someone who could care. Someone who could love.

Sukuna’s hand dropped back to his side, his expression hardening once more, though the softness in his eyes didn’t entirely fade. “This changes nothing,” he said, though the conviction in his voice wavered. “I am still what I am. Don’t mistake my interest for kindness.”

But you saw it there—the tiny crack in his defences, the fragile tendril of something more that had begun to grow between the two of you. It was subtle, almost invisible, like a seed taking root in the dark soil of a barren landscape, and yet it was there. And in the quiet of his bedchamber, with the flickering light casting long shadows across his face, you knew that you were not the only one who felt its pull.

For in his touch, in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, in the way his words softened when they were meant to wound—you saw the beginnings of something tender and reluctant. The monster within him was still very much alive, still sharp-edged and dangerous, but for the first time, there was something else as well. A flicker of a man who was learning, despite himself, to care for the flame he had found in the darkness.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The days bled into nights, and each night that you survived seemed to blur the line between captor and captive, between monster and storyteller. Sukuna’s bedchamber had become your stage, a place where you wove tales to pacify the beast that loomed over you, but also where something unspoken began to pulse between you—a slow-burning warmth that defied the cold cruelty of his presence. The more you spoke, the more your stories reached into the corners of his soul, unearthing the fragments of the man he tried so hard to bury. And in those moments of listening, the mask he wore seemed to slip, just enough to reveal the man beneath the monster.

You found yourself watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking, your gaze lingering on the curve of his lips, the intensity of his eyes, and the way his sharp features softened in the glow of the oil lamps. There was a beauty to him, hidden beneath the menace—a kind of tragic elegance that you could almost reach out and touch. He was like a starless night sky, dark and endless, but with a hint of light just waiting to break through if given the chance. The way he listened to your tales, how his eyes would narrow with thought or flare with emotion, told you that your words were not only buying you time—they were reaching him, drawing him closer to something he could neither name nor understand.

But there was also reluctance in you, a fear that tangled with your hope. You could not forget the darkness that lived in him, the cruelty that could ignite in his eyes with the flick of a thought. Sukuna was still dangerous, still unpredictable, and every night you wondered if this would be the last, if the flicker of humanity you saw in him would be snuffed out by the monster he claimed to be. You felt the tremor of your own hesitation, the way your heart wavered between pity and fear, between hope and doubt. How could you let yourself care for a man whose hands were stained with the blood of so many, who could end your life in a heartbeat if the whim took him?

Yet, despite that, despite everything you knew and everything you feared, you couldn’t help the way your breath would hitch when his gaze softened ever so slightly. Or the way your skin tingles when, during those rare moments, he let his guard down enough to touch you—not in violence or possession, but in something that felt almost tender. Like that night when your tale came to an end, and instead of letting you leave as he usually did, he reached out and caught your wrist, his fingers circling it with a gentleness that stole your breath.

“Stay,” he said, his voice rough with something that could have been longing or anger—maybe both. His grip was firm but not unkind, as if he feared that with one wrong move, you might slip through his fingers and disappear. His eyes searched yours, darker than the night, a swirl of emotions hidden in their depths that he didn’t know how to voice. “Stay a little longer.”

You looked at him, at the touch of vulnerability in his gaze that was as startling as it was heartbreaking, and you nodded. Slowly, carefully, you sat back down, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, close enough that your breaths seemed to mingle in the space between you. Sukuna’s hand remained on your wrist, the touch turning almost idle, as if he were memorising the shape of your pulse beneath his fingertips.

“What do you see when you look at me?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, roughened with a vulnerability he couldn’t quite conceal. There was a hint of frustration in his tone, like a man desperate to understand something that defied his grasp. “Tell me the truth.”

You hesitated, your throat tightening with the weight of his question. What could you say? That you saw not just the monster he tried so hard to be, but the man he once was and perhaps still could be? That somewhere in his darkness, there was a light fighting to break free, a yearning that had been denied so long it had turned to rage?

“I see…” you began, your voice soft, barely more than a whisper, “I see someone who’s afraid to believe in anything that isn’t pain or vengeance. Someone who’s convinced himself he doesn’t need love because he thinks it’s beyond his reach. But I also see a man who listens to my stories not because he has to, but because they make him feel something he thought he’d forgotten how to feel.”

His fingers tightened just slightly around your wrist, and you could feel the tremor in his touch, the way his breath hitched in response to your words. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, his jaw clenching as if struggling against some invisible force. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher, more vulnerable than you had ever heard it. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, but the words lacked their usual bite, falling almost hollow in the space between you. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“It’s not pity,” you replied, holding his gaze, refusing to look away. “It’s just the truth. You’re not as alone as you think you are, Sukuna.”

For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, as though the monster in him wanted to rise up and crush this fragile hope between you. But instead, he just stared at you, his eyes softening, the fight bleeding out of him as something warmer took its place—a flicker of longing, so fierce and raw that it made your heart ache. He reached up then, his fingers brushing the side of your face, a touch so gentle it felt like a question, like he was asking if he was even capable of something as simple as kindness.

“You speak as if you know me,” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. “As if you see past the monster I am. Why?”

“Because,” you said softly, feeling the truth of your own words catch in your chest, “sometimes the hardest stories to believe are the ones we tell ourselves.”

His gaze faltered then, his hand dropping to his side as if suddenly aware of what he’d done, of how close he’d let you come. The mask of indifference snapped back into place, but it was thinner now, more fragile, unable to fully hide the man beneath it. He turned away, his jaw clenched, the set of his shoulders rigid with a frustration that wasn’t aimed at you, but at himself.

“Go,” he said, the word a rough whisper, almost torn from him. “Leave before I change my mind.”

And you did, though your steps were slow, your heart heavy with the knowledge of how close you had come to breaking through his defences. As you slipped through the curtains and out of his chamber, you couldn’t help but glance back, catching one last glimpse of Sukuna standing in the dim light, his face half-hidden in shadow, his eyes fixed on you with an expression that was equal parts longing and fear.

It wasn’t love—not yet. But it was something. Something fragile and new, something that both frightened and fascinated him. And though neither of you were ready to name it, you knew that it was growing between you like a fire waiting to be kindled, a warmth that could one day banish the darkness if only he’d let it. And perhaps, one day, the King of Curses might come to realise that even he was not beyond the reach of redemption.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

Shifting like the currents of a hidden river beneath the surface of your nightly tales, that fragile something between you and Sukuna continued to grow. As per your routine, you still came to his bedchamber each evening, weaving your stories into the warm, fragrant air, but now there was a difference in how you both lingered in that space. It was no longer just a battleground where words danced to save your life; it had become a place where silences spoke louder than the tales themselves, where the stolen glances and unspoken words built a tension so palpable it filled the room.

Sukuna watched you differently now. His gaze, once sharp and cold, had softened in a way that seemed to unsettle him more than any of his past violence ever had. There was a war in his eyes every time he looked at you, a struggle between the darkness that defined him and the light he couldn’t quite extinguish when he was near you. He tried to mask it, his expression often hardening the moment he felt his guard slipping, but there were cracks in his armour now—cracks that grew wider with every story, every quiet laugh you coaxed from him, every moment that made him feel something other than the hate he’d clung to for so long.

One night, as you finished the tale of a long-lost prince returning to his love, you noticed the way Sukuna’s hand had drifted toward you, fingers almost brushing the fabric of your sleeve. He pulled back before making contact, a scowl flickering across his face, as though furious with himself for that momentary lapse. But you saw through that façade, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when he thought you might look away.

“You seem moved by that tale,” you said, the words light yet probing, testing the waters of his resistance. “Is there something in it that you recognize?”

He laughed then, a rough, humourless sound, though it lacked the sharp edges it once had. “Moved?” he echoed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Do not mistake my interest for softness. I am no lovesick fool to be swayed by such nonsense.”

And yet, as he spoke, his eyes never left yours, and there was something in them—a flicker of pain, of memory, that betrayed his words. You could see it clearly now, the way his barriers were beginning to crumble, even as he fought to hold onto the fragments of who he used to be. He was no longer the untouchable King of Curses in those moments; he was just a man, trapped between the monster he’d become and the human he never thought he’d be again.

“Perhaps not,” you replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “But even the hardest hearts can soften, even if they don’t want to admit it.”

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, his gaze intense and searching, as if trying to unravel the mystery of you, this mortal woman who dared to speak to him as though he were something more than a beast. For the first time, he seemed almost uncertain, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to step forward or retreat back into the darkness that had always been his comfort.

“Why do you persist?” he asked, his voice low and rough, his brow furrowing as if the question was dragged from some deep, wounded place inside him. “Why do you look at me as though I’m not a monster? Why tell me these tales as if they could change anything?”

You hesitated, feeling the gravity of his question, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. It wasn’t just a question about the stories; it was about you, about why you stayed when any sane person would have fled. Why you dared to look at him not as a villain, but as a man capable of more than just destruction.

“Because,” you began slowly, your voice barely a whisper, “I see more in you than you allow yourself to see. I see a man who was once capable of kindness, who wasn’t always this… cruel. I see someone who’s afraid to hope because he’s been denied love for so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like.”

His jaw clenched, a flicker of something raw and aching crossing his face before he masked it with a sneer. “You’re a fool,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual venom. “You think you can save me with words, with your pity? There’s nothing left of the man you think you see.”

“Maybe,” you said, your eyes never leaving his, “but you keep listening anyway. You keep letting me stay when you could have ended my life the moment I entered your chambers. You reach out for me even when you don’t mean to. If that’s not proof that there’s still something human in you, then I don’t know what is.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. The air between you was thick with the weight of unsaid words, with the electricity of something both terrifying and beautiful. Sukuna’s expression was a battlefield of conflicting emotions—anger, vulnerability, denial, and something else, something softer that glimmered beneath the surface like a light struggling to break free from the darkness.

And then, almost without realising it, his hand came up to touch your face. The movement was slow, hesitant, as if he was testing the reality of your presence, of his own desire to reach for something he had long believed lost to him. His fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away. He held his hand there, cupping your face like you were something precious, something breakable that he was afraid to hurt.

“You,” he said, his voice cracking with the weight of his own disbelief, “you’re the most infuriating creature I’ve ever met.”

A smile ghosted across your lips, so faint it was almost imperceptible, and you leaned ever so slightly into his touch, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. “And yet, you let me live,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “You listen to my stories, you reach for me even when you don’t mean to… Why is that, Sukuna?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. The monster in him was silent, subdued, replaced by a man who was lost and yearning, who didn’t know how to handle the tenderness he felt creeping into his heart. He was afraid—afraid of vulnerability, afraid of what it meant to care for someone, even in the smallest, most reluctant way.

But in that moment, with his hand on your cheek and your eyes locked on his, you knew the truth. The King of Curses was beginning to fall, not in defeat, but in a way that neither of you had expected. Slowly, painfully, he was learning to care. For you. And it terrified him more than any curse ever could.

The silence between you was no longer empty; it was filled with a thousand unsaid things, with the unspoken promise of something that might one day grow if either of you were brave enough to let it. And as you stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s gaze, you knew that this was only the beginning. A delicate, fragile beginning to something that could be more than either of you ever dared to hope for.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

Dusk had finally arrived, and the dense fragranced smoke made the air feel warm and almost oppressive. You sat across from Sukuna, your voice carrying softly over the quiet hum of the night as you began to tell him yet another tale—this one different, more poignant, more deliberate.

“There was once,” you started, your voice laced with the slow rhythm of an ancient storyteller, “a creature who was not born into darkness, but who fell into it, piece by piece, as the world around him turned its back. He was not always a demon, you see. Once, long ago, he was something else—someone else. He was born of light, meant for greatness, a guardian meant to protect and to love.”

You paused, casting a glance at Sukuna, whose gaze was already fixed on you with an intensity that made the air between you feel electric. He didn’t interrupt, but you could see the shift in his expression, the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers clenched just slightly, almost inconspicuously. He was listening, not just with his ears but with every part of him, as though he was bracing himself against something he didn’t want to admit was reaching him.

“But the world,” you continued, choosing your words carefully, “can be cruel to those who don’t fit into its perfect mould. And this guardian, despite his strength and his loyalty, was different. He was feared for his power, for the potential of what he could become. And so, the ones he had sworn to protect turned on him, shunning him, casting him out into the wilderness as if he were nothing but a beast. They called him a monster, a fiend. They said he didn’t belong among them.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and unspoken, like a truth that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You could see it in Sukuna’s eyes—a flicker of recognition, the raw wound of a memory he had tried to bury under layers of hatred and pride. For a moment, he was no longer the invincible King of Curses, but something far more vulnerable—a man haunted by the echo of his own past.

“They cursed him to the darkness,” you went on, your voice softer now, almost a whisper. “And in that darkness, alone and forsaken, the creature’s heart hardened. His pain turned to rage, his sorrow to vengeance. He became the monster they had always feared he would be, not because he was born that way, but because they had made him that way. He believed he was unworthy of love, unworthy of redemption, because that’s all the world had ever shown him.”

Sukuna’s face was a mask of stillness, but his eyes were aflame with something that bordered on anguish—a deep-seated hurt that he couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried. His hands, which had once been so quick to strike, now lay motionless at his sides, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. You could tell that the story had struck a chord, that it had reached into the deepest part of him, the part he kept locked away even from himself.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice rough and strained, barely more than a whisper. The question seemed to cost him something, as though he were admitting to a wound he had long denied. His gaze was hard, almost angry, but beneath that anger was a glimmer of something else—pain, vulnerability, the same longing that he had buried beneath centuries of rage.

“Because,” you said gently, meeting his gaze, refusing to look away, “I believe that even in the darkest of creatures, there is a spark of light that refuses to be extinguished. I believe that the demon in my tale, like you, was not born a monster but was made into one by a world that didn’t know how to love him. And perhaps, somewhere deep down, he’s still searching for a reason to believe that he’s more than the monster they say he is.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating in its intensity. Sukuna’s eyes bore into yours, raw and unguarded, as if you had laid his soul bare and he didn’t know whether to thank you or curse you for it. He looked away then, turning his head slightly as if to shield his face from your gaze, but not before you caught the faintest glimmer of moisture in his eyes—a shimmer that could have been from the firelight or could have been something far more human.

“You think you know me,” he said at last, his voice hollow, laced with bitterness and something else—something broken. “You think your pretty words can change what I am. But you have no idea what it’s like to be cast out, to be made into this… thing. To be so hated that you start to hate yourself even more.”

He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, his broad shoulders tense and rigid as though he were trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, that he might snap back into the beast that he was so comfortable being. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, silent and still, his fists clenched at his sides, his whole form trembling with the effort to keep the chaos within him contained.

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice cracking with the force of his own denial. “There’s no light left in me. There never was. I am the monster they made me, and nothing will ever change that.”

Slowly, you rose to your feet, your heart aching at the sight of him—this man who was so much more than the monster he believed himself to be. You approached him cautiously, your hand reaching out, hesitant, trembling slightly as you placed it gently on his arm. He flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away, didn’t break the fragile connection that bound you both in that moment.

“Then let me be wrong,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady, full of a conviction you hadn’t even known you possessed. “Let me be wrong, Sukuna, but let me try. Let me see the man beneath the curse, the man who still listens to stories even when he says he doesn’t believe in them. Because I think… I think you’re more afraid of being loved than of being hated.”

He turned then, slowly, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierceness that took your breath away. There was a storm in his gaze, a turbulence of emotions that he could no longer hide. Anger, pain, confusion, and beneath it all—a flicker of yearning so raw and desperate that it broke your heart to see it.

“Why?” he demanded, his voice rough, almost pleading now, his hand coming up to catch yours where it rested on his arm. His grip was tight, almost desperate, as if he were afraid that letting go would mean losing the only lifeline he had. “Why do you keep trying to find something good in me when I’ve done nothing but prove I’m a monster?”

You smiled then, a sad, gentle smile that reached the deepest parts of you. “Because even monsters deserve a chance to be saved,” you said softly. “Even monsters deserve to believe they’re worthy of love.”

For a long moment, Sukuna said nothing. He simply stood there, staring at you as if you were something he couldn’t quite understand, something he couldn’t believe was real. And then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he let his forehead fall against yours, his eyes closing as he exhaled a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His touch was still hesitant, still tinged with that reluctance to fully give in to what he was feeling, but it was there—a silent surrender to the possibility of something more.

And in that moment, with your hand still on his arm and his breath mingling with yours, you knew that the demon in your story had not been defeated but had begun to believe in the light again. Not because of some grand act of heroism, but because he had found someone who dared to see the humanity within him, even when he had given up on seeing it himself.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The sky outside his chamber was a raging symphony of thunder and rain, the storm’s fury echoing the tempest that had been brewing between you and Sukuna all this time. The wind howled through the narrow openings in the stone walls, the curtains rippling like waves of silk in its wake, casting wild shadows across the room. It was as if the heavens themselves were tearing apart, unleashing their wrath on the earth, and within the shelter of Sukuna’s bedchamber, the storm had found a mirror in the turmoil that raged between your hearts.

You stood before him, drenched in the soft, flickering glow of the oil lamps, your voice trembling as you tried to pierce through the walls he still kept so fiercely around his heart. Sukuna’s eyes were wild, his face a mask of conflicting emotions, a mix of anger, fear, and that same raw vulnerability that you’d seen creeping into his gaze over the past few weeks.

“Why do you fight this so hard?” you asked, your voice cracking under the weight of your own desperation. The words were almost lost to the roar of the storm outside, yet you knew he heard every syllable. “Why do you still pretend you don’t feel anything? That you’re not capable of more than this darkness?”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his teeth gritting as he turned away from you, his hands fisting at his sides. The storm’s rage seemed to course through his veins, the lightning outside illuminating his sharp features, casting shadows that made him look every bit the demon he believed himself to be. And yet, there was something in the way he stood there, shoulders trembling, eyes averted—a man on the edge, teetering between surrender and defiance.

“Do you think we are the same? I am not like you.” he growled, his voice like gravel, torn between anguish and frustration. “I don’t know how to be good, how to be anything but this—this thing they made me. I’m not meant for love, for kindness. I’m meant for death and ruin! That’s all I am.”

“No,” you said, your voice firm but soft, unyielding as you closed the distance between you. The storm seemed to quiet in your wake, as though the very air held its breath. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, feeling the tension in his fingers, the way he hesitated before finally allowing your touch to anchor him. “You’re more than what they made you, Sukuna. You’re more than the monster you think you are.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his expression twisting into something pained, something that looked like loss and longing all at once. His fingers were trembling now, almost imperceptibly, as if he was afraid to believe in what he was feeling. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet yours, and for the first time, they weren’t filled with anger or resentment but with something far more fragile. Hope. And fear.

“You do not realise what you’re asking of me,” he whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “To hope, to believe that I could be anything other than this… Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? How cruel?”

“Hope isn’t cruel,” you replied, lifting your other hand to his cheek, gently cupping his face. He flinched at first, the motion instinctive, but then he let you hold him there, the warmth of your touch a balm to his storm-ravaged soul. “Hope is the kindest thing there is. And I think, deep down, you want it. You’re just afraid to let yourself have it.”

He swallowed hard, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat back into the safety of his darkness. But then, in a movement so slow it seemed to defy time itself, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as if savouring the warmth of your palm against his skin. The tension in his shoulders eased, the storm inside him quieting as he let himself lean just a little closer, as if he were finally too tired to keep fighting.

“Why?” he asked, his voice almost broken, rough with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Why would you care for something like me? After all I’ve done, after all I am?”

You gave him a sad, gentle smile, the kind that was both a promise and a farewell, the kind that said everything words couldn’t. “Because even the fiercest storms pass, Sukuna,” you whispered. “Even the darkest nights have to end. And even you—especially you—deserve to see the dawn again. You deserve to believe in something more, even if it scares you.”

He opened his eyes then, and in them, you saw the storm break, saw the crumbling of a fortress he’d spent centuries building. The fear was still there, the uncertainty, but there was also something new, something that looked almost like surrender. The kind of surrender that wasn’t about defeat, but about letting go of the chains he had wrapped around his own heart.

And then, without another word, he pulled you to him, his arms wrapping around you in a way that was both fierce and gentle, like a man holding onto the only thing that could save him from himself. His forehead pressed against yours, and his breath was warm and uneven against your lips, his eyes searching yours, still disbelieving but filled with that spark you’d never seen before—hope.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, the words rough but honest, a confession laid bare. “I don’t know how to be anything but a monster. But for you... for you, I want to try.”

Your heart swelled, a warmth spreading through you like the first light of dawn after the longest night. You reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips ghosting against his in the barest of touches, a promise of something more—a beginning, not an end. “Then try, Sukuna,” you said softly, your voice trembling with both fear and joy. “Try with me.”

He closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he let the last of his resistance fall away, and for the first time, you felt the true man beneath the curse—the one who had been buried so deep he’d almost forgotten he existed. He held you as if you were his anchor, his lifeline, the only proof that he could still feel something other than rage and pain.

And as the storm outside raged on, battering against the walls of the chamber, the two of you stood together, wrapped in each other’s arms. In that fragile, trembling embrace, Sukuna finally let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t beyond saving after all. That maybe, in the warmth of your touch and the softness of your whispered words, he had found something he thought was lost to him forever—a chance at redemption, a chance at love.

The dawn was still far off, the road uncertain and fraught with the shadows of the past, but for the first time, there was a light on the horizon. And as Sukuna held you close, his lips brushing your temple in a touch so tender it almost broke your heart, he knew that whatever lay ahead, he wouldn’t face it alone. 

Not anymore.

The storm raged on, but within that chamber, there was a stillness, a quiet hope that spoke of new beginnings and the promise of something neither of you dared to name. It was not an ending, not yet. Just the beginning of a story that had no easy answers, no simple resolutions—a story that was still being written, night by night, heart by hesitant heart.

A.N. Thank you for reading! :D Please let me know what you think!

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ forsaken

     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ highlander johnny 'soap' mactavish x princess reader

06 : am peanas diadhaidh

cw : angst, death, blood, graphic description, injuries, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, hints of dubcon, chubby reader, historical facts and inaccuracies, (johnny wearing kilts, yes, it's a warning of its own) words : 6.9k

     ㅤ  collection - prev ⋆ next

bold - french italic - gaelic

The night was cold and silent.

All except for the screams of fighting men outside, their gunfire shattering the stillness. Hidden away in a basement chamber of the palace, you were surrounded by half a dozen secret passages leading to the outside world. Just in case. 

Elders, women, and children had all been brought here for safety—especially you. In many ways, you were the reason for this attack. The Saxons weren’t searching for anyone else. They wanted you.

That you had taken refuge among their enemies only added fuel to the fire, giving them yet another reason to strike.

All in the name of the king—the very man the clan so thoroughly despised.

Sitting alone, you had secluded yourself from the others, retreating into the quiet corners of your mind. It had all happened so fast, too fast, and you needed space to make sense of it.

You had freed yourself from the shackles of your faith, torn away the binds that had held you captive for so long—and the divine punishment had been swift. An attack. A war. Blood was shed beneath the same sky you once prayed to.

It was all your fault.

Of course, God had been watching. How could He not? You had sinned in His house, defiled the sacred air with your unholy desires. You had looked upon His son, bound to the cross, and dared to take pleasure in the arms of another.

Now, His wrath had come.

Tightening your grip on the cold metal of your cross, you whispered quiet, desperate prayers. Words of redemption, of repentance, of mercy. You begged God to shield Ser John, who had ridden beyond the walls to fight in your honor. You pleaded for the men of the MacTavish clan, warriors dragged into a battle not of their making, risking their lives for a war that had been thrust upon them.

And then, with a tremor in your voice, you prayed for Johnny.

The man who had thrown himself into the fray, who had risked everything to pull you from the ambush just days ago. The man whose warmth still lingered on your skin, even now.

Your fingers dug into the cross, pressing it hard enough to leave an imprint against your palm. You had sinned, and yet, instead of begging for your own soul, all you could do was beg for his life.

Little did you know, the true reason for this attack sat mere meters away, silent and trembling. Isla’s tear-filled eyes were locked on you, watching as you whispered prayers with unwavering faith. A few tears slipped down her cheeks, unnoticed or, at least, unquestioned. Fear and stress—everyone assumed that was why she cried. But they were wrong.

If she had believed in God, she might have joined you. But her prayers would not have been for protection. They would have been for forgiveness.

Holding her little sisters tightly in her arms felt like a sin. Because it was her fault. All of it.

She was the reason they were trapped in this cold, dark chamber, listening to the distant sounds of war. She was the reason men would die on the battlefield before dawn. She was the reason her brother had returned from the ambush with madness in his eyes, a rage he couldn’t contain.

And you—praying, believing, hoping—had no idea.

She had loved the Saxon—so much that it had blinded her. She had believed every whispered promise, every soft-spoken word. He had told her he loved her too, that they shared the same enemies, the same purpose. That he would marry her.

And she had believed him.

But what he had seen in her was not love. It was weakness. A foolish, pathetic girl, drunk on dreams of romance. He had used her—her trust, her body, her heart. She had been nothing more than a pawn in his game, a means to an end. And she had let him.

Naive, stupid, reckless.

Now, men were dying because of her mistake—because of her naivety.

And unbeknownst to her, a French knight carried the same weight of guilt. Out on the battlefield, as Ser John looked around at the chaos—at the men he had come to know, to train, even to cherish—falling at the bullets and blades of the Saxons, a single, bitter thought plagued him: this was his fault.

He had brought you here. He had sought refuge and aid in the Highlands, never imagining he’d also bring death in his wake. These men weren’t just fighting for their clan—they were fighting for you. The English troops would never have targeted them if it weren’t for your presence.

As Ser John stood amidst the chaos, watching man after man fall to the enemy’s blades, a dark thought clung to him—perhaps he should have followed the king that dreadful day, surrendered to his fate. You would have been safe and sound in your mother's arms. 

These were men he had trained for hours under the sun and rain, men who had welcomed him into their taverns, their homes, their lives. They had trusted him. And how had he repaid them?

By turning their wives into widows. By making their children orphans.

He forced those dark thoughts away—dwelling on guilt wouldn’t save anyone. Not now. There were still lives to protect, men to lead. And if there was one thing Ser John could admit without shame, it was that he might be the best soldier on this battlefield.

His eyes scanned the field, sharp and calculating, searching for a familiar face—Johnny.

The young Highlander had slipped into John's life, and yours, with surprising ease. At first glance, Ser John had pegged him as little more than a cocky troublemaker, always flashing that smug smirk, always quick with a joke. But beneath the bravado was something raw. Real.

When Johnny had finally opened up—about his past, about the burdens he carried—John had seen reflections of his younger self. Perhaps that was why his instinct to protect him ran so deep. Not just as a comrade, but almost as something closer. A younger brother. A version of himself that still had a chance to be saved. A lost son. 

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps—heavy, hurried, purposeful. Years on the battlefield had sharpened his instincts; he could tell friend from foe by the rhythm of a stride alone.

He turned on reflex, blade slicing clean through the air, intercepting the attacker mid-charge. The body dropped at his feet with a dull thud, the young man's final breath escaping in a choked gasp. Ser John didn’t flinch. He didn’t pause to look into the boy’s face, even though he couldn’t have been more than twenty. There was no room left in him for mercy, not tonight. Not with lives on the line.

Compassion had long been bled from his veins. What remained was purpose—unyielding, resolute. He would protect the weak and the young, even if it meant dying with his sword in his hand and guilt in his soul.

Not far from Ser John, Johnny fought like a man possessed.

His movements were a blur of practiced violence—sword swinging with precision, his dagger finding gaps between armor. The battlefield had changed him, stripped him of his usual grin, his charm. There was no trace of the teasing Highlander now. Only fire. Only wrath.

Blood stained his tunic, some of it his, most of it not. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to.

His fury was fueling him, a wild, unfamiliar rage coursing through his veins like wildfire. He had been raised on battlefields, forged in blood and chaos—but this? This was something new.

This was personal.

It wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was anger for his people, for his clan. For his sister, who had cried in silence. For you, hidden away, terrified and praying to a God who had turned His face.

Each swing of his blade was an outlet for that fury, each drop of blood on his sword only feeding the storm inside him. His muscles ached, his breath came in ragged bursts, but still he fought—driven by a need to protect, to punish, to avenge.

He didn’t care if the rage made him reckless. He didn’t care if it consumed him.

So long as it kept everyone safe.

His recklessness fed his inattention, the blood roaring in his ears like a war drum. He didn’t see it coming—only heard it.

A sharp, sickening crack.

Then, before he could process what it meant, the ground rushed up to meet him.

The pain hit a heartbeat later—white-hot, explosive, tearing through his body like fire. It radiated from his knee, spreading outward in violent waves, and the scream that tore from his throat was raw, animalistic.

And just like that, Johnny was down. 

Something—or rather, someone—dragged him onto his back before a crushing weight pinned him down.

A man loomed over him, fury twisting his face into something monstrous. Like Johnny, he was burning with rage—but his was colder, more calculated. Unhinged. The smirk on his face wasn’t cocky, it was madness made flesh.

There was something wrong about him. A darkness that radiated off his skin like heat, his very presence laced with hatred so deep it seemed to rot the air around them.

The blunt iron mass—likely the weapon that had shattered Johnny’s knee—was dropped mere millimeters from his face. Deliberately. A threat.

"You must be the brother," the Saxon sneered looking at the nasty healed scar on the side of his face. His accent thick, his voice dripping with venom. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he spat in Johnny’s face. "Little Isla told me so much about you." 

The mocking tone in the Saxon’s voice poured oil on Johnny’s fury. The bastard was toying with him—just like he’d toyed with his sisters.

Johnny tried to lunge, blind with rage, but the soldier simply shifted his weight, driving it down onto Johnny’s shattered knee. The pain tore through him like fire, forcing a strangled moan from his lips as his body went limp beneath the weight.

"Hmm," the man hummed darkly, smirking as if savoring the control. A sick glint danced in his eyes.

Without haste, he slid a blade into Johnny’s shoulder, slow and deliberate, pinning him to the cold, blood-soaked earth. Johnny hissed, biting down on a scream, the metal burning like it was molten.

Leaning in close, the Saxon whispered, a cruel laugh in his breath, “Your sister made the same noises.”

Red. That’s all Johnny could see.

Rage boiled in his chest, drowning out the pain, the fear. Every nerve in his body screamed, but all he could feel was that blinding, soul-splitting fury.

As the man slowly rose from Johnny’s broken body, a strange feeling gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. Johnny wasn’t dead. He should’ve been. Every part of his body screamed in agony, torn and battered, yet somehow, he remained conscious. It didn’t make sense. The bastard had turned Johnny into a plaything, a living target for his sadistic games.

All around him, the battlefield was chaos—men fell, blood staining the earth, and Johnny couldn’t make sense of it. The sounds of clashing steel and dying cries were muffled by the rush in his ears. Where was John? Where was his father?

The crushing realization hit him like a sledgehammer. He was alone. Fucked.

"Got a little gift for you," the Englishman sneered, his voice thick with cruelty, twisted thoughts gleaming in his eyes.

Something heavy landed beside Johnny’s head with a sickening thud, just opposite the iron mass still lying inches from his face. A warm splash hit his cheek—blood—making him flinch instinctively.

Slowly, with dread curling in his gut, Johnny turned his head.

There it was.

His father's head.

Lying mere millimeters from his own, eyes frozen wide in terror, mouth agape in a silent scream. That expression—raw, helpless, human—was now carved into his face for eternity.

A look Johnny would never be able to forget. Forever forged in his mind. 

Your back pressed cold against the unforgiving stone of the castle wall, a shiver running down your spine that had nothing to do with the chill. A deep, gnawing sense of danger hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. It had been hours since the fighting began—too many hours. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a pale light over the mountains, but not a single sign of the soldiers had returned with it.

Outside, the furious cries of battle had dwindled to a dreadful hush. The clash of steel and the screams had faded, swallowed by silence. And silence, you knew, could mean only one thing. Death. 

Still locked away, hidden like something fragile or shameful, you were numb. You had prayed until the words lost their meaning, whispered pleas to a God who no longer seemed to listen. It didn’t matter anymore. You felt abandoned, like your sins had sealed the distance between you and the divine.

You had stopped crying long ago too. There were no more tears left to give. You were empty. Hollow. Drained to the core.

Now, you just stared at the main door in silence. You had refused water, food, furs—anything that might bring you even a shred of comfort. Undeserving, the little voice in your head whispered. All your fault, it repeated, over and over.

How had hell been unleashed so quickly?

You could still feel the ghost of Johnny’s lips on yours, the tenderness of his hands, the practiced grace of his fingers. It had been overwhelming—in the best way. A moment so euphoric, so intense, you were certain you'd touched heaven itself. Was that what sex was meant to be?

Back home, the stories had been different—grim and cold. Women spoke of indifference, of pain, of duty. Husbands who barely looked at them, who kept thrusting even when it hurt. Who left them for whores once they bore their children. It had painted a cruel picture, one you had accepted as inevitable.

Johnny had shown you how different life could be. How happiness could bloom if you let go of your God. How much you could thrive if you chose to stay here. All of that—promised in mere minutes of sin within a chapel.

But then, it had stopped. The dream had shattered, and the nightmare began. And you... you were the reason. The Saxons were hunting you. They were willing to do anything to reach you—slaughter, manipulation, assault. You were certain they had committed every crime imaginable just to learn your whereabouts.

God was on their side. He had led them here. To punish you.

And it could all end—if only you found the courage to do what needed to be done.

Your gaze drifted past the untouched plate beside you, landing instead on the rusty knife. It looked frail—old and forgotten—but sharp enough to do what was needed.

You stared at it, unblinking, trying to summon the courage to reach for it. To press it to your wrist. To end the storm you had brought with you.

No more princess.

No more war.

It was a sin. You knew it.

In some twisted way, it was your last thread of faith that kept your hand from reaching the knife. That same faith whispered that it would damn you forever—but hadn’t you already been damned?

You had sinned. Gloriously.

And it had felt too good. Too right. You knew, deep down, you would give in again if given the chance. Temptation had sunk its teeth into you, and you weren’t strong enough to deny it.

So what was the point in pretending?

All the pain, all the suffering, all the relentless voices would finally stop.

Just silence. Complete and eternal.

No more shame curling in your gut. No more disgust clawing at your skin. No more guilt pressing on your chest like a weight you couldn’t breathe beneath.

Just… nothing.

And maybe nothing would be a mercy.

Before hesitation could stop you again, your fingers closed around the knife.

You didn’t notice the pair of eyes locked onto you like a hawk—Isla, hidden in the shadows, watching in silence. She had doomed her family, betrayed her blood, and now the very least she could do was ensure the one thing her brother’s heart clung to remained safe.

The blade kissed your skin, sharp and deliberate, slicing through flesh with agonizing precision.

A strangled scream ripped through the air—not yours, but Isla’s.

Then the room exploded into motion. Rushing footsteps. Fabric rustling. Desperate voices breaking the heavy silence.

"Help!" Isla’s voice cracked with terror as she lunged forward, hands trembling, trying to undo what had already been done.

Blood poured from your wrist in warm, steady rivers, as if it were washing away your sins. It felt almost sacred—cleansing, freeing. If not for Isla’s hands pressing down hard against the wound, your life would’ve seeped silently into the stone floor, taking you with it to that quiet land you longed for.

But fate, as always, had other plans.

Pain. That was all Johnny felt—searing, relentless, consuming. His body trembled with despair, each breath a struggle. Someone was shaking him, a voice breaking through the haze, but the words were lost in the fog clouding his mind.

How was he not dead? He should be. He wanted to be.

Behind closed eyes, the only image burned into his mind was his father’s face—frozen in terror, severed from his body, thrown beside him. A raw sob tore from Johnny’s throat, his lips parting in a scream so broken, so hollow, it barely sounded human. Tears streamed freely now, washing down his bloodstained cheeks, carving their way through the dirt and agony.

Johnny's body was pulled into a hard chest, a steady presence, but he couldn't hear the soothing words being spoken in his ear. His world was drowned by his own screams and the pulsing of blood in his ears, a deafening roar that kept him locked in his agony.

Every inch of him felt like it was being torn apart. His knee—each movement sent waves of excruciating pain crashing through him, an unrelenting reminder that he should be dead. His shoulder, the wound still fresh and raw, screamed with every breath he took. He could feel the makeshift bandages there, tight and rough, surely applied by the same man holding him now.

But everything else... everything else was a blur. The survivors—fellow warriors who had once fought by his side—sat in weary silence, their faces etched with exhaustion and grief. Some of them had witnessed their chief’s decapitation, others had only seen his butchered body lying on the cold ground. But all of them were united in one thing: the mourning of a leader, a brother, a father.

And Johnny's screams, filled with pain and loss, echoed through the stillness, a sound that would forever haunt the survivors. Raw pain of an orphan child. 

Beside Fionn, the young Saxon lay torn apart, his body mutilated beyond recognition. He had been alive when it started; the Scots had ensured he felt every agonizing moment. It was him—the sadist who had orchestrated the attack, who had exploited Isla’s naivety, who had murdered their chief, and who had played with Johnny’s life like a cruel game.

He didn't deserve a soldier's death like the other English soldiers. No, they made sure he suffered.

As he held the grieving boy in his arms, Ser John surveyed the battlefield, his eyes lingering on the remaining survivors. 

The Saxons had sealed their fate the moment they mutilated the chief. Honor and respect had fueled the Highlanders' rage, with revenge burning in their hearts. It was a miracle they had triumphed.

Some Englishmen had attempted to flee, but the remaining soldiers had looked up to Ser John for guidance. Exhaustion was evident on every face, but his voice rang clear, steady as he gave his orders. "Let them run," he commanded. "Take prisoners, kill the rest." The fury with which the Mactavish clan had fought would surely send any other British battalion thinking twice before returning to these lands.

After mourning Fionn, Ser John had immediately sought out Johnny. When he had found him, his heart nearly stopped. Johnny laid in a pool of his own blood, his knee swollen to nearly triple its size. A sword was embedded in his shoulder, blood still seeping from the wound. Beside him, almost carelessly tossed aside, had been his father's severed head—an unholy mockery that made Ser John’s blood run cold. 

The sight had struck him deeply, a cruel reminder of the horrors that had unfolded, and the brutality that had been inflicted upon the young Highlander. He had let out a breath of relief the moment he felt Johnny’s heartbeat—weak, but there.

Ser John had worked quickly, staunching the worst of the bleeding, his hands steady despite the storm raging in his chest. All the while, he begged the young man to wake up, whispering his name like a prayer. But when Johnny finally did, it wasn’t with peace—it was with a heart-wrenching scream of grief that tore through the battlefield like a fresh wound.

John had wished, in that instant, that he hadn't brought him back to consciousness.

Pulling Johnny into his arms, he had cradled him close, like a mother would a broken child. Rocking slightly, he held him tighter with every sob, hoping his warmth, his steady heartbeat, could offer even the smallest bit of comfort in the face of such unspeakable loss.

The knight watched solemnly as the clan’s closest advisors approached, their faces carved from stone, though their eyes shimmered with unshed tears. With heavy reverence, they lifted the chief’s severed head, shielding the gruesome sight from Johnny’s line of vision. Carefully, they draped multiple tartans over the broken body—one final act of respect for the man who had led them with strength and pride. He would be laid to rest soon, beside his beloved wife, as tradition and honor demanded.

Time stretched in that sorrowful silence. It felt like hours before Johnny’s pain finally wore his body down. His cries quieted, his trembling slowed, and he slumped against Ser John, all the fight drained from him. Numb, battered, and hollow, he remained there in the knight’s arms—held, but far from whole.

Makeshift stretchers had been hastily assembled, fashioned from broken shields and snapped spears, to carry the wounded back within the castle walls. The chaos of battle had ebbed, leaving only its cruel aftermath behind—scattered limbs, splintered arrows, blood-soaked earth. The field reeked of iron and loss, a grim reminder of what victory often cost.

Ser John sat on the cold, bloodied ground, Johnny cradled against him, the young man’s good arm clutching his shoulder. Guilt pressed down on John’s chest like a stone. The weight of his decisions crushed him. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t brought you here, if he hadn’t sought Highland aid, perhaps these men would still be alive—sleeping peacefully in their beds, instead of butchered beneath the rising sun.

His composure cracked, his own sobs tearing from him in silence. He held Johnny tighter, grief-wracked and trembling. But there was one sliver of solace—Johnny had survived. And you were still safe, hidden behind stone walls.

It would never be enough, but John made himself a silent vow: he would help rebuild what was lost. He would stand by the Mactavish clan. He would help Johnny heal. And he would never leave your side again. Not until his last breath.

You had no means of going back anyway. Even if the Brits never dared to return to the clan, their eyes would still be watching, waiting—spying on your whereabouts like vultures circling their prey. The moment you'd step beyond the safety of these mountains, they'd find you.

Ser John had come to terms with that reality long ago. He had accepted that his bones would rest far from his homeland, that his final breath would rise into a foreign sky. Now, it was your turn. You needed to accept it too.

And he believed you would.

Because you had to.

After leaving Johnny’s unconscious body to be lifted onto a stretcher and carried inside, Ser John turned back, his eyes drawn once more to the covered form lying still among the wreckage of the battlefield.

Fionn Mactavish.

They hadn’t known each other long, but in that short time, a mutual respect had been forged—an unspoken recognition between two men cut from the same cloth. In another life, John could have been Fionn. And perhaps Fionn could have been him. Both soldiers, both leaders, both burdened by the weight of those who looked to them for strength.

John sank to the ground behind the fallen chief, his body aching as a heavy sigh escaped him. Pain throbbed in every muscle. Exhaustion clung to his bones like a second skin. But more than anything, it was the sorrow that settled deepest—grief not just for the man lost, but for the future that died with him.

This man was leaving behind eight children—the youngest barely six years old. How could anyone explain this to them? They had already lost their mother. They had nearly lost their brother. And now, their father was gone too.

Ser John shut his eyes, swallowing hard against the ache rising in his chest. The sobs he had fought for hours trembled just beneath the surface, barely contained.

With a tenderness that belied the rough calluses of his hand, John reached out and rested his palm on Fionn’s covered back. A gesture of reassurance—though it was more for himself than the man who lay beneath the tartans.

"You can rest now, my friend," he whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking as he brushed away a lone tear sliding down his cheek. "I’ll take care of your boy. I’ll take care of your family. I swear it."

Exhaustion. That was all you felt as consciousness slowly crept back in.

You were still alive. Lying on something soft, warm. A bed, perhaps. A gentle hand cradled yours, fingers brushing lightly over your skin in a silent comfort. One of Johnny’s sisters, most likely.

Opening your eyes felt like a battle in itself, your lids heavy, your vision slow to adjust. Sunlight streamed in from a nearby window, a cruel brightness that made you wince.

You were supposed to be dead. Why weren’t you? You should’ve been with God by now—shouldn’t you?

But He hadn’t saved you. No. Isla had. The women had.

God hadn’t done a thing. God hadn’t cared. If He had, you wouldn’t have crossed an ocean to wed a stranger. You wouldn’t have been betrayed. You wouldn’t have tasted such forbidden pleasure and been told it damned you.

God didn’t care. Not about you. Not anymore. Maybe He never had.

Looking to your side, your blurred vision slowly sharpened—and there he was. Ser John.

Seated like a stone sentinel, his eyes locked on yours the moment they opened. He looked older somehow. Weathered, exhausted. But still that same steadfast knight who had sworn to protect you.

If he was here, then it meant the worst had passed. You had won. But it felt like anything but a victory. The weight of the bandages around your forearm pulled at your attention, a silent, pulsing reminder of the cost. Of desperation. Of how close you had come to giving up entirely.

And yet here you were. Still breathing. Was that mercy? Or punishment?

Ser John said nothing at first, but his eyes spoke more than words ever could—relief, grief, guilt. He looked like a man carrying too many ghosts. And now you were one of them too. Almost.

He had cried, you could see it on his face. For you, of course, but there was something deeper—something darker. A deep-seated guilt that you couldn't help but relate to. Was he tormented by the same guilty thoughts? He had been nothing but faithful to you, and then to this clan. There was nothing he had done to harm anyone.

Ser John protected.

"Tell me," you urged, sensing the weight he carried. You saw it in his eyes—he longed to share something, but hesitated, mindful of your current state.

Then, his gaze shifted, settling just behind you. You turned your head swiftly, only to be met with a dreadful sight.

Johnny was lying there, surrounded by his sisters, some of them unable to stop crying. A sinking feeling twisted in your chest as you imagined the worst. Was he dead? Had they tried to save him, but it had been too late?

He looked rough, blood splattered across his skin, multiple wounds joining the collection of scars he already bore. From where you lay, you couldn’t see if he was breathing, especially when one of his sisters blocked your view, crying on his chest.

Desperation clung to your skin. He couldn’t leave you. He wouldn’t. Not now. Not when God had already turned His back on you. Johnny was all you had left, along with your knight.

Turning slowly back to John, you blinked back unshed tears, silently begging him to tell you. You weren’t ready to hear it, but you had to know.

"It's not him..." he started, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn’t place. "He's roughed up, but he’ll be okay… eventually." He took your hand in his, his grip steadying you. "Fionn is dead. The Saxons killed him."

As if the girls could understand him, the youngest let out another pained sob in one of her sisters' arms.

The silence between you both held more than grief—it held guilt, and failure, and all the words neither of you had strength to say aloud. You knew now. He hadn’t just fought to protect this clan. He had loved it. Been claimed by it. And it had cost him more than a knight’s honor ever could.

He looked back at you, voice low and rough. “He was my friend. And I… I brought this war to his doorstep.”

The guilt in his eyes mirrored the one eating at your soul. You reached for him with your bandaged hand, the gesture small and trembling—but he took it anyway. Gripping it tightly, like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

And in that moment, you weren’t knight and lady. Not sinner and guardian. You were two broken souls, mourning the pieces of yourselves left on a bloodstained battlefield.

It had taken weeks for Johnny to be back on his feet, but even as the healer assured him he would never walk the same again, Johnny remained determined. His limp was small, barely visible to the untrained eye, but Ser John noticed it as soon as the young man entered the council room.

What he noticed even more, however, was the absence of the light that had once sparkled in Johnny's eyes. The glint of life, the joy that had always been present no matter the circumstance, was gone. Buried six feet under with the body of his father. Since that day, Johnny had been declared the new Chief of the Mactavish Clan.

There were voices of dissent, of course. Some argued he was too young, too deep in grief, to lead. They doubted his ability, questioned his readiness. But others, those who had watched Fionn Mactavish prepare his son for this very moment, stood firm. Johnny had been groomed for this position his whole life. He had the blood of his father in him, the strength, the wisdom — and with the right guidance, he could be the greatest leader the clan had ever seen.

Johnny, ever determined to prove himself, chose Ser John as his primary advisor. The knight had sworn his loyalty to him the moment he awoke after the battle, vowing to protect the clan and pay for the sins that haunted him.

Johnny had scoffed at his knight's display of guilt. Of course, your knight was plagued with the same remorse as you. It was almost... fascinating. Johnny had accepted the offer, knowing deep down that if Ser John remained by his side, so would you. And, perhaps, that was the one comfort he could hold onto in these dark times.

As the council meeting wrapped up, Johnny lingered, unwilling to join the others just yet. He needed time alone, moments of solitude to clear his mind. His knee was throbbing with pain anyway. 

Even after weeks, there was still something he hadn't shared with anyone — the truth that weighed heavy on his chest. The traitor’s name. His own sister. The clan could never know what she had done. It would tear them apart, unravel the very fabric of their unity. He wasn’t ready to face it, not yet. And perhaps he never would be. 

She had come to him in the middle of the night once, just as she did when they were children, seeking comfort from the rough thunderstorms that rattled the windows. This time, however, it wasn’t fear of the storm that had brought Isla to his chambers — it was guilt. She had cried, pleaded, and begged on her knees for forgiveness, her voice trembling with desperation.

But Johnny was no longer the boy she had once known. He was no longer the boy who had watched over her, protective and kind, blinded by sibling love. The weight of what had happened had forged something darker within him. He held grudges like no one else.

Hatred surged through his veins at the very sight of her. Every time he looked at Isla, all he saw was the decapitated head of his father. The man who had given his life for the clan, for his children. Her father. Their sisters’ father. A father who now lay beside their mother, cold and lifeless, the life ripped away from him — all because of her.

Johnny could no longer see her as the scared little girl who had sought his comfort in the dark. No, now she was the cause of everything that had fallen apart, the reason for the endless pain that echoed through the clan. It was all her fault. Every bit of it.

Shaking his head, Johnny fought to ignore the throb in his knee, a constant reminder of the battle’s toll on him. The pain had become something almost familiar now, something he had come to accept. But it didn't make it any less excruciating. He made his way through the labyrinth of corridors, his footsteps echoing in the quiet castle as he sought a moment of peace. A small clearing behind the castle offered just that — a brief respite from the weight of his thoughts.

This clearing had always been his mother's favorite place. She would take him there when he was a child, when he was filled with a rage he couldn't understand, a fire that burned deep inside him. She would make him lie down beneath the old oak tree, her fingers threading through his hair as they watched the clouds drift by. How he missed her, more than words could say. She had been the one person who had always understood him, who had known exactly how to calm his restless heart.

That tree had always been their secret place — a place where she had never taken any of his sisters, a space that had been his and hers alone. So when he stumbled upon the sight of you lying there, beneath the same oak tree, it took him completely off guard.

You wore a soft green dress, the color so familiar, so tied to memories of his mother. It was her favorite shade, the one she had always worn on days when she wanted to feel peaceful. And now, here you were, in that same color, in the place where she had once comforted him. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring you to him in her stead.

He realized, with a lump in his throat, that she was watching over him. She had sent you to him.

It had been a long time since he had seen you. So much had happened, and he had far too much on his plate to deal with the anger he felt toward you. He had heard the stories of your actions on the day of the battle, how you had been willing to sacrifice yourself for the others.

The news had filled him with rage and frustration. How could you be so careless, so willing to throw your life away without thinking of the people who cared about you? He couldn’t imagine waking up, knowing his father was dead, and then hearing that you, too, were gone. It would have broken him.

But now, as his eyes fell on your peaceful face, all that anger melted away. You looked like an angel, lying so gently on the grass, eyes closed in serene bliss, letting the warmth of the sun bathe you. Spring was in full bloom, and soon it would give way to summer. The air was warm, but it wasn’t the weather that was soothing Johnny’s heart. It was you — your presence, the quiet peace you brought with you.

In that moment, he felt his heart melt, slowly but surely, the warmth of it spreading through him like sunlight on a cold day.

As Johnny approached you, he moved carefully, mindful of his limp. He was aware of every step, every slight shift of his weight, but to him, it all seemed so loud. Yet Ser John had always told him it was just in his head. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that every step was a thunderclap, every movement too heavy, too obvious.

And you heard him. Of course you did. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open, as if you had been waiting for this moment. It was as though you had known he would come to you. No words were needed between you two, not anymore. There was no space for them, no room for the clumsy syllables of the past.

A single glance was enough.

In that one look, everything unspoken, every fear, every sorrow, every moment of shared pain and survival, passed between the two of you. It was like the near-death experiences, the battles, the loss, had forged an invisible bond—one neither of you could break, no matter how hard you tried.

It was as if your souls, once adrift, had finally found each other, in this moment, in this life. And somehow, despite all the chaos, all the heartbreak, this was where you both were meant to be.

Gently, Johnny laid his head in your lap, the world around him quiet and still. For a moment, all that existed was the sound of his breath, the warmth of your presence, and the sky above. He let his eyes wander, tracing the clouds like he used to do with his mother, each one a silent whisper, a reminder that she was still with him in some way.

Your hand drifted into his hair, your fingers gently scratching his scalp, a comforting gesture he hadn’t known he needed until now. The touch was soft, tender, a grounding presence in the whirlwind of emotions he couldn’t quite make sense of.

Tears welled in his eyes, running down his cheeks as he allowed the grief and the weight of everything to finally escape. The pain, the loss, the guilt—everything he had buried deep within him. He couldn’t stop them, couldn’t hold them back, not when he was in this peaceful, safe moment with you.

He reached up, grabbing your hand, stilling your movement. He brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the long scar that marred your skin, a quiet gesture of reverence. Slowly, he let your hand return to his hair, and in the comfort of your touch, he found solace.

In that moment, Johnny knew something profound. Everything was going to be alright. His life, though scarred and full of grief, would be full of hope. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a glimmer of peace.

As his eyelids fluttered closed, and he drifted into a gentle sleep, he swore he saw his parents’ faces in the clouds above, watching over him with love, guiding him forward.

[thatsodapopgirl]

Another Appleradio/Radioapple idea

Lucifer Rescues Alastor from Secret Organization/Cult

A secret organization would summon demons and actually imprison them to experiment or keep them as trophies. Alastor was summoned and captured, but being the sly dealmaker he is and is able to manipulate his captors during his captivity.

Learning about them, their goals and how they were able to do this for so long. Alastor decided to play the long game so he would eventually reach the person in charge and deal with them accordingly. He spent about a month until one day the ground shook and split open.

The ground opened and hellborne nights were led by Lucifer himself. It was a slaughter and Alastor wished he partook or at least had popcorn as he watched the show.

When Lucifer got Alastor out his cell, instead of gratitude he received sarcastic response

Alastor: Thanks for the save, but I didn’t ask to be rescued

Lucifer: You have no idea what I, Charlie and the rest went through since you’ve gone missing

Alastor: Oh please, it’s only been a month-

Lucifer: A year! It’s been a year since you disappeared! I searched all over hell! Even the other rings but nothing! It was until I got a lead from an escapee that mortals were capturing demons

Soldier: Sir, we believe we caught the man in charge of this operation

The boss was in chains and forced on his knees as he glared at Lucifer. But when Lucifer’s wrathful gaze laid upon him, the human’s resolve shattered and could only feel fear.

Lucifer: So, you’re the one who stole from me.

Lucifer’s breathed out fire as he got close to the human’s face.

Lucifer: When I’m done, you’ll know to never steal from the king of hell

[thelien-art]

Arafinwë, Eärwen, & Grandchildren

-and great grandchildren

Latest portaits

Sons of Fëanáro - Fëanor, Nerdanel & Celebrimbor - Children of Ñolofinwë - Ñolofinwë, Anairë & Grandchildren - Children of Arafinwë - Finwë, Míriel, Indis & Findis, Írimë

HC:

Finarfin: I like to think he was sent to Olwë´s court when young and also sees Olwë´s own sons as brothers, and that he befriended them before meeting Eärwen. Finarfin is said to be the wisest and fairest of Finwë´s sons, which I think is because of the rivalry between Feanor and Fingolfin. As all of Valinor´s eyes were turned to Feanor and Fingolfin, with Melkor pulling strings too, Finarfin had the possibility to look at everything from above, after all he is the third son, there is no possibility he should ever become king, why would anyone suck up to him in the hope of winning his favor when he becomes king, or try to tear him away from his people? This also made him able to just not care if someone says something to him he finds hard to believe, instead of wondering over it and letting it grow, he will simply shrug it off, also after becoming king. I think Finarfin cared deeply for both his brothers. Still, when they set off to follow Melkor, with Finarfin´s own children, he already knew how this would end, as he had already seen everything in Valinor, and therefore knew it was doomed with no hope. However, this was also what made him fight at the War of Wrath, his love for his brothers and family, only to be shattered in the destruction before him.

Normally his hair would look something like this

Eärwen: After the doom of Mandos and Finarfin leaving for Tirion to become high king I think Eärwen left for Alqualondë for at least a good age where Anairë later joins her before they both decide to move back to Tirion and Eärwen then gets crowned as queen, although she never really bent for Noldo modesty even if some of the people would have liked it.

Orodreth: I HC Orodrth´s mother as Noldo, and while I think he took a lot after his father Angrod in his quite nature I also think that when meeting his wife he slowly begins leening more over to the Sinda side, meaning while he still braids his hair he slowly begins braiding it under Noldorin customs, which also weakens his hold on his people in some way, which makes it even easier for Celegorm and Curufin when they come. I don´t think he´s weak, he was just used to being a counselor and then suddenly his father dies, and his uncle leaves him to take care of a kingdom, we all know how that went, and before he knows it his daughter is standing side by side with a human who have grown up in Thingol´s court, survived the wilderness, and who´s own father is taking captive by Morgoth, and Finduilas trusts him, so why shouldn´t he? After all, Túrin can understand some of what he feels.

Finduilas: As she is born her father already leans more into Sinda culture so I don´t think she ever really tasted a Noldo upbringing, except when with Finrod, who I think first really entered her life when she was close to an adult as he was busy traveling with the Edain. I do think she was in love with Gwindor until the end, and she cared for him when he returned, although when she meets Túrin she sees everything Gwindor was before his capture, mixed with hate and despair that is easy enough to look over. I think she stands as a symbolic pillar of hope for all the free people of Beleriand up to her death, which also made her extremely sheltered as she was meant to survive, she was meant to be protected, so when she falls a lot of hope falls too.

Celebrian: I think Celebrian had a peaceful life, she was only young when Celebrimbor died, and while she was a child when Annatar was present and she was undoubtedly sorrowful of the fall she never saw it, so all she had was stories from the first really. While Elrond loved her in secret in many years, I think she was quite loud herself about her interest in him, even if it took very long to pick up on it. She cared for her children deeply and did a lot to spend as much time with them as possible and show them all of their mixed heritage as well as she could, she also taught them how to hunt, although she was never a master at it, it was just something she did for fun, in the later years a lot with Glorfindel, and soon enough Elladan and Elrohir outdid her in it. I do think she tried to stay as much as long as possible after her capture but at the end had to accept her only choice was to sail unless she would rather fade slowly. In appearance, she takes most after Celeborn, only inheriting her mother´s curls and lips.

[idkyetxoxo]

Criston Cole || Masterlist

This masterlist is solely focused on Criston Cole, all written as xreader pieces without any specific physical descriptions.

All works have warnings stated before but please read at your own risk!

— ALL ONESHOTS BELOW ->

Fan favourites: 🌟 My favourites: 💓

Cruel Fates 🌟💓

• Sexual content (smut!)

In a world of forbidden desires and shifting loyalties, a passionate yet doomed love story unravels, leading to betrayal, fiery vengeance, and the haunting realization that some emotions can destroy everything they touch.

The Realm's Delight 🌟💓

• None

Sworn protector of the heir, but he finds it impossible to resist looking out for her younger sister, a spirited tease who delights in tormenting him at every turn. Her playful antics and sharp wit challenge his resolve, leaving him both exasperated and inexplicably drawn to her.

Touch Starved Hearts 🌟💓

• Sexual content (oral f!receiving), violence (brief domestic), strong language

In a tense confrontation, she lashes out at her unfaithful husband, Aegon, for his constant disrespect. Amidst the heated argument, she finds comfort and unexpected tenderness in the arms of Ser Criston, who offers her the affection and desire she has long been denied.

Leave It All Behind 🌟

• Sexual content (smut!), unexpected pregnancy

A princess and her knight are entangled in a dangerous affair. As they grapple with the consequences of a mistake, they must make a daring decision to flee their lives of prestige for a chance at love and freedom, risking everything to protect their future.

Guarded Obsession 🌟💓

• Strong language

Navigating court gossip and unwanted advances, a confrontation erupts where her obsessive protector, Ser Criston, steps in with fervent determination. His unwavering devotion to her becomes evident, revealing his willingness to defy all norms and protect her at any cost.

Midnight Rain

• Sexual content (smut!)

A passionate love affair between people with opposing desires unravels as one yearns for stability while the other craves turmoil. Their romance is a bittersweet routine until a revelation unveils leaving both to confront the haunting echoes of what could have been.

Bound by Duty 🌟

• Sexual content (smut!)

During a celebration, she finds herself thrust into chaos as a brawl erupts. Rescued by her sworn protector, their bond deepens leading to an intimate encounter that defies the constraints of duty and status, leaving them both aching for a love that could unravel the realm.

A Dragon Ride 🌟

• Sexual content (smut!!)

Born to ride dragons, she is determined to share her passion with Criston. Despite his initial hesitation, he becomes captivated. As they descend into a secluded valley, she draws him into a dance of wonder and intimacy, revealing the true magic of dragon riding.

The Princess and the Protector

• Violence (injury?)

Embarking on a daring flight, only to suffer a painful injury with her dragon, she grapples with her wound and the threat of her father's wrath, her loyal knight, Ser Criston, steps in to help, igniting a simmering tension between responsibility and yearning.

Love Beyond the Oath

• None

She longs for someone who is sworn to a life without love. During a royal ball, she faces an unwelcome suitor, but her knight intervenes, revealing a protective side that sparks deeper feelings. Now, they must confront whether love can thrive amidst loyalty and tradition.

Protect and Serve 🌟

• None

Even the sternest sworn protectors can reveal their hidden feelings when faced with the playful schemes of a mischievous princess and her equally spirited friend.

Damned

• Mild language

A love between a Kingsguard and the late king's sister defies expectations. When loyalty, family, and a child on the way are thrown into the chaos, they must navigate the line between love and honour, with heartbreaking consequences that could shatter them both.

Seduced

• Sexual content (smut!)

She schemes to claim her sister's sworn protector, Ser Criston Cole. As passion ignites, she risks everything for a night of reckless abandon, challenging the bonds of loyalty and family. Will she succeed in her pursuit, or will the consequences unravel them all?

Crimson Shadows

 • Parental abuse

She navigates her father's oppressive rule and her growing bond with a steward's son, who is determined to protect her at all costs. As their friendship deepens, the stakes rise, and the shadows of their past threaten to unravel everything.

The Price of Temptations

• Sexual content (smut!), strong language

A silver-haired brothel worker with Targaryen blood captivates Ser Criston Cole, who struggles to despise her but fails at every touch. Torn between duty and desire, he battles the dangerous, forbidden obsession that defies his oaths—and consumes them both.

A Halo of Ruin

• Sexual content (smut!)

Sworn to oaths, he finds his unshakable honour shattered the moment he lays eyes on her. She unravels him, making him forget his vows, duty and the very essence of who he is. What follows is a dangerous obsession, where honour takes a backseat to forbidden desire.

In Shadows and Chains

• Mild language

In a kingdom fraught with power struggles, a woman trapped in a marriage to Daemon grapples with humiliation and betrayal. Yearning for freedom, she finds solace in her secret affair, forcing her to confront her dark reality and the secrets that bind her to Daemon.

Where Honour Lies

• Violence (one slap)

Her frantic rush to avoid punishment turns into a confrontation when she collides with a knight, whose cruel words push her to act out. As tensions rise, someone steps in to protect her. An unexpected bond forms—one that hints at something deeper, yet still uncertain.

Fascination

• None

She channels her mother's defiance, catching the dark, dangerous interest of Ser Criston Cole. She finds herself both trapped and intrigued by Criston's magnetic presence. Their volatile interactions spark a dangerous undercurrent of power, pride, and unspoken attraction.

I Love You, I'm Sorry

• None

A love torn apart by duty and regret, where time becomes a tormentor. As he returns to seek redemption, his apologies fall on broken hearts, unable to undo the past. In the shadows of what once was, two souls are left to grapple with the irreparable damage of their love.

Of Sand and Snow

• None

In a land where duty binds hearts and souls, a forbidden romance blossoms, their stolen moments charged with longing and guilt. As their bond deepens, they are torn between honour and desire, knowing their love can never be.

Lost in Desire

• Sexual content (hand stuff?)

She defies danger to find the man she loves on the battlefield, where passion and duty collide. Their bond is tested as war rages around them.

Saved

• Suicidal Ideation

A knight teeters on the edge of despair, his sword poised for the ultimate end. But when a quiet voice pulls him back from the brink, a fragile connection begins to form. They navigate the silence between them, and both find that healing, like love, takes time.

In the Dead of Night

• None

A princess seeks to learn the art of swordsmanship in secret from her reluctant instructor, Criston. As they train under the moonlight, their proximity sparks a connection. The clandestine sessions set the stage for a deeper bond and uncharted possibilities.

For works involving other characters from House of the Dragon, please check out my House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Ok but what if I had to continue this story about Knight!Ghost and Presumptuous maiden!reader

She can still feel his breath on her, but the huge body pinning her to the wall ceases to move.

"...What?"

It’s pure shock.

She’s dropped so quickly she has to take support from the stones behind her.

She wouldn’t have to: Simon grabs her by the arm and prevents her from falling forward and back towards that plated chest. His eyes search for hers, and she looks up at the knight who almost raped her – in the corridor of all places like she’s nothing but a common whore. But for the first time ever there’s genuine shock, even fear in his stare. The remnants of lust flicker back alive every now and then, but mostly he looks like she just hurled a powerful curse at him when she told him she’s a virgin.

"I'm sorry,” she tries. “I’ll–I’ll never do it again. I promise."

"Bloody fucking…"

He looks her up and down, the leather straps of his armour wailing from his still heaving chest. She should bolt, now, when Simon has taken a step away from her and is clearly puzzled and confused. But she can’t: those eyes rise to hold her captive again. And now, there’s anger in them.

"You should be whipped."

"For what...?"

Her chest is heaving, too. She never knew how low her voice could get when there's want in the air and in her veins.

"You attacked me, sir. I should have you whipped," she continues like an absolute fool.

"Don't test me, girl," he slurs behind bared teeth. She finally remembers how to shut up.

"Tsk."

Simon nudges his head towards the stairway leading to her quarters. Get out while you can, the gesture says, and she gathers the hem of her heavy woollen dress and flees.

She never believed her miserable begging would stop or sway him. Simon is bound by oath and honour, or then he doesn’t want his master’s wrath upon him. Her worth is between her legs; they both know it. Defiling the king’s daughter could lose him his head.

She climbs the stairs, slips into her room and bolts the door. It should probably be strange that she’s left aching by what just happened. It should make her wake up from her silly dreams, that the only thing stopping this man from raping her is other men, not her feelings and sensibilities.

It should be considered a doom, not fate, that she only wants him more.

…

Simon never participates in the tournaments, but this time, rumour has it that he’s planning to join.

In a distressed hurry, she makes preparations for the great day. There can be no other reason for him to joust other than the wish to win her favour back. His actions speak louder than any words, and just for the sake of that, she has kept her promise. She walks the halls as if the knight called Simon never even existed. She won’t look his way even when he has his back turned on her. She only dreams about him when the moon is full and there are no more candles burning in her lonely room.

But it’s hard.

It’s difficult, and it’s a horrible fate she has to suffer, because now it’s he who can’t keep his eyes off her. Now it’s Simon who has suddenly caught her scent, who is suddenly interested in dangerous, stupid sports such as jousting that could injure or kill a man. But he’s willing to do the thing he apparently hates most – along with the fevered attention of insufferable, flirtatious maidens – because he needs a token of her favour. She’s sure of it: that’s why she embroiders a tiny ‘S’ on her finest, most precious handkerchief.

The tournament day is as beautiful as can be. Her heart is about to rend itself out of her chest when Simon approaches her, riding across the field in his heaviest grey armour. He’s surrendering himself at her mercy, and at the mercy of other people’s ridicule, rumour and gossip by making it known that he thinks himself worthy of her blessing. She wonders if she’s the one being played now: she can’t decipher why he would refuse her one day, then fight to gain her favour the next.

He accepts her silken handkerchief with a blank expression, but his eyes betray the inner turmoil when he sees the embroidery. A plain, simple token would have sufficed – the adorned ‘S’ is a bit too much, it's a clear sign. It’s ten times more clear than her earlier games, ten times more blaring than her vivacious little flirt. She could've embroidered the sentence “If you come up to my room at nightfall, I will let you in,” on it and the meaning would've been just as obvious.

He tucks it under his breastplate and gives her a sideways look that is filled with both distaste and longing. Only Simon can speak entire sentences through his eyes. They say, “You’ve gone too far,” and “If I come out of this alive, you’ll get whipped, or fucked, or both.”

And one thing she never knew about Simon was that he could joust better than anyone. There’s one dead, three wounded and five humiliated by the time Simon is declared the winner of the tournament. Everyone understands now why he never joins these things: he will only rob the fun of other knights by toying with them.

Her chosen one accepts the king’s words and the crowd’s applause with a stern but slightly painful expression. Simon would rather be anywhere but here, but endures being the centre of attention for the rest of the afternoon like a good, patient dog. Then he disappears somewhere, done with being the sudden pet of the people. The next time she sees him is in the morning as she descends the stairs.

“Fawn.”

She flinches from the now familiar dark voice. He’s been waiting for her, and almost prowls forth from the shadows when she’s floating down the steps. There’s a good few feet between them, but she can feel the heat emanating from him. Simon is always blazing like the sun, and he's always tired, downright exhausted, encumbered by pain or something worse.

“Do you always forget your promises so quickly?”

She corrects her posture under his tall shadow; she should’ve known there would be consequences for that handkerchief.

"What crime have I committed now?"

Simon never expects it when she fights back. Long, pale lashes cover the brief bafflement in his eyes, then he reaches for something under his tunic. Her heart skips a beat – he has kept it against his skin, right over his heart, instead of under the plate where he tucked it at the joust.

"This belongs to you," he holds it between them like it’s nothing but a piece of dirty cotton he wants to get rid of. Or then he doesn’t want to stain it with his hands – who knows? This man is so full of contradictions she’s having a hard time getting to the bottom of his soul. She has all the time in the world to study different characters here in the castle, but Simon remains a tightly locked mystery.

"No,” she lifts her chin proudly. “It belongs to you."

His nostrils flare for a moment – a sign of anger or exhilaration; you’d need a powerful witch to tell.

“A knight should return the lady’s favour if he survives the joust,” he mutters, clearly trying to make an effort to speak finely to a fine lady.

“You don’t have to. I made it for you.”

He grunts with frustration, then shoves her gift back inside his tunic. Then he tilts his head. A strange, dark little smile rises on his lips.

"Fawn. Did your father ever beat you?"

It’s only morning, but Simon makes it feel like they’re having this conversation in the cold, damp dungeons. Her heart shudders at the foul words, and yet, she fights to maintain eye contact. She fights both tooth and nail to look straight into the abyss.

"No."

"I can tell."

Insolent bastard, is her first thought at such audacity, but two can play this game, is the second. She takes a slow step forward and rejoices silently when Simon struggles to remain still.

"If I was your wife…" she starts softly, "Would you beat me?"

His nostrils flare again as he looks for a trap where there is none. She’s standing before him without any shields, with no weapons, and he still can’t tell, the poor man.

"I don't beat women," he finally spits. Then he succumbs to the impulse to get away from her, although it looks like he’s struggling to do so, too. He has to wrench himself free, and it gives her more power to rise rooted: to meet his crude manners, the arrogance of a dog.

"You'd never be my wife," is the last thing he says, so quietly that it’s nothing but a mutter; a sullen whisper. The birds have fallen silent, or then she can’t hear them anymore. The golden light that pours from the narrow windows makes it suddenly seem like this morning could last an eternity.

"Why not?" She whispers back.

The moment shatters – her knight escapes like he’s the fragile little fawn now. The clatter of his armour makes it known how much of a hurry he’s in to get away from the golden light... And from her.