#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 :…

[jaronxlordashcombe]

Tell publicly 3 facts about yourself or your three favourite songs or favourite books (it can be anything really) then send it to 10 of your most cherished friends or followers

Now Im doing books!

3. Warriors series by Erin Hunter

2. The Blackthorn Key series by Kevin Sands

THE ASCENDANCE SERIES By Jennifer A. Nelison

[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?”

[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~

[peachysunrize]

Devil’s Doll ⥃ Mob boss!Aemond

Summary: no one can do anything when Aemond Targaryen sets his eye on a sweet girl and comes to the party with her on his arms, and those who dare to say an ill word will face his wrath with a bullet in their head.

Warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, p in v, possessive & obsessive Aemond, mob/mafia au! Murder, creampie, Aemond is a sociopath simp for you, blood & gore, oral (F! Receiving), rough sex, Qoren Martell is an ass here, self defense murder, ztell me if I’ve missed anything. English isn’t my first language so if you’re not okay with that, simply ignore this post. if you don't wanna read dark content, block rue:darkcontent <3

Word count: 3.5k

a/n: babeeees! Hello and welcome back to another unhinged smutty one shot I have written! Hope this satisfies your needs for possessive Aemond🤭 please reblog and comment, it’s most appreciated🩷

A very special thank you to @targaryen-dynasty for beta-ing this piece!🩷🫂

In the world of crimes, Aemond Targaryen’s name is enough to make men shiver in fear. The ruthless nature of him has been the subject of many late-night stories in the past few years in the filthy streets of King’s Landing and beyond.

The one-eyed prince they call him. The infamous second son of Viserys the Coward has built an empire solely around one thing; blood and vengeance. 

After the murder of his fiance at the hands of his uncle, he became an untamed beast, bloodthirsty and hungry for revenge to the point that he became the god in the eyes of many — he wiped the streets off any man from his sister’s clan, ruled on the ashes of their bones and burnt flesh.

He thrived in the newfound power, he cherished it and greedily took more and more until there was nothing left more to take. Aemond Targaryen became the head of his clan with his loyal followers doing anything to please him and keep their heads attached to their necks.

So when he finds a new sweet girl at the local coffee shop he frequents, his emotions begin to cloud his judgment or heighten it in a way.

It starts innocently; a black coffee with dark chocolate on a daily basis, a sweet smile, and ‘Have a nice day, sir!’ Always ready for him. 

Sweet girl, he calls you when you bring him his order and brushes his fingers atop yours when you lean down to put his coffee on the table.

He looks, he observes, and he obsesses over your every move, every step you take, every inhale and exhale. He likes watching you.

The ruthless god of the criminal world has set his eye on his new prey.

You notice him, of course you do, because he wants you to know about him, he wants you to be as interested in him as he is in you. He loves how your lips move when you question his motives; sweet girl he calls you again, telling you how beautiful you look when you work and how he desperately wishes he could take you out on a date. But he can’t, not when his enemies are behind the corner, ready to strike where he is weak.

Yes, you are his weakness, and the one-eye god isn’t used to it, but for you… oh for you he would murder, he would let his bloodlust get the best of him and commit a massacre just to see a glimpse of your smile.

He catches you crying in the corner of the cafe, mouth agape as you stare at the man who was supposed to be your date for today, lying limp and lifeless with a bullet in his head.

Sweet girl, he calls you as he brushes your hair out of your face, you look like a doll, his doll, and oh, in the pit of your stomach you feel a strange warmth because of his heated gaze. He is smiling, he shouldn’t but he is, and you smile back, captivated by his nature, by his cruelty and devotion.

It feels like fresh air when you reach out to caress his dimples, how he has dreamed of your soft skin on his. The touch only makes him hungrier, a desire, a need to make you his, and he does that night. He takes you to your small apartment, giving you a pleasure like no other while you cling to him — sweet girl, my doll, he calls you, vowing in his head to protect you, and when he asks you why you do not feel disgusted by what he has done to that man, you reply:

“I’m sick of heroes. They ruin their loved ones to keep others safe. But a villain, my devil, you, will burn the city without letting a flame touch my skin.”

He is like your shadow from that day; following you around in the dark without you noticing, keeping his business up while he focuses on you. Sweet girl, he thinks, how you smile at those unworthy people, your smile should be his and his only.

The news spreads like fire; Aemond Targaryen has found a new plaything. As soon as those words fall from one of his men, others gasp and shriek, staring at the poor man’s head that has a hole carved with Aemond’s bullet.

Plaything they say, he scoffs at the thought. You are no plaything for him, you are his sun, his moon, the air to his lungs, you are fuel for his soul, and he wishes he could burn under you to show you how much you mean to him, to crumble into pieces and let you stomp over him while he basks in the glow of your face.

You are his doll, The Devil’s doll.

He knows how dangerous his world is, he understands it perfectly, and that’s why he nearly loses himself when he finds the door to your apartment ajar with muddy footprints leading to your bedroom.

He sees red when the scent of iron hits his nose; blood, he thinks. What has happened to you? He has never felt such a strong emotion before, not for his fiance or even his sister. Now, he is shaking with fury, his knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the gun.

You leap into his arm as soon as you spot him in the doorway, letting the knife fall from your hands while you push yourself to him, clutching his shoulders while you sob.

He sighs in relief, holding you in his arms tighter than he has ever done before. You’re alright, his sweet girl, his doll. He listens to you intently, wiping off the tears that fall from your gorgeous eyes gently, oh you look just like a dream come true; your dress is covered in blood, a man you killed for defense lying on the floor beneath his boot.

He has never been more proud of anyone than he is of you.

He wants to show you off to the world, sick of all the hiding and lies behind the rumors spread by Rhaenyra’s clan. He needs to let everyone know how beautiful his doll is, and what a goddess he has in his arms.

He helps you get ready, keeping his hands all over your body while you try to put some clothes on, giggling and indulging him as he kisses your bare shoulders, groaning at the sight of you in black and red.

“Sweet girl, I have to be the luckiest man alive to have you as mine.” He whispers in your ear, eye narrow as he takes you in again, thinking about how he could be graced by your presence.

“And I the luckiest girl, my love. You make me feel so happy,” you reply, spraying your perfume on your neck and collarbones, and Aemond nearly moans as he takes your scent in.

“Fuck, you have to be a sorceress, I am bewitched by your beauty and smile. What have you done to me, doll? What spell have you put me under?” He attacks your neck with kisses, relishing in the small giggle you gift him.

“I’ve poured a potion in your coffee every day, to make sure your eye only sees me and no other girl.” You joke, turning around in his arms to give him a soft peck on the lips, mindful of your lipstick to leave no trace on his clean-shaven face.

“Don’t give me ideas, doll. I might do it just to keep you all to myself.” He grins, his dimples on display for you to kiss them, chuckling as you try to wipe the red stains off his face.

“Oh, I would love that. Please do, my love,” you match his smile, lopping your arms around his neck, “now, let’s go to this party. The sooner we go, the sooner we can leave and have our fun.”

“Anything for you, sweet girl.” He says, offering you his arm as you both walk towards the door, Aemond helping you down while you hold the long skirt of your dress in your hand, taking cautious steps to the car.

Criston nods at both of you and opens the door, waiting until the two of you are settled inside the car before he gets in himself and starts driving to the location.

Aemond was reluctant to attend this party, after all, it was hosted by one of the clans that were loyal to his sister, but his grandfather convinced him to go with Aegon and Daeron, but he declined and said he’d rather go alone with his doll.

You smile at him, caressing his ring-clattered fingers that are caressing your thigh gently, talking with Cole about what is expected of tonight; murder for sure, but he would rather not get caught up in the whirlwind of hatred he has for his sister and uncle, and most importantly, he needs to keep you safe from all the eyes of those hungry men.

The ride to the mansion is quick, and a sense of dread fills the two of you when your eyes meet. Aemond presses a kiss to your forehead to both calm himself and you before the car comes to a stop and he steps out, coming to your side and holding your hand to help you on your feet.

The moment you step inside the house, you are greeted by various couples, men, women, and people that you have no idea about. You keep your head high, squeezing Aemond’s arm as the two of you hide your discomfort behind a smile while everyone keeps staring at you.

“Targaryen,” someone calls Aemond behind you, “you honored me with coming tonight!” You both turn around, finding Mr. Tyrell and his wife and oldest daughter waiting to greet you.

“The honor is mine, sir,” Aemond shakes his hand, reaching to press a kiss to Mrs. Tyrell’s hand, “thank you for having us tonight. Let me introduce you to my girl,” he puts his large palm on your waist, gently pulling you closer to him as you shake and greet your hosts.

“You certainly have won yourself a prize, Aemond.”

“No prize is as beautiful as she is, I’m afraid.” Your lover says, pinching your waist playfully away from the eyes of the attendees, looking at you with nothing but adoration and unconditional devotion.

“You’re too kind, my love,” you smile, “Lady Tyrell, I would love to get to know you more.” Aemond nods at you gratefully, glad that he has discussed his plans for the party with you.

Aemond watches you being led away by the ladies, letting the smile fall from his lips as he gazes back at Tyrell himself, “I hope you have good reasons for wasting my time here.”

“I do, Mr. Targaryen. I wish to introduce you to Prince Martell from Dorne.” Tyrell says, pointing at a group of men who’re talking intensely. As soon as the two of them approach the group, they grow silent, waiting for Aemond to say something — their silence could be because of two things, either they respect him, or they’re terrified of him.

He hoped it was the latter, for with fear there comes blind respect and loyalty.

“Ah, Targaryen,” Prince Qoren Martell says, reaching to shake Aemond’s hand, “how wonderful to finally meet the One-Eyed God of the underground. Made yourself quite the name, huh?” Qoren smirks, already sensing how his words irritate Aemond.

Aemond shakes his hand back, tightening the hold he has on him, a ghost of a sinister smile forms on his face while he stares at the Dornish man with his indigo eye.

“Can’t say the same about you, Prince Qoren. What have you been doing all this time, not ruining the South, I hope?”

“You’re funny,” Qoren laughs, tapping Aemond on the shoulder, “Ah, I missed someone who’d challenged me over stupid things, kind of feels good to have a kid like you around.”

“Mind your words, Martell. He is no ordinary man, these silly little challenges will be the least of your concerns if he decides you’re not worth his time.” Barros Baratheon, ever the loyal dog of Aemond, speaks up, standing tall and proud next to him.

“Pft, please, I’m sure he knows I’m joking!” Qoren laughs nervously this time, “but… I don’t think your man isn’t doing great nowadays huh?”

“What do you mean?” Aemond asks, slapping Qoren’s hand away, “I wonder what has been said that makes you so full of yourself.”

“I don’t need to say a thing, look, your pretty plaything is coming,” Martell smirks as he eyes you up, watching the sway of your hips as you walk shyly towards Aemond, feeling a bit out of place due to all the looks on you.

“Eyes on me, Martell,” Aemond says through gritted teeth, anger swimming in his good eye as he watches the Dornish man look at you intently.

“Aemond…” he turns around at the sound of your voice, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Sweet girl—“

“Ah, it’s truly a shame that a beautiful girl like you wouldn’t reach anywhere with being a side chick for a Targaryen.” A deadly silence falls on the group, Aemond with his ever-rising temper looks at Qoren who hasn’t realized what he has truly said.

“Elaborate, Martell.” He hisses, reaching to pull you closer to him, covering your body mostly with his.

“You need a lady sooner or later, I doubt a woman from her status would be a good choice of a wife for you. You need someone stronger, with more connections, and a mind as sharp as you, not just a pretty whore to keep your bed warm,” Qoren shrugs, and a few men from his side laugh and agree with him.

Aemond presses his lips into a thin line, his fingers twitching in anger as he gazes at Qoren; he looks murderous, ready to pull his gun out and empty a bullet in that useless head of his — but he’s stopped by the sound of your sniffing.

He looks at you, his features softening immediately when he sees your teary eyes. He feels as if he’s about to die with a dagger in his good eye; the look on your face hurts him, burns his heart, and tears it into pieces. The string you’ve wrapped around him tightens and tightens until he cradles your smaller face in his hand, pressing a sweet kiss to your quivering lips before his eye turn black with madness.

He pushes you behind him, and in a second, the hall is filled with screams and shrieks of horror and bullets flying around, bodies of the men who dared to disrespect Aemond’s doll are falling on the floor next to his shoes one by one.

He feels you bury your head in his blazer, gasping at the sound of yet another bullet firing into someone’s head. Aemond doesn’t blink, not even once. His blood is pumping with the urge to showcase how much he’s willing to do to keep his sweet girl happy and content.

“Let this be a reminder to all of you,” his voice echoes in the hall, “whoever dares to say anything about my girl will face the same fate; death! Aemond Targaryen will go to a fucking war for his future wife!” With that, he holds his gun upwards to the ceiling, firing not one, not two, but nearly six bullets to make sure the hall is empty besides the corpses and the two of you.

“Aemond…”

“Shh,” he shushes you roughly, pressing his lips into a searing kiss to yours, groaning at the sweet taste of your lips. He adores losing himself in you; in your taste, in your scent, in every ounce of attention you give him. He feels blessed to even breathe the same air as you, but kissing you… his heart stops every time his lips meet yours, and now, with adrenaline and anger swirling in his veins, he wants nothing but to show you his devotion — even if it comes out as a rough fucking session while staring at the men he killed for you.

His trimmed nails dig into your sides, groaning at the feeling of you melting beneath his rough touch. Aemond is a man possessed with how he handles you, strong and confident while he finds the closest table and finally breaks the kiss.

He watches how your chest heaves with ragged breaths, lips swollen, and eyes wide and hazy with lust — the perfect picture of a goddess that he has been graced with.

He turns you around, pushing you on the table until you’re bending over, looking directly at the limp bodies on the floor drowning in their own blood. He hums as his fingers caress your spine before he strikes you on your ass, humming at the feeling of the weight of your flesh under his hand. 

He doesn’t have the will to wait anymore. He drops on his knees, pushing your dress up to your hips until he’s face to face with your bare pussy; wet and ready to be devoured. 

“Good girl,” he praises you for listening to him when he asked you earlier to not wear any underwear, “The most gorgeous cunt I’ve ever seen, prettiest girl, my doll.” He’s already drunk on your essence without even tasting it, that’s how much he adores you.

He moans at the same time as you do when he finally dives in, wrapping his thin lips around your buzzing clit as he devours and eats like a starved dog, caging your hips while he takes and takes and takes from you.

There’s not a thought in his head, empty and filled with nothing but an urge to show you how eager he is to please and protect you, your loyal dog he calls himself.

The One-Eyed God crumbles for a simple barista girl, and not a single soul dares to say a word, for if they say, they’ll experience his rage.

Aemond is quick and messy with how his tongue laps up your wetness, creating lewd sounds that have both of your hearts racing. His fingers join his tongue, filling you up slightly and giving you the friction you need, but you know him, the only way you can come is on his cock.

You whine in agony as he leaves you aching for more as soon as he feels you getting closer, but he doesn’t leave you waiting for too long. The sound of his zipper brings back your attention to him, and he chuckles in delight when he sees you wiggling yourself back to get some friction, to end this torture and gives into the temptation.

And he does; he aligns his painfully hard cock with your soaked entrance, pushing himself in with one smooth thrust that knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Long is gone the man he was a few seconds ago; he is on a mission now, fucking you until you tremble and fall from the edge of bliss, knowing it’s him pleasuring you, it’s him who will burn this blasted city for you.

“Oh, sweet girl, I’ll kill thousands of men if it means I get to be inside this sweet pussy—fuck-“ he groans, hands finding home on your hipbones as he quickens his pace, driving his cock in and out. Hard and fast.

The squelching sound that your wetness is making embarrasses you, and you hide your face in your arms while you squeal his name over and over again.

Your Devil has grown like ivy around your heart, covering the last untouched part of your souls that he had left untouched, and you love it, love being consumed by him.

He bends down over your back, hips snapping into yours roughly, filling you up with his length as the thick tip of him kisses your cervix while his teeth sink into your bare shoulder.

“Do you see the lengths I would go to protect you, sweet girl?” He whispers in your ear, licking your tear away with the tip of his tongue, “I will commit unspeakable crimes just to have you by my side.”

You nod at him, looping your arm around his neck to bring him down, and he compiles, bending further on your back to kiss you roughly.

Both of you are close; the knot in your stomach gets unbearable until it snaps and you moan loudly in his mouth, gushing around him as your legs shake.

He follows closely; his cock throbs deep within your core, and with one final rough thrust, he empties his balls inside you, coating your velvety walls with his thick cum, marking you as his once more.

You glance back at the corpses, smiling devilishly at how Qoren Martell’s empty eyes are still on you.

“Sweet girl,” Aemond says, “you’re untouchable now. Targaryen clan is yours to rule.”

[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.’’

—

House of the dragon taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @domoron @ididliquorice @lover-of-helios @lover-of-helios @shine101 @tanyaherondale @mikariell95 @serrendiipty @lantsovheiress @gilliananderfuckme @shine101 @tetgod @clayzayden@memeorydotcom @tnu-ree @futuregws @blackravena @winxschester @mysteriouslydelightfulchaos @xxlaynaxx @secretsthathauntus @pilarxxxaguayo @emmavan39 @stargaryenx @erylilly @bbblackmamba @rainedrop97 @dreamer087 @gothicgay14 @ashlatano7567 @superkittywonderland @justaproudslytherpuff @evesolstice @buckysmainhxe @padfootsvixen @scarletmeii @evesolstice @dkathl @kaywsworld @tetgod @padfootsvixen @domoron   @weird-addiction @angeliod @xjennyx2 @adaydreamaway08  @mymultiveres  @secretsthathauntus  @puffycreamcakes@thirsty4nonlivingmen@naty-1001@katiepie67@moshpot24x@hc-geralt-23@lovelynerdytraveler@saturn-sas  @zgzgh @sssjuico10@tabloidteen@timetoten@deekaag@wondxrgurl@aerangi@strmborns@astridyoo15@daemonslittlebitch@queenbeestuffs@severewobblerlightdragon@agentstarkid@msliz@vane1999-blog@fairyfolkloresposts@todaywasafairytale07@otomaniac@zgzgzh@thebeardedmoon@golden-library@kikyrizuki@hnslchw@camy85@winxschester

[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.

[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.

[novaursa]

Legacy (dragon in the garden)

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

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Once more, be aware of time jumps and how canon events and the timeline don't match the plot of the story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the dawn

- Next part: future of the realm

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

The memory came to Tywin Lannister unbidden, like a faint whisper carried on the wind as he rode through Highgarden’s fragrant gardens. The sights and scents of the Reach stirred something deep within him, a reminder of another time, long before the crown’s descent into chaos and ruin.

It was a warm day, the kind that Highgarden seemed to conjure effortlessly. The castle was alive with color, the gardens bursting with blooms of every hue. Tywin had ridden at the head of King Aerys II’s grand procession, the gold of House Lannister glittering beside the red and black banners of the Targaryens. At the time, Tywin had still been the Hand of the King, and though his duties weighed heavily on him, there was a quiet pride in his station.

He remembered the moment he first saw her during that visit. She was only a girl then, with her silver-gold hair glinting in the sunlight like threads of moonlight. She moved with an elegance beyond her years, a natural grace that captivated everyone who saw her. Lords and ladies alike were drawn to her like moths to a flame.

Tywin had stood on a shaded terrace, observing the gathering below. King Aerys, resplendent in his black and red robes, sat on a dais, his expression a mask of smug satisfaction as his courtiers fawned over him. Beside him stood his daughter, the Princess Y/N, who charmed the assembled lords with her sharp wit and radiant smile.

Tywin’s memory sharpened, focusing on a specific moment. Lord Mace Tyrell, younger and more eager then, had approached the princess with a bouquet of roses, his cheeks flushed with youthful enthusiasm.

“For you, Princess,” Mace had said, bowing deeply as he presented the flowers. “The most beautiful roses in all the Reach, for the most beautiful lady in the realm.”

Tywin had watched as the princess accepted the gesture with a polite smile, though there was a flicker of amusement in her violet eyes. “Thank you, Lord Tyrell,” she said graciously. “The roses are lovely, but I suspect the gardeners deserve more credit than you.”

The gathered nobles had laughed politely, and Mace had flushed even deeper, stammering a reply that Tywin couldn’t recall. What he did remember, however, was the way her gaze had briefly lifted to meet his own, her smile faltering for the briefest of moments. It was as though she had sensed his presence, even from across the crowd.

Later that evening, during the banquet held in Highgarden’s great hall, Tywin had found himself seated near her. Aerys, in one of his rare moments of lucidity, had boasted of his daughter’s intelligence and charm, praising her as the jewel of House Targaryen. Tywin had offered a measured response, careful not to provoke the king’s volatile temper.

“You must be very proud, Your Grace,” Tywin had said. “The princess embodies the strength and beauty of her house.”

Aerys had preened at the compliment, though his attention quickly shifted elsewhere. The princess, however, had glanced at Tywin, her expression thoughtful.

“You flatter me, Lord Lannister,” she had said softly, her voice steady and composed. “But I suspect you do not offer such praise lightly.”

Tywin had inclined his head, acknowledging her perceptiveness. “No, I do not,” he had replied simply.

The memory shifted again, to a quieter moment in the gardens the next day. He had found her there, surrounded by a cluster of children from noble houses, all vying for her attention. When she saw him, she had risen gracefully and dismissed the others with a kind word, leaving them to scamper off among the flowers.

“Lord Hand,” she had greeted him, her tone polite but curious. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I came to see the gardens,” Tywin had replied, though they both knew it was a lie. He had no interest in flowers or idle strolls. He had wanted to see her, to understand the unique blend of strength and warmth that set her apart from the rest of her family.

“You don’t strike me as a man who enjoys gardens,” she had said, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “They require patience.”

Tywin had allowed a rare smile of his own, though it was brief. “Patience is not a virtue I cultivate easily,” he had admitted. “But even I can recognize beauty when I see it.”

The memory faded as Tywin’s horse came to a stop before Highgarden’s grand gates. He blinked, the present rushing back to him with the murmur of his guards and the rustling of banners in the wind. His gaze shifted to the carriage behind him, where she now sat with their son, a living testament to the choices and sacrifices that had brought them here.

Highgarden had been the site of many memories, but this visit was different. It was no longer about the past or the ambitions of a mad king. Now, it was about legacy—his legacy. And for the first time in years, Tywin felt a flicker of something unfamiliar: hope.

Mace Tyrell rode alongside Tywin at the head of the procession, his green and gold attire vibrant in the sunlight. He gestured animatedly as he spoke, his voice carrying over the steady clatter of hooves. Tywin, as always, remained composed, offering only curt nods and the occasional word in response to Mace’s enthusiastic chatter. Beside them, Ser Barristan rode in quiet vigilance, his sharp eyes scanning the path ahead.

Behind them, the carriage carrying you, Damon, and Lady Olenna followed. The crowds lining the road murmured in anticipation, their curiosity piqued by the sight of the Lannister-Targaryen union and the young heir.

Inside the carriage, you adjusted Damon in your arms, his tiny hands reaching for the folds of your gown. He gurgled softly, oblivious to the spectacle outside. Olenna, seated across from you, smirked as she peered out the window. “The Reach loves a good show,” she remarked dryly. “And this one promises to be quite the spectacle.”

You glanced out the window, your expression composed despite the flutter of nerves in your chest. The sight of so many eyes fixed on the carriage was both unsettling and humbling. “Let them look,” you said softly. “If they wish to see a Targaryen, they may.”

The carriage rolled to a stop, and moments later, a footman opened the door. Tywin dismounted from his horse, his movements precise as he stepped forward to offer you his hand. Taking it, you descended gracefully, holding Damon close to your chest. The whispers among the crowd grew louder at the sight of you, their admiration and curiosity palpable.

Mace stepped forward, his arms outstretched in a gesture of welcome. “Lord Tywin! Lady Y/N! What an honor it is to have you here in Highgarden!” His gaze flickered briefly to Damon, and his smile widened. “And the young heir to Casterly Rock—what a fine boy!”

“Lord Tyrell,” Tywin said, his voice steady and polite as he inclined his head. “Your hospitality is appreciated.”

Mace’s attention shifted to you, his expression one of exaggerated delight. “My lady, you grace Highgarden with your presence. Truly, it is a sight to behold—a Targaryen among us!”

You inclined your head gracefully, a faint smile on your lips. “Highgarden is as beautiful as I have always heard, Lord Tyrell. It is an honor to be your guest.”

Olenna descended from the carriage next, her sharp gaze taking in the scene with thinly veiled amusement. “Mace, don’t stand there gawking like a fool. Let the lady and her child breathe.”

Mace chuckled nervously but stepped aside, gesturing toward the entrance. “Of course, of course! Please, come inside. The finest rooms have been prepared for your stay.”

As you walked beside Tywin, Damon nestled securely in your arms, you couldn’t help but notice the way the crowd’s eyes followed you. Murmurs of admiration and curiosity rippled through them, their gazes lingering on Damon’s silver-gold hair and violet eyes. You caught snippets of their whispers—"A true dragon,” “How beautiful,” “Lannister and Targaryen blood united.”

Once inside the grand hall, Mace continued to prattle about the preparations made in your honor. “We’ve spared no expense! The feast tonight will be one to remember. And the gardens, my lady—you simply must see them. They are in full bloom.”

You nodded politely, though your attention was divided between Mace’s words and the quiet exchange of glances between Tywin and Olenna. Both were masters of subtlety, their unspoken calculations nearly palpable as they sized up one another.

As you reached the rooms prepared for you, Mace gestured grandly. “Here we are! I trust you’ll find everything to your liking.”

Tywin offered a curt nod. “Thank you, Lord Tyrell.”

Mace lingered for a moment longer, as if hoping for further praise, but Olenna’s pointed clearing of her throat sent him scurrying off to oversee the feast preparations. Once the door closed behind him, you turned to Tywin, your expression unreadable.

“They are eager to please,” you remarked softly, adjusting Damon as he began to fuss.

“They’re eager to gain favor,” Tywin replied, his voice cool. “Do not mistake hospitality for selflessness.”

Olenna chuckled, settling into a nearby chair. “Oh, Tywin, you’re as charming as ever. But he’s right, my dear,” she said, looking at you. “Highgarden is a lovely cage, but a cage nonetheless.”

You met Olenna’s gaze and then Tywin’s, your resolve firm. “Perhaps. But even a cage can offer opportunities.”

Tywin studied you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve been planning something.”

You didn’t deny it, offering only a faint smile. “I will let you know when the time is right.”

As the evening approached, the promise of a feast loomed large, but your thoughts lingered on the whispers of High Heart and the call that refused to be ignored. Highgarden was only the beginning, and you were determined to uncover the truths that awaited you.

The room assigned to you in Highgarden was as opulent as one would expect from the seat of House Tyrell. The walls were adorned with rich tapestries depicting scenes of bountiful harvests and the famed roses of the Reach, while the windows offered a stunning view of the lush gardens below. The scent of blooming flowers drifted in through the open window, mingling with the faint sound of birdsong.

You sat on a plush chaise near the window, Damon cradled in your arms. The boy was content, his hair catching the late afternoon sunlight as he cooed and gurgled softly. Tywin stood nearby, his gaze distant as he surveyed the room. He had removed his armor and donned simpler, yet still impeccably tailored, attire, the weight of command momentarily lifted from his shoulders.

“It hasn’t changed much,” he said after a long silence, his voice carrying a rare softness. He stepped closer, his sharp green eyes meeting yours briefly before flicking to the gardens beyond the window. “Highgarden looks as it did the last time we were here.”

You looked up, curious. “The last time?”

He nodded, a faint shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It was many years ago, during the height of your father’s reign. I accompanied him on a royal progress to the Reach. You were there, a young princess, adored by everyone.”

You tilted your head slightly, surprised by the memory. “I barely recall ever visiting Highgarden with my father.”

Tywin’s expression shifted, a touch of amusement glinting in his eyes. “That’s because you spent most of your time in the gardens, surrounded by admirers. Lord Mace was barely more than a boy himself then, but he and his sisters followed you around like devoted attendants.”

A small laugh escaped you, the image vivid despite your lack of recollection. “I can imagine. Mace still carries that same eagerness, though now he directs it toward his endless attempts to curry favor.”

Tywin’s gaze softened further as he continued, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “You were the centerpiece of every gathering. Even your father seemed proud in those moments, though he scarcely showed it. The lords and ladies were enamored with you, charmed by your wit and grace. I remember thinking then…” He paused, his words trailing off.

“What did you think?” you prompted gently, your eyes searching his face.

He met your gaze, the weight of unspoken thoughts evident in his expression. “I thought that your father did not deserve you as a daughter. That you were too bright, too capable to be overshadowed by his madness.”

The sincerity in his words left you momentarily speechless. Damon squirmed in your arms, breaking the silence, and you smiled down at him before replying. “I never knew you thought that way. Back then, I was just a girl, oblivious to much of what was happening around me.”

“You were a girl,” Tywin acknowledged. “But even then, you carried yourself with a dignity far beyond your years. It was why the lords adored you—and why your father sought to keep you close.”

You looked away, the bittersweet memories of your father stirring uneasily within you. “He kept me close because I was useful to him,” you said quietly. “A tool to be married off, just like Rhaegar.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his gaze hardening. “You were no tool. Not to me.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with implications. You met his gaze once more, searching for the deeper meaning behind them. “And yet, here we are,” you said softly. “Bound by necessity, much like those days.”

Tywin stepped closer, his hand resting on the back of the chaise. “Necessity, perhaps,” he said, his voice low, “but not without purpose. What we have built is more than circumstance. It is strength, and it is enduring.”

Damon let out a soft coo, his tiny hand reaching upward. Tywin’s expression shifted slightly, the faintest trace of warmth softening his features as he leaned down to brush his fingers over the boy’s hair. “He is proof of that.”

You smiled faintly, watching as Damon’s small hand grasped Tywin’s finger. “He is our future,” you agreed, your voice steady. “And I will do everything in my power to protect him.”

“As will I,” Tywin said firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

For a moment, the three of you remained in quiet companionship, the past blending seamlessly with the present. Highgarden’s beauty and the memories it evoked were undeniable, but the strength of your family, forged in the fires of adversity, was what truly grounded you.

Tywin straightened, his commanding presence reasserting itself. “Rest while you can. The feast tonight will demand much of your energy.”

You inclined your head, watching as he moved toward the door. Before he left, he glanced back, his expression unreadable. “The lords of the Reach may admire roses,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “but even they know the value of a dragon.”

As the door closed behind him, you looked down at Damon, his eyes staring up at you with innocent curiosity. The weight of Tywin’s words settled over you, a reminder of your purpose and the strength you would need to navigate the challenges ahead.

The gardens of Highgarden were a masterpiece of design and nature, a testament to the wealth and refinement of House Tyrell. Lush greenery stretched as far as the eye could see, interspersed with vibrant flowers in every hue imaginable. Fountains burbled softly, and the air was rich with the scent of roses and lavender.

You sat beneath the shade of a sprawling oak, Damon cradled in your arms the next day. His tiny hands reaching for the petals of a rose you held just out of his grasp. His silver-gold hair gleamed in the dappled sunlight, and his violet eyes, flecked with pale green, seemed to captivate everyone who looked at him.

Lady Olenna Tyrell sat beside you, her sharp gaze surveying the small crowd of noblewomen who had gathered nearby. They hovered at a respectful distance, their murmurs and admiring glances directed at Damon.

“He’s a handsome boy,” one of the ladies said softly, her voice carrying just enough for you to hear. “A true Targaryen, isn’t he?”

“And a Lannister,” another added, her tone tinged with awe. “Such a combination… it’s no wonder he’s destined for greatness.”

Olenna smirked, leaning slightly on her walking stick as she addressed you. “It seems your son is already causing a stir, my dear. Not that I’m surprised.”

You adjusted Damon in your arms, your gaze sweeping over the ladies before returning to Olenna. “It’s as you said—symbols and pawns. They see him as both.”

“They see him as a future king,” Olenna corrected, her voice low and pointed. “Even if that’s not what your husband has in mind. The boy’s blood is enough to set tongues wagging from here to King’s Landing.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your focus shifting to Damon, who was now giggling at the rose in your hand. His laughter was light and innocent, a stark contrast to the weight of the expectations already being placed upon him.

One of the braver ladies stepped forward, curtseying deeply before addressing you. “My lady, your son is truly a wonder. May we approach to offer our congratulations?”

You inclined your head gracefully, your expression composed. “Of course.”

The small group of women moved closer, their eyes fixed on Damon with a mixture of admiration and reverence. One of them, a young lady with dark hair, smiled as she spoke. “He has the look of both his houses. The strength of the lion and the beauty of the dragon.”

Olenna chuckled softly, her sharp wit laced with amusement. “A fine compliment, though I doubt the boy is concerned with such things. He’s more interested in that rose, it seems.”

The ladies laughed politely, their attention still on Damon as he cooed and reached for the flower again. You allowed yourself a small smile, though your mind remained guarded.

Another lady, older and more forthright, leaned in slightly. “My lady, may I ask… does Lord Tywin often dote upon the boy? It is rare to see him so taken with anyone, even his own blood.”

Olenna raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by the question. You glanced at her briefly before replying. “Lord Tywin values legacy above all else. Damon represents that legacy, as well as the unity of our houses. He is proud, as any father would be.”

“And you, my lady?” the older woman pressed. “Are you content?”

Before you could respond, Olenna intervened with a sly smile. “Contentment is a luxury few of us can afford, wouldn’t you agree?”

The ladies chuckled nervously, unsure how to interpret Olenna’s remark. You took the opportunity to shift the conversation, your tone calm but firm. “I am fortunate to have a healthy son and a husband who values family. That is enough for me.”

The group murmured their agreement, though you could sense their curiosity lingered. Damon squirmed in your arms, drawing your attention back to him. His tiny hand brushed against the rose, and you finally relented, letting him grasp it carefully.

Olenna watched the scene with a softening expression, though her sharp tongue wasn’t far behind. “If only the rest of us could quiet a crowd with a single smile,” she said dryly. “You and your son have quite the effect on people.”

You looked at her, your lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s not the first time I’ve been surrounded by admirers in a garden.”

Olenna chuckled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Touché, my dear. Touché.”

The ladies eventually drifted away, leaving you and Olenna in relative peace. Damon, still clutching the rose, began to drift off to sleep in your arms. The sight of his tiny form, so vulnerable and full of promise, filled you with a fierce determination.

“He’s the future, you know,” Olenna said quietly, her tone unusually gentle. “Not just for your house, but for all of us. Make sure he’s ready.”

“I will,” you replied, your voice steady. “No matter what it takes.”

Olenna nodded, satisfied.

The forest was quiet except for the rustling of leaves and the crackling of the small fire at the center of their camp. Arya Stark sat cross-legged on the ground, sharpening Needle with slow, deliberate strokes. The Brotherhood Without Banners moved about the clearing, preparing for the night. Hot Pie was stirring a pot of stew, its savory scent wafting through the crisp evening air, while Gendry was busy repairing a dent in his helm.

The chatter among the men was subdued until one of them, Tom of Sevenstreams, leaned closer to the fire, his voice carrying a note of curiosity. “Have you heard the latest from the Reach? Highgarden’s been bustling with nobles, all of them clamoring for a glimpse of the dragon babe.”

Arya’s hand froze mid-stroke. Her sharp gray eyes flicked to Tom, her heart skipping a beat. She forced herself to keep her expression neutral as she asked, “What dragon babe?”

Tom glanced at her, surprised by her sudden interest. “The Targaryen princess,” he said, as though it were common knowledge. “Or should I say, Lady Lannister now. She’s Tywin’s wife, isn’t she? Gave him a son not long ago—silver hair, violet eyes, the whole dragon’s brood look.”

Gendry looked up from his work, frowning. “A Targaryen? Married to Tywin Lannister? That’s mad.”

“Mad, maybe,” Tom said with a shrug, “but true. They say the boy’s got both lion and dragon in him. The nobles are calling him the future of the realm.”

Arya’s grip tightened on Needle. Her chest felt tight, her mind racing as memories of the reader flooded her thoughts. The woman who had been like a second mother to her, who had taught her to wield a needle of a different kind, who had comforted her during her worst moments in Winterfell—and later, the woman she had tried to save at Harrenhal, only to watch Tywin take her to King’s Landing.

Hot Pie, oblivious to Arya’s inner turmoil, ladled some stew into a wooden bowl and handed it to Gendry. “Didn’t think dragons and lions could make a cub together,” he said, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Gendry smirked. “Guess they can now.”

Tom continued, his tone conspiratorial. “They say she’s still as regal as ever, even with all that’s happened. And Tywin—well, he dotes on her, or so the rumors go. But the boy, now he’s the real talk of the realm. The lords and ladies are already whispering about alliances.”

Arya couldn’t stay silent any longer. “What else have you heard about her?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Tom raised an eyebrow at her intensity. “Not much beyond that. She’s at Highgarden now, with Tywin and the boy. They say she keeps to herself, but when she does speak, people listen. Why? You know her or something?”

Gendry glanced at Arya curiously, noting the way her jaw tightened and her eyes darted back to her blade. “The lady from Harrenhal.”

Arya hesitated, then nodded. “She lived in Winterfell,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with emotion she couldn’t quite suppress. “She’s… like family.”

Hot Pie’s spoon froze mid-air, stew dripping back into the pot. “Wait, you’re saying there is more to that Targaryen lady. Like, you know her know her?.”

Arya glared at him. “She’s not just a Targaryen. She’s a Stark, too. She raised Jon, taught me and Sansa things… She was there when my brothers were born. She’s family. I’ve told you that already.”

Hot Pie blinked, trying to process the information once more. “That’s why you were so worked up at Harrenhal, wasn’t it? When Tywin took her?”

Arya’s expression darkened. “Yes,” she said simply. “I tried to save her. I thought I could get her out before they took her to King’s Landing, but Tywin had too many guards, and she…” Her voice trailed off, the frustration of that memory still fresh in her mind.

Gendry frowned, his brows furrowing. “And now she’s married to Tywin Lannister,” he said softly. “That must be… hard to hear.”

Arya’s grip on Needle tightened until her knuckles turned white. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, though her voice trembled slightly. “She’s doing what she has to, just like all of us.”

Tom, sensing the tension, shifted uncomfortably. “Well, from what I’ve heard, she’s doing all right for herself. She’s protected, and her son—”

“She doesn’t need Tywin to protect her,” Arya snapped, cutting him off. “She’s stronger than any of them.”

Hot Pie cleared his throat, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, maybe she’ll get away, like you did. Maybe she’ll come back to us.”

Arya didn’t answer. She stared into the fire, her mind racing with possibilities. She thought of Y/N, of Damon, of the tangled web of alliances and betrayals that now surrounded them. Deep down, she knew that nothing would ever be the same—but she also knew that the woman she remembered was still in there somewhere, fighting her own battles in the heart of the enemy’s lair.

“I hope so,” Arya mutterted under her breath, her resolve hardening as she returned to sharpening Needle. She would find a way to make things right, no matter how long it took.

[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!

[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.

[gwaedhannen]

[Excerpt 12 from Sorrow Beyond Words: Collected Testimony of the War of Wrath, 4th Edition; edited by Elrond Peredhel.]

Editor's Note: The following is a partial listing of various graffiti and artefacts within the thrall quarters reported by the cleansers of Angband. The documentation was done at the command of Prince Ingwion, and a copy of the final report given to King Gil-Galad before the Prince returned to Valinor. The full report also contains medical examination information for every captive and corpse recovered, and is several thousand pages long.

[Sindarin Tengwar text, located in barrack 1443]: “Lenlim died here, and she did not forget the sun.”

A doll made of heavily-stained cloth and leather, in the form of an Eruchîn. Object shows heavy wear, and one arm is nearly torn off from the torso. Located in a refuse pit.

[Sindarin Tengwar text, located in barrack 933]: “They will offer you better food if you’re pregnant. Refuse.”

[Black Speech Tengwar text. Located in a mineshaft]: “snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga snaga“

Several bones from a foot, wrapped in cloth. Bite marks make age estimation impossible. Located in barrack 23.

[Sindarin Tengwar text, located in barrack 521]: “Feirdal is a snitch. Don’t trust him.”

[Sindarin Cirth text, located in barrack 521, on the opposite wall]: “Faranel is a hollow. Don’t trust her.”

[Taliska Tengwar text, located in a connecting tunnel]: “I told my son what rain is today. He doesn’t believe it exists.”

[Sindarin Cirth text, located in a mineshaft near a cave-in]: “[undecipherable] was here. Remember me.”

The handle of a rock hammer, with the head entirely worn off. Located in a dead-end tunnel. The rock wall at the end of the tunnel is heavily scratched and contains numerous broken fingernails and teeth.

[Sindarin Tengwar text, located in barrack 287]: “I came back. There is nothing beyond these stones for us.”

[Sindarin Tengwar text in three different hands, located in barrack 1242]:

"When I get to Mandos I am punching him in the face." "I’m aiming for the crotch instead." "We're not going to Mandos. Stay alive."

[Quenya Tengwar text, located in a latrine]: “The signs are compromised. Only believe your ears.”

[Taliska Tengwar text, located in barrack 932]: “They will offer you better food if you’re pregnant. Take the deal.”

[thee-horny-thicky]

Which of yours fics are your fav? Because I can say with absolute certainty that FES is mine. Savior was okay. And confessions has a lot of potential. I need to read the one with Geto / reader visit Japan and link up with Gojo.

This is so hard to answer, because each fic I write holds a piece of my heart. However, after careful deliberation, I sorted through my 43 fics and selected those I'm fondest of, in no particular order. For anyone interested, I included the links, and their bio :)

The Exchange Student Series (Suguru/Reader. Incomplete)

Take the role of a foreign exchange student who had the misfortune of catching Geto Suguru's attention.

Honey, I'm Home! (Satoru/Reader. Will be expanded)

After being trapped in the prison realm for so long, Gojo is in dire need of release. What better way to do that than paying a visit to his favorite girl?

The Sacrifice (Sukuna/Reader. Will be Expanded)

After stealing, the village priests select you to be sacrificed to an elusive forest beast to avoid his wrath.

Surprise! (SatoSugu/Reader. Complete, but I may do another chapter)

Your boyfriend of a year decided a trip to Tokyo would be the perfect anniversary present. He missed his hometown, and you always wanted to visit. However, he failed to mention that the two of you would be staying with his stunning best friend. He also failed to mention that the two of them liked to share.

Hide & Go Get It (SatoSugu/Reader. Complete)

Satoru and Suguru show you how to play hide and go get it, taking your virginity in the process

Orange Juice and Milk (Francis Mosses/Reader. Incomplete)

You're a lonely housewife, neglected by your workaholic husband, and you're 90% sure he's cheating. As your frustration builds and you grow disillusioned with your marriage, you come up with a way for some relief; Francis Mosses, the neighborhood milkman.

Oh no, he's hot! (Nanami/Reader. Complete)

After Haruta Shigemo was killed, you should've been terrified of the blond giant who set his sights on you. But instead, all you could focus on was how hot he was.

Pretty Young Thing (Gojo/Nanami/Ijichi/Reader. Complete)

Gojo forces Nanami to go to a hostess club with him and quickly becomes captivated by a particularly pretty young thing. Unfortunately, Gojo also has his sights on her. Who will she choose? You decide!

Castaway (Gyutaro/Reader. Complete)

When you become stranded in the middle of the ocean, a merman by the name of Gyutaro takes a liking to you.

Shower Time Comfort (Shoko/Reader. Complete)

After Gojo is cut down, you and Shoko seek comfort within each other.

Mr. Steal Yo' Girl (Dark!Gojo/Reader. Complete)

After beating Sukuna into submission, Gojo decided to rub salt into the wound by claiming the ‘King of Curses’ woman.

Tattoos and Tenderness (Sukuna/Reader. Complete)

While taking you to Pound Town, Sukuna evaluates his feelings for you.

Bunnies and Vices (Bunny!Izuku/Reader. Incomplete)

When you stumble across an injured green rabbit, you just thought you had a little too much to drink and took it home with you. But when the rabbit remains green, you realize you might’ve bit off more than you could chew. And when the rabbit turned into a man, you knew that you were way in over your head.

But, hey, at least he’s cute.

A Little Demonstration (Lucifer Morningstar/Reader. Will be Expanded)

When you ask Lucifer how he exactly took both of Adam's wives, he decides to give you a little demonstration

Blood and Breeding (Doppelganger!Francis Mosses/Reader. Complete, but it may be expanded)

When a Francis appears covered in 'scarlet milk,' you're unsure if you should be scared or horny. He makes that choice for you.

Update Edging (Nanami/Reader. Complete)

While his computer updates, Nanami calls you into his office for a little fun.

[hailturinturambar]

The Seduction of Power: Sauron and Celebrimbor's relationship

This analysis is not thought of in a romantic or human way. But it follows the patterns of elven and more powerful creatures who have feelings like us, but guided by greed and power.

As in my previous analysis, to understand the full extent of the relationship between Sauron and Celebrimbor, we must return to the Beginning of Days, the First Age. Our story begins in Valinor.

When Eru's eldest sons, the Firstborn, awoke, the Valar assembled a company to lead the Elves to safety in Valinor. Many were lost on the journey, and many went on to live among the gods.

And the Valar loved the Elves dearly, and the Elves loved them. When the Valar brought war to Melkor and overcame him, he was taken captive and the Elves lived in peace. For nine ages Melkor was under the dominion of Mandos, and the Elves knew peace.

As the ages passed, Melkor's imprisonment ended and the Valar fulfilled their promise. Melkor asked his brothers for forgiveness and humbled himself, promising to heal the evil he had caused and to live in peace with the elves and gods. But in his dark heart, Melkor envied the elves, who were the cause of his capture.

However, not all the Elves trusted Melkor's words. And the Teleri, most beloved by Ulmo, trusted the Valar and turned their backs on Melkor. Despite this, not all were against Melkor. Especially the Noldor.

In this age, Finwë was king of the Noldor and loved his eldest son deeply. Fëanor was a powerful Noldor prince, rich in knowledge and power. A great smith and master craftsman, he forged the Silmarils, and Melkor desired them. And these same jewels would doom countless Elves and Men to their doom. And even Celebrimbor would see his ruin at their hand.

Melkor poisoned Fëanor with his lies and greed, and the Elves turned against the Valar. Departing Valinor with the ships of his murdered kin, Fëanor took his children and followers with him to Middle-earth. And much sorrow came from his choice.

Fëanor had seven sons, seven sons who swore never to rest until they had obtained their jewels again and destroyed Melkor. Curufin, his fifth son, had a son named Celebrimbor.

Elrdon calls Celebrimbor the Greatest Elven Smith. But Celebrimbor is not just that. According to the accounts in the book, Celebrimbor is a handsome Noldor prince, who fought in Gondolin, who fought strongly against Morgoth in countless battles and was present in the War of Wrath.

The weight of his grandfather's legacy still weighed heavily on his shoulders, no matter how powerful and learned he was. Fëanor's legacy would always cast a shadow over Celebrimbor.

It's hard to draw a correct parallel between Celebrimbor's story in the series and the books. But I do wonder about Celebrimbor's relationship with his father, Curufin. Celegorm and Curufin in the tale of Beren and Lúthien, well, they didn't seem very friendly.

And this makes me think that perhaps Curufin was not an extremely loving father, although Fëanor seemed to be attached to his children and to have loved them, despite everything.

When Celebrimbor talks about "true creation requires sacrifice", did he think about how the Silmarils cost his family? How the jewels and the oath destroyed everything good in them and condemned them to eternal suffering?

Elrond's comment about the beauty and destruction of the jewels brings out Celebrimbor's insecurity. There again is the shadow of his grandfather over him. He does not trust his creation, believing that it will never be on the level of his predecessor.

The parallel between Elrond and Celebrimbor is very interesting. When Celebrimbor talks about Elrond's father and how their destinies were intertwined. Sons of powerful men who were present in their legacy. And continue to dictate how their lives should be, always determined to make those who left them proud.

Desperate to save Middle-earth, Celebrimbor and Gil-galad hide their true intentions from Elrond towards the people of Khazad-dûm. Elrond had his trust betrayed and unknowingly lied to his great friend. For me, this is the first sign that Celebrimbor would do anything for power.

Could this gaze, blinded by the value and power of Mithril and its composition, the way it could save the elves, be a foreshadowing of his greed for the creation of the Rings of Power?

Middle-earth is made up of many points of no return. Durin III's choice not to aid the Elves in their struggle for survival, and Halbrand's arrival in Eregion.

It is now that Celebrimbor's story changes forever. He meets this man, this mortal, who fought alongside Galadriel and nearly died at the hands of the Orcs. Halbrand's vulnerability and purity is Sauron's first deception.

When Halbrand asks if Galadriel is there, in the forge, I don't believe he was genuinely looking for her. After all, why would she be there? He knew whose kingdom it was. It's all part of the illusion.

Celebrimbor beams when Halbrand speaks of "The Celebrimbor." This inflames Celebrimbor's ego. Yes, the elves know of his legacy and the legacy of his family. But for a mere mortal to meet him?

It is a treat, no doubt. He was recognized for his craft, not his grandfather's. And Halbrand speaks of his master who taught him his craft and spoke so much of Celebrimbor. Of course Morgoth would speak of Fëanor grandson!

Halbrand appears humble and ashamed of his lack of knowledge before Celebrimbor. When Halbrand talks about the ways to combine metal and jewelry, Celebrimbor is enchanted by his knowledge. Halbrand becomes indispensable at that moment.

How did a mere mortal clear up an elf's doubts? He must surely be important.

"Call it a gift."

With these simple words Sauron's deception was laid and he knew that he had tricked Celebrimbor. Sauron's seduction is there, when Galadriel, Elrond and Celebrimbor talk about the salvation of the elves with Gil-galad, we see the beginning of the poison in Sauron's words.

A crown? Gil-galad is too pure to consider carrying such an artifact of power without suspecting its corruption. But Celebrimbor looks at him madly, intoxicated by all the power they could achieve. And it is his words that alert Galadriel. A power not of the flesh, but over flesh. Words spoken by Adar, but which he learned from Sauron.

And from whom else could Celebrimbor have heard those words? He had been so close to Halbrand alone lately. And his presence had overwhelmed him. The gentle, caring elf was frantic and agitated, raising his voice and nearly losing his temper.

The chain behind Celebrimbor? That unusual shadow on the ground? It is no coincidence, it cannot be. What if this was the beginning of the bonds Sauron was binding him with? The beginning of his corruption and ruin.

If Galadriel suspected Celebrimbor's words, why didn't she stop him? Why didn't she warn the others? Because, like Celebrimbor, she was desperate to save the Elves and remain in Middle-earth.

And I believe that deep down, she was in denial. She had hunted the terrible and wicked evil Sauron for centuries, how could this human be him? Galadriel trusted Halbrand, enjoyed his company, she could not prevent the forging of the rings on suspicion. And her denial was decisive for Sauron's victory.

Sauron takes advantage of this. He tortures Galadriel, claiming that she helped him and that she can never escape this. No matter what happens, Galadriel's intentions were never evil.

And for this she blames herself, for deep down, she is good. And now Halbrand/Sauron has escaped. The Rings of Power are ready and she asks Celebrimbor to never accept the return of the mortal king.

But why? She never explained, so it was obvious that Celebrimbor could not keep his promise.

Then we have a decisive event. Celebrimbor is inaugurating a new forge, eager for answers from the Three Elven Rings. And that's when his new hope arrives on a white horse. He came to propose a deal, they say. But what could he offer?

We can then glimpse his new deception. The suffering mortal king has returned begging for help, but Celebrimbor refuses to receive him. Sauron then tries to seduce Mirdania. Does she want him to leave? Well, if she doesn't want him to, he won't. So he lets her notice his injuries, as he suffered at the hands of the Orcs.

Unconsciously, like Galadriel, Mirdania takes pity on Halbrand. She takes his side, saying that he looks hurt. That the night is cold. However, Celebrimbor tries to keep his promise; he must be faithful to Galadriel. But Mirdania is softening his heart.

Sauron is the Great Deceiver. He knows the deepest desires of the lustful heart. And he knows what Celebrimbor is desperate to know. Have his Rings of Power worked? Galadriel has kept Celebrimbor in the dark, but Halbrand is there to tell him of the progress.

If the Rings of Power saved the Elves, would they be able to cure all the ills of Middle-earth? Who knows. But Sauron uses these thoughts to convince Celebrimbor. But how could he know of the Dwarves' suffering? That's when he puts an end to the mystery.

Sauron is being truthful. He is not Halbrand, a king, or a mortal. Sauron can be truthful when he wants to be. But his truth is always tainted by his lies and his own tricks.

The breaking point has come. Sauron lays bare Celebrimbor's greatest desire. To be recognized, to be revered. To be remembered as The Lord of the Rings. To escape his grandfather's shadow once and for all. Whether it's Sauron's ethereal appearance, or his manipulative words, the fact is that Celebrimbor wants what he's offering so badly that he ignores his fears.

And Annatar is humble. He is powerful, but he does not seek reverence, or thanks. He is an emissary of the Valar, and he only wishes to share his knowledge with Celebrimbor.

"Annatar. A sharer of gifts."

When he heard these words, did Celebrimbor remember Halbrand's words? Was that all it took to earn his trust?

Celebrimbor accepts Annatar's advice and now they need to help the Dwarves. Celebrimbor is a good person, he is kind and described in the book as a great friend of the Dwarves. And he says this to Durin IV. They helped them before, now, it is time for the Elves to help.

Sauron knows that Gil-galad has sent a messenger in his name. A messenger who would thwart his plans to forge the rings.

Celebrimbor is isolated from the people of Lindon, Galadriel and Elrond are far away. He has Celebrimbor in his hands. The Dwarves do not trust him at first, and why would they? Where did this emissary of the Valar come from?

But Sauron is a clever liar. The Dwarves are suffering and they have no choice but to rely on the Elves to survive. And Sauron must appeal to Celebrimbor's pride. Who does Gil-galad think he is to stop the forging of new rings? Who, indeed? Perhaps the King of all the Elves? Celebrimbor is too blinded by power to reflect.

Sauron, however, is greedy. Rings for the Dwarves are not enough. He always wants more. More power. More servants. If he is to heal Middle-earth, he needs everyone under his control. So he pretends, and talks about how frustrated he is about the suffering of men. How they deserve rings to protect themselves.

It is madness and Celebrimbor knows it. Men are fragile and easily corrupted. Many have followed Morgoth without any effort. Sauron reminds him of all the great men who have ever lived, but it is not enough to convince the elf. Like a child, Sauron refuses to accept no and awakens Celebrimbor's greatest fear. Annatar will make the rings without him, he is no longer needed.

Sauron’s manipulation is nearly complete. Without Celebrimbor’s help, Mirdania see the terrible evil that lies among them, the evil hidden all along. Annatar calms her, gaining an ally to his side. She believes Annatar, and so believes that men deserve their rings.

Durin IV adds to Celebrimbor’s concerns, but he tries not to see them. Power weighs heavily on his shoulders, and accepting the truth is too difficult. Annatar deceives him, claiming that it is the lies of the making that are affecting the rings.

Celebrimbor desperately needs to make amends for his mistake with the Dwarves. He forces himself to accept the creation of new rings, but something seems wrong. While Annatar is kind and caring to the Elves, Celebrimbor is slowly losing his way. His actions surprise even himself.

If things aren't bad enough, they can always get worse, right?

The rings don't work, something is wrong. Who knows, because deep down, Celebrimbor knew that those rings couldn't be created? A part of him could have been suspicious of that creation.

But he's losing his mind, he's angry and unstable. And Celebrimbor has forgotten Mirdania's name, his protégé. How could he do that? I would say, in my humble opinion, that Sauron had his claws deep inside him, subtly controlling his decisions, so that he would only be able to think about the rings and do nothing until he completed the nine.

As the worthy manipulator, Sauron is increasingly isolating his victim. Preventing Celebrimbor from leaving the forge. Most importantly, Sauron is comforting Celebrimbor, giving him support and standing by his side. Who would suspect an emissary of the Valar?

However, Adar is getting in the way of Sauron's plans. The rings cannot be forged if Eregion falls. Sauron does not have much time left and he knows it, he must redouble his efforts.

The Dwarves will not give Sauron peace either. He leaves Eregion, but does not get what he wants. The rings are corrupting the Dwarves, and greed is consuming the king's heart. Did Sauron know about the Balrog? Was it at that moment that he realized he had no need of a people who would find their own ruin?

Whether it is the work of the Valar or not, Celebrimbor senses that something is happening in Eregion and Annatar is not informing him. He does not stop creating the design of the rings, but something is disturbing him. His peaceful and calm kingdom is under attack, is it possible?

When Celebrimbor tries to leave the forge, Sauron is there to stop him. He knows that Celebrimbor will not create the rings if he knows that a siege is underway and his people are being attacked by Adar's army.

Desperate to keep Celebrimbor trapped in his web of lies, Sauron forges the most perfect illusion to confuse the smith's mind. Eregion is safe and sound. Why can't Celebrimbor return to the forge?

This, I would say, is his greatest manipulation. Sauron uses Celebrimbor's greed, his desire to be greater than the creator of the Silmarils, greater than his family's legacy. There is the statue depicting Celebrimbor's insecurities. Everything is fine, Sauron even managed to get the Mithril for the rings. Celebrimbor, blinded by power, seduced by Annatar's words, once again follows him.

While Eregion has been under siege for weeks, Celebrimbor keeps his forge burning and never stops. The world is at peace, ideas are clear, and he only has Annatar to thank.

Was Annatar sincere? That it would be a shame when his partnership with Celebrimbor ended?

Honestly, I would say so. But not for the reasons Celebrimbor imagined. Without Aulë and Melkor, Sauron had no one left to share his craft, his passion that did not abandon him even when he turned his back on Valinor. And Celebrimbor, the greatest Elven-smith of his time, is almost his equal.

However, he knows that Celebrimbor would never agree with him, so he must leave in the end, even though it is a shame for both of them.

The illusion is, however, failing. Sauron is spending too much energy holding back the people of Eregion and preventing the attack of Adar long enough to forge the rings. His mind is not fully devoted to Celebrimbor, and that is his greatest mistake.

Celebrimbor begins to notice the small inconsistencies in the environment. The fire burns the same every day. The little mouse who repeats the same patterns. But he already knew that, didn't he? He knew what Annatar was doing, but he couldn't admit it to himself.

Sauron's mask finally falls.

Sauron tries to convince Celebrimbor of his truth. To Sauron, he was obviously doing the elf a favor, teaching him his knowledge and improving his creation. Sauron genuinely believes he was helping him, in his own way.

"I am the one keeping the storm at bay."

Ding Dong, Sauron and his twisted view of healing is knocking at the door again!

Sauron is confident that he has done everything in his power to make Celebrimbor prove his worth. Did he feel that way about Melkor? Did he believe that all the suffering and pain caused by his master would help him to become more improve? Probably.

I believe that breaking the illusion was more painful. Forcing Celebrimbor to contemplate the destruction of his beloved kingdom, to observe the death of his people and, worst of all, to realize that none of them believe him, not when Annatar is there, claiming that the master blacksmith has gone mad.

Celebrimbor is left to deal with his guilt. Sauron’s revelation is not only cruel, but devastating. Celebrimbor realizes that he helped Sauron, and that is a hard truth to swallow, and Sauron knows it.

For me, Mirdania’s death was Celebrimbor’s greatest regret. She was his ward, and he lost her to Sauron. She trusted Annatar and died believing in him, and she died at his hands.

And the death of Mirdania is the breaking point. There is nothing left for Celebrimbor. Sauron is the Great Deceiver and he has won. Celebrimbor is tired of fighting.

Honestly, Sauron almost fooled me too. When he talks about the suffering caused by Morgoth, I don't think that's a lie, not to him. He suffered at the hands of a Valar because their worldviews were different. Morgoth wanted to destroy and Sauron wanted to heal, but in the end their methods were the same.

The lie is revealed throughout the conversation. Did Sauron want to hurt Celebrimbor? Yes and no. As in an abusive relationship, Sauron believes he hurt him because he had to, but did not want to. As he says, Celebrimbor caused it, and that is his truth.

In a desperate attempt, Celebrimbor tries to destroy the rings. But the Rings of Power are too powerful for the fire. All that remains is to escape with the rings, and there is Galadriel, his beloved friend, as if sent by the Valar.

It's a very difficult conversation, I must admit. Galadriel realizes that Celebrimbor hurt himself to escape Sauron and save Middle-earth. And after so much suffering, she is the only person who trusts Celebrimbor.

Galadriel and Celebrimbor share the same guilt. Focused on their hearts' desires, they were seduced by Sauron's promises and power, and this hurts them deeply. They wish more than anything to make amends for the harm they have caused, even if unintentionally.

Sauron is enraged and Galadriel leaves with the rings, she is the last hope of Middle-earth. Celebrimbor is once again alone, his guards are trapped in Sauron's power and he can no longer escape the hands of the Great Deceiver and his vengeance.

I still get goosebumps when I remember the sound of the bow firing its next arrow.

This is the end of Celebrimbor's legacy, the ruin of his existence. All that remains is his blood staining his forge and his body riddled with arrows. Where did the trail of blood come from, I wonder. Was Sauron cruel enough to drag the bleeding Celebrimbor here?

Sauron tries to break Celebrimbor's spirit one last time. But Celebrimbor has already lost everything, and his solace is that the rings are far away.

And he thinks of the old days, when all was fair in Eregion. I believe it is this memory, of the good times before Sauron's destruction, that strengthens Celebrimbor.

"For soon I shall go to the shore of the morning. Borne hence, by a wind that you can never follow!"

This is Sauron's greatest fear, isn't it? He has lost Aulë, he has lost Melkor. Because of his cowardice and refusal to beg forgiveness from the Valar, he will never be able to return to Valinor. Galadriel has resisted his temptation, and Celebrimbor is dying; there is no one left for Sauron.

Sauron wants to inflict as much pain on Celebrimbor as possible to make up for his words. Would he be able to use his unholy magic to keep Celebrimbor alive? Was it all for the rings, or once again because he would be alone in the world?

"Hear me! Shadow of Morgoth. Hear the dying words of Celebrimbor."

Celebrimbor's prophecy affects Sauron deeply, laying bare his greatest fears. He will be betrayed by his rings, we know that. His own corrupt power will doom him to destruction. And it breaks him, because Sauron must have believed Celebrimbor's words.

Unfinished Tales of Númenor and Middle-earth:

"In black anger he turned back to battle; and bearing as a banner Celebrimbor’s body hung upon a pole, shot through with Orc-arrows, he turned upon the forces of Elrond."

Sauron, it's time to work on all that anger.

Blinded by red rage, Sauron kills Celebrimbor and interrupts his words. Did he realize what he was doing? Always so driven by his seething emotions.

And this is Sauron's moment of breaking. He realizes what he has done. He has murdered his last equal in all of Middle-earth, once again he has fulfilled his fears, and he is alone. Why is he crying?

As I analyzed before, he was alone and there was no one to deceive. Sauron understood his actions and had no way of going back, all he could do was accept the consequences.

Just as Celebrimbor was seduced by power and glory, Sauron was seduced by Celebrimbor’s power and knowledge. Like an Ouroboros, Sauron and Celebrimbor were seduced by power and found their downfall in each other.

Sauron may have been Celebrimbor’s downfall. But Celebrimbor and his rings, and the knowledge they gave Sauron, will be the Great Deceiver’s downfall at the end of the road.

[streets-in-paradise]

Eternal Courtship - Achilles x (fem)Captive!Reader

Troy (2004) Oneshot

Requested by Anon

" hi dearr! Please a story of achilles, in which he falls in love with a woman in the middle of the war and shows his most sensitive side (in the achilles way)"

Abso-fucking-lutely!

I love this so much and hope I did your request justice. Like i told you in the answer of your ask, I got the idea of making her a captive because it's an easy way for them to meet in the middle of the war, but their dynamic is the opposite of the one he has with Briseis in the movie's canon.

Warnings: warrior x war captive romance with grumpy x sunshine vibes. It's implied that the war lasts a bit longer than in the movie, with a time gap happening between the arrival of the greeks/argument of Achilles and Agamemnon and the pacted combat of Paris and Menelaus. This fic is meant to take place in the course of that time gap.

Summary: The wrath of Achilles is a matter of grief for the greeks, but it comes like a ray of hope in your days as their captive. His absense on the battlefield is good news for your people at the other side of the wall, and a calming sign for you. Despite his countrymen are too focused on his pride as the major cause, you believe a warlord willing to risk so much for a simple slave girl is someone capable of performing noble acts.

Intrigued by the glimpses of that kindness he refuses to acknowledge, you approach him without fear and your guesses get confirmed. In your determination to prove that he has a heart, you fail to realize of your slow conquest of it, untill the proof you are looking for comes in the form of his passionate love.

Note: Inspired by a prompt by @creativepromptsforwriting

Prompt 9 - " Why do you always manage to persuade me with your charm? "

Tags: @thorsslxve

The greek army was marching, but the myrmidons had stayed. Their leader refused to take them to combat in protest for the humillation he suffered through the mistreatement of his stolen slave. Briseis, your companion in captivity, was dragged away to the tent of Agamemnon, and the things you have heard about that man were so vile that you feared for her fate more than yours. Her first master had given you to his cousin, a lad younger than you, and you would have never imagined he himself would bother that much for her. Still, he went as far as abstaining from fighting when she got taken away from him.

What happened on the tent of the mycenaean king was commented all over the camp. It was said that the angry myrmidon was about to kill the guards, fellow greeks on his side of the war, for that trojan girl he had just meet. In the language of men, Briseis wasn't different from a pile of gold. They spoke of insults on the honor of the invincible warrior being deprived of his reward as the cause of such mercieless reaction coming from his pride. Ríght after leaving the tent with evident frustration, Patroclus claimed his cousin was heartless for abandoning their countrymen over a distribution dispute. If captives were the issue, he was willing to give you back to him. After all, he didnt want a slave in the first place. You were the compensation he received for not being allowed to fight, a distraction Achilles wanted him to have so he won't insist on the matter.

Since he remained on his tent for the rest of the day, you were sent there as an unwanted present returned to its source. It was the first time you were going to be completely alone with Achilles, and you had a peculiar opinion on him.

To you, his recent actions couldn't be framed as a mere temper tantrum. For as much desperate as the greeks could be to get back his intervention on the war, all their defeats without him would be blamed on him. It was a huge risk for his reputation, that he took after nearly assasinating some fellow soldiers trying to protect a slave.

What the camp perceived as brutal selfishness were acts of great kindness in your perspective. The man you despised barely a few hours ago had won your respectfull admiration. Curiosity overcame any fears as you peeked inside his self reclusion shelter. Common sense would have suggested to approach with caution. Instead, you were standing there with a polite smile and a bowl of food.

He barely looked at you, too lost in hoarding anger.

" I'm not hungry. "

The dry treatment didn't stop you.

" A bit lonely, perhaps? " You sweetly inquirred. " Patroclus is worried for you, so he has decided to give you his present hoping to cheer you up over loosing Briseis. "

The explanation got him more interested in starting a conversation.

" Is that what he believes i'm all about? The reason of my rage? A toy the big bad king took from me and i can simply replace? " He mocked the presented assumption. " I promised that girl that I would keep her safe. I gave her my word, but Agamemnon spat on it. "

The response was fascinating, even better than what you imagined.

" I value your commitement to that promise, no other would have defended her as fiercely as you did. "

Achilles received the compliment with skepticism.

" You should have seen how repulsed she was by that. "

The warrior was pretending to be careless because he wanted to know your opinion. Used as he was to stumble with the hate of Briseis, your more docile attitude was hard to understand because you didn't seem scared enough to be pretending submission.

" I'm impressed, and quite confused. " You admitted as you took your first steps inside. " The destroyer of the temple didn't hesitate in spilling the blood of sacred servants, yet barely a few hours later he turned against his own kind to protect the last one standing. "

You paced arround the place seeking for a spot to leave your load, then passively invited him to check it by choosing one on his reach.

" Your countrymen think you are being recklessly selfish, but i believe otherwise. A man who risks so much for a war prisoner he just meet proves that he is more than the destruction he caused. "

The trusting bright in your eyes got him out of his absortion.

" I will have to break your childish illusions, girl : all i care about is glory. Agamemnon is denying me the recognition i deserve, breaking my pacts for me, and I can't allow it."

To that seriously delivered statement, all you did was releasing some light chuckles and proceed to deliver some sweet mockery.

" Sure, sir … Whatever you say. "

Never before a stranger had reacted to him in such a relaxed way. Hate would have been easier to deal with than your sweetness.

He had no weapons to fight it, only his sarcasm.

" Mind to explain what you find so amusing?"

You didn't mind to share your theory, impatient to see how he would react to it.

" Turns out you have a heart after all, and you are upset because i discovered it. "

Achilles gave you the cold look he would show for an enemy in a singular combat.

" I'm a ruthless killer, I would slaughter your entire family and feel nothing about it. "

The warning was completely effectiveless.

" You couldn't even handle my best friend to your king knowing he would be capable of raping her. " You reminded him. " And you gave me to your cousin already aware that he would respect me. "

Facts had spoken better than his words and he realized that your nice positivity wasn't foolishness.

" That doesn't change what i am, only tells you that I wouldn't hurt helpless women."

" And you think that's not important? In this war, particularly?" You recalled inmediately. " I heard other greeks cheering themselves up saying they would all sleep with the wife of a trojan to avenge Menelaus. If the spartan king lost control of his wife, then marriage as an institution is threatened. They need to kill Helen and rape as many trojan women as they can so the horror will keep their women at bay. "

Intrigued by the practical wisedown of your words, he tapped with his hands a spot for you to sit beside him. As you followed the command, you remembered the food served near him.

" Eat, I made it specially for you. "

Achilles looked at what appeared to be an exotic version of a lamb stew.

" Are you trying to win me over with trojan food? It's humanly impossible for you to be this kind after what I have done to you." He concluded his suspicious inspection. " What's the trick? Is it poisoned? Did you spat inside as you were making it? "

You were still looking at him so sweetly and he became even more disconcerted.

If he needed proof, you were more than willing of eating the food for him given all you had previously was the terrible dishes served for slaves.

" It lacks some of the proper spicing, but I worked hard on it, so i'm not going to let it go to waste. "

Your shocked master couldnt take his eyes off you, observing you eating as if you were back in your home.

" Is it good? "

" Could have been worse, at least I was given to a good man. " You commented on your situation instead of the dish. " One that would be willing to threaten his own countrymen and inmovilize his army if something wrong happens to me. "

The praise made him smirk.

" Lovely … Where do you find such niceness?"

You drank some of his own wine before replying.

" King Priam's philosophy is deeply based on the power of kindness. "

He stiffled a chuckle, fearing you may find his amusement insulting.

" He should reconsider the strategy, wars aren't won with kindness."

" No, but small gestures can make big differences. " You corrected him. " Look arround you : if Agamemnon wouldn't have proceeded with cruelty, he wouldn't have lost your support. It can also be said that the kind promise you did to Briseis has the potentiality to shift the course of the war. "

The myrmidon was speechless, understanding some logical reasoning behind the naive optimism.

" I'm still an enemy of Troy. "

To the dark reminder, you had yet another sweet comeback.

" We can still respect each other. "

Achilles didn't waited much to correct you.

" I believe respect is earned, not owed. "

For the first time in the talk he had trully managed to annoy you.

" Then you can accept that your infamous wrath has earned you my respects and eat your food. "

You got him under his same reasoning and he conceeded you the victory.

" Is there more of that for me to try? "

Achilles developed a clear verdict out of that first encounter. He did enjoy the food, but he liked you way more. Even when your mindsets and attitudes were completely opposite, the way you have choosen to work on that difference made him feel oddly good arround you. No accusations from a stance of moral superiority came from you. Instead, you were proving your higher morals with your everyday acts of mundane kindness. Sometimes he got the feeling that you weren't even really Interested in being the better person, since respect and reciprocity were more important to you than being ríght.

To be yelled at was way easier than adapting to your attentive behavior. Softness like yours was confusing, specially knowing it wasn't performative. You weren't a scared girl trying to appeal a master, those actions simply reflected who you were.

The mystery of how you kept clinging to you kindness in such an adverse context occupied his mind out of boredoom. His thought process constantly battled with the evidence of his everyday getting to know you, trying desperately to ignore he was at the edge of an infatuation.

Making him company wasn't a problem to you, since it was way more of a pleasant activity than doing slave chores on the camp. On good days, you would even manage to get him out of his tent for a walk on the beach at the hours that the ausence of all the other armies made the place more quiet.

Visiting Briseis was complicated even when Agamemnon wasn't near, but you managed to get news proving the protest had some effect. Her new master didn't lay hands on her and she confessed you she believed the man had no idea of what to do with her because he only took her to punish his political rival.

It would be a matter of time before you would reunite again and, once that would happen, you were planning to beg the myrmidon leader for your liberation. Your friend thought that keeping your hopes in that man so up was a mistake, but you were convinced that he could be willing to do the ríght thing. He was hard to deal with, but never cruel to any of you.

In your particular experience, you had no complains of his treatment. If you wouldn't be dressed in misserable clothes everytime you had to wash your only decent dress, you would be feeling as if you were getting to know a suitor that your parents had you promised to. It was a thought you often toyed with, a sort of secret fantasy making the shackles feel lighter.

With the only exception of his self naturalization of nudity, Achilles had behaved like a true gentleman and you were happy to reciprocate the good treatment. However, if he would protectively hold your hand during your incursions outside his tent, you would forget for an instant of the war going on and feel as if you were all alone in a process of eternal courtship.

For as much as he kept denying to have a caring heart, you were seeing it from a mile away. You understood he needed to keep the facade despite that was all it was. Appearances, his rougeness of warrior hidding his sweeter emotions. At the time most greeks were calling him heartless, blind to their suffering, he stopped making himself blind to the pain of the only ones in the camp they won't care about.

He turned his back against them, but showed you his heart.

Every night since you left the tent of Patroclus, the new routine with Achilles was having dinner together and sharing the límits of his tent to sleep. In the beggining, he allowed you to have your space and pick a corner to be away from him. That changed one rainy night, when the sound of thunder from outside made you seek shelter on him.

Achilles noticed inmediately how you approached in silence to snuggle against him like a scared child.

" Did your parents never told you that's just Zeus bringing his cheers to mortals? "

You looked up to face him, as if you were trying to justify yourself but couldn't come up with anything.

" They did, but that didn't change much … Thunder still frightens me. "

Darkness didn't hide from him the peculiar beauty of your pleading face and he simply couldn't resist it. Patience lead him to a good end and you were approaching him willingly. He felt you clinging to his firm body, using him for comfort in a sleepless night and begging with your eyes that he would let you in.

It was perfect, perhaps too perfect.

" Mind if we stay like this tonight?" In your cluelessness about his feelings, you finally asked. " The weather gets on my nerves. "

He dreamed of being so close to you, but would have cutted one of his hands before admitting such vulnerability.

" Why do you always manage to persuade me with your charm ? "

He got to hear more of your light chuckling thinking that, if he wouldn't be cautious about scaring you, he would have kissed you.

You started to relax arround him and that allowed you to explain yourself better.

" My uncle died in the sea, a bad storm wrecked the ship and very few survived to tell the story. Briseis' father was with him, loosing someone when we were so little brought us close and that's how we became friends … What I never told her is that I blamed myself for years because my father was meant to go in that travel too, but he had other business to attend in the city. "

The usually cheerfull tone of your voice turned sadly serious as you tried not to cry remembering that.

" Why did I got to have mine and she lost hers? Her uncle told us it was the will of the gods, … but it's all happening again. She is stucked with Agamemnon while i'm safe with you. "

He understood the reason of your guilt, but wasn't going to let you keep thinking on that.

" Lucky girl. " He purred in a raspy voice. " Do you like being with me? "

The crashing sounds outside made you grip him tighter and he rounded your waist with one arm. The poor garments you were wearing made it odd to the touch and he wished he would be feeling your skin instead. Following his sleeping habit, he was naked at least from the waist up, and he did noticed you developing a subtle curiosity for his body.

" You are nice. " Was your vague reply. " Patroclus was very dissapointed when we meet. "

It wasn't exactly what he was looking for, but he kept trying.

" Trust me, it wasn't your fault. You were a wonderfull gift, but my little cousin is the opposite of the mycenaean king. He wants to do all the work and doesn't care for the pay. I didn't let him fight that time, so being presented with a reward for doing nothing got him upset. "

You got his point, but cassually threw in another idea.

" Maybe i was too old for his taste. "

The moment stimulated him to share some of his own load in reciprocity for your previous confession.

" My father died in the battlefield and i'm doomed to share his fate, but I don't want that for him. "

You awkwardly moved your head so it would rest on his chest and he started playing with your hair. No word from you flowed within the action, fearing any interruption would have make him aware of his fallen mask.

" Had you ever felt so sure about what you want for your life, completely convinced of how you want it to be like, then one day everything changes and shakes every certainty you had? "

It was most likely he didn't think his words carefully, because that was literally your story.

" Well, while my friend became a priestess, I knew I wanted to be a wife. I told her I was not going to let our different paths separate us, so i have been asisting as a bystander in every religious ceremony she has been in. As a noblewoman, i was allowed to, so I did. "

He had a close idea of were the tale was going, but didn't dare to sarcastically interrupt it.

" Polydamas was heartbroken when he found out Briseis had choosen priesthood, so i reached to comfort him. I must have been very good in that, because he started seeking my company. Since them we had been flirting for a while and i told myself that was my call. He is a fine trojan warrior and a seer, a man of excellent reputation and a personal friend of Prince Hector … So, i believed my life was taking its course I was following his game untill courtship would lead to marriage. That was the life I had planned, untill one day your men invaded my friend's temple. "

You stopped for an instant, before the callout would get too obvious.

" Tell me about yours. What kind of perspective changer event is ruining your plans? "

Achilles felt relieved of not sensing the enthusiasm of an enamored girl in your description of that trojan noble you were mentioning. If he would have found out you were in love with someone else waiting for you at the other side of the wall, he would have felt a heartbreak for the first time on his life and he had no idea of how he would have reacted to that. He couldn't care less about the trojan possibly wanting you for a wife, as long as he felt you weren't convinced of wanting him.

" I found some light for my obscure existence. " He vaguely admitted you. " I stopped fighting and realized there is so much I gave away for it, so much i will never have, and maybe what I got from a lifetime of warrior isn't worthy … I wasted my life following the orders of that fool of a king. "

Your fingers were tracing the patterns of his muscles as if you seeked to relax him out of those troubled thoughts.

" I believe it's never too late to start over, if that's what you want. " You adviced. " Take me as example: i came to terms with the fact that I will never be the wife of some honorable warrior. I will never make my family proud, to them I will be a memory too painfull or to shamefull to keep alive ... And if by chance I return to them, i will become a load for my father's home, because no trojan will want to marry me knowing I have been the slave of a greek. "

Hearing you express disenchantment was very unusual, and it was killing him. He couldn't stand your sadness, feeling sure that he would have done anything to end it.

" You would have been the best wife a warrior could aspire to get. "

That kind praise meant a lot to you, so you moved up just a bit in order to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Achilles smirked, ready to tease you despite he felt the gesture was very proper of you.

" You call that a kiss? Had Polydamas never give you a real one ? "

His provocation surprised you, but you weren't alarmed about it.

" Most trojan noblemen flirt keeping some decorum. " You attempted to explain. " Despite what the Insidious imagery of the war suggests, Paris is an exception to the courtship conduct of a trojan man. "

The myrmidon glanced at your lips, then deep into your eyes.

" If you let me, I can show you a glimpse of what you have been missing. " He seductively offered. " I will gift you a nice memory you can use to fight the fears. Instead of thinking of your dead uncle, or the guilt you felt, you will think of me everytime you will hear the sky cracking."

Your most inmediate response was a nervous smile.

" Would you do that for me? "

His mouth was dangerously close to yours and you parted your lips to let him in without a thought. The taste was wonderfull and with every instant of your pleased reception, his passion increased. You were at his mercy, almost completely lost to the new sensations and he knew he could have done with you whatever he wanted, but he didn't.

The trail of kisses had reached your neck when Achilles rolled on top of you. He was trying to stretch the fabric of your clothes, fighting for access to more skin without having to undress you ríght away. At that moment he got to hate your replacement wearing given in captivity as much as you did. There were no decent women clothes in the camp, so you got what his men could find for a slave. He despised it, that thing didn't make your beauty justice like your dress did. You deserved better, you weren't just a slave. Not anymore, and he haven't feel like that with you in a good while.

He was in love with you, and he haven't dare to say the words. In your quest to find his heart, you had taken ownership of it without realizing how deep you were reaching. The emotional intimacy and your adictive sweetness had won him over.

For him, that was as new as the physical contact was for you. He was paying close attention to your every reaction, surprised that you let him get as far when he sneaked his hands underneath your clothes. His caresses followed the sides of your curves and your closed eyes got open wide out of surprise, but you were still smiling under him.

It was the loveliest vision and he got enraptured by it.

" You are so beautifull … " He whispered softly. " Such lovely girl. "

You easily melted to his praise.

" Really? "

The sound of your voice calmed some of his overtaking passion. He remembered of how trusting you were of his softer side, how firmly you believed he was a good man despite of his war crimes.

For as much strenght as it would take from him, he needed to control himself for you. It was too early to claim you completely.

" You are the light shinning before my darkness. "

Achilles gave you a peck on the forehead and retired his hands from your body to caress both of your cheeks. With one more deep kiss, he prepared to cradle you in his arms for the rest of the night.

It was the most thoughtfull proof of love he could have given to you, but he didn't stop there.

Days later some traders from Lemnos had arrived to ressuply the greek army of various articles, but they were loaded of other items they meant to sell somewhere else on the way back home. From them Achilles got you a beautifull dress worthy of a lady, that he made you wear on the first dinner he shared with his men since his wrath was unleashed. You considered that telling stories and singing songs was little price to pay for such magnificent gift, but the experience showed you something else.

He kept you by his side the whole time, as an honorable warrior would while showing off his beloved wife.

[crimson-kisses]

Ok umm. Yandere god Canada, America, Russia, Austria, Germany, and France with a nature Goddess reader.

🤡💧anon ~

Technically, I have already done this ask in a way so this will only contain some drabbles!! Hope you liked it. Austria is a new one, tho!

Warning: Contains usual yandere themes, toxic relationships and the like.

Other works related to the au [post 1 || post 2 || post 3 || post 4 || post 5 || post 6]

Tangled vines

Canada || Matthew Williams 🇨🇦

Sitting atop a grassy hill, surrounded by vibrant blooming flowers, Matthew watches you with an admiring gaze. The calmness you give off brings a sense of peace to his soul, and he could spend hours simply observing your serene demeanor.

However, beneath your calm exterior, a storm rages within. Containing your seething fury, you make a decision not to show Matthew the extent of your anger. He had held you captive, subjecting you to his relentless beasts—creatures both mortal and immortal, magical and fierce.

His mighty wolves encircle you, seeking solace and warmth, as if yearning for a mother's touch. But you are far from their mother, yet you dare not push them away, lest you lose half of your body.

While your injuries may heal, the pain would prove burdensome, and that is the last thing you desire.

Matthew has succeeded in breaking your spirit through fear, ensuring your submission to his will. Meanwhile, delicate creatures flutter around you, drawn to the beauty of the blossoming flowers, as if inviting them into an embrace.

Sitting on the hill, you keenly sense Matthew's loving gaze upon you, his watchful eyes drinking in every detail of your presence.

"Your presence brings me a tranquility I haven't felt in eons,"

He murmurs, walking closer to where you sit, his hands clasped behind his back. He stalks towards you, paying no mind to the flowers crushed under his boots as he positions himself besides you. In his outstretched palm, a delicate butterfly finds solace.

His eyes, a shade of soothing lavender, gaze at you with a glint of delight. He reaches out, intertwining his fingers with yours, binding them tightly together. The fluttering creatures find respite around both of you, creating a delicate barrier.

You manage to suppress a shudder at his words, a bitter irony lingering in your mind. For he has brought you nothing but misfortune after misfortune. Trapped in this place, guarded by unfathomable creatures, you find yourself drained and wearied. His clinginess, has only soured over time, leaving you with a distaste that grows stronger with each passing moment.

At the very least, he hasn’t taken you far away from your domain.

America || Alfred F Jones 🇺🇸

The palace of the divine king stood in all its splendor, a spectacular sight of celestial marble adorned with magnificent statues. Pearls of various kinds adorned every corner, while golden rings encircled the ceilings, creating an ambiance fit for the heavens.

Yet, for you, it was a personal hell.

Alfred had positioned you on his lap, gripping you tightly as he attended to his duties and other matters, leaving you unable to attend to your own responsibilities. Your connection to your own domain felt distant, slipping through your fingers like sand.

There was no solace to be found within these walls.

But of course, Alfred was busy with showcasing you, parading you around, while purposely disregarding your legitimate concerns. It often felt as if he intentionally sought to provoke you, to ignite his wrath within you.

Perhaps that was exactly what he desired.

There is no piece or a leaf of your domain to be found near his castle, his territory, his domain, because his insufferable pride wouldn’t let that happen anytime soon. Instead, he to claim you as his, not as an another immortal being, but his wife, his woman, his lover. That’s the only identity you ought to have in his eyes.

Except for the garden, a sprawling expanse adorned with lush nature, you were forbidden to enter without his presence by your side. He would lead you beneath the thick foliage of the trees, that’s where he pleased you as he so wished, over and over again, until he was satisfied. The flowers bloomed with an ardent passion, glistening with dewdrops that adorned the garden like delicate jewels. It was a place solely dedicated to your pleasure, a sanctuary of sensory delights.

As if he was saying without telling, that even in this sanctuary you cannot have solace or peace without him by your side.

His hands were now inching towards your thighs, the dress slipping away smooth as milk as goosebumps raised on your skin, he stared at you with a lustful gaze, sitting between your naked thighs.

"It’s always a pleasure to be on my knees for you".

Russia || Ivan Brangisky 🇷🇺

He was more than aware that the frigidness of his domain did not suit you well and often clashed with the climate of your domain. Frost clung to your delicate skin, causing you to tremble ever so slightly in the face of the biting cold breeze.

He inhaled softly through his nose, a smile slowly spreading across his lips as he imagined you snugly wrapped in his coat, finding warmth and comfort within its embrace.

Sadly, you had politely refused.

Ivan set a steaming bowl of hot soup before you, urging you to partake as he settled into a seat across from you. His gaze, filled with intensity, roamed freely over your form, appreciating your beauty. You were indeed a stunning woman, a captivating sight that was truly a feast for the eyes.

He held a special fondness for the moments when you brought life and beauty to his desolate domain, watching nature bloom in all its loveliness and delight. It was a sight that touched his heart and filled him with a rare warmth, a feeling he rarely experienced within his own realm and in his life as a whole.

And it was precisely because of this profound connection that he felt compelled to carry out what he was about to do.

With deep violet eyes sparkling with delight and a hint of amusement, he watched as a vibrant cluster of sunflowers flourished around his house. Your cheerful laughter and radiant smile tugged at his heartstrings, bringing warmth to the depths of his being.

You were undeniably enchanting, blissfully unaware of the healing power you possessed. In your presence, the scars that tore at his heart and the wars that ravaged his immortal soul seemed to fade away.

It was you, and only you, who had the ability to mend the shattered pieces and bring solace to his troubled existence.

Austria || Roderick Edelstein 🇦🇹

Glowing bluebells sway delicately from fragile stems, emitting a soft, ethereal glow. As you run your fingers tenderly across their petals, a melodic serenade reminiscent of piano keys fills the air. With a sigh, you become aware that you are under the watchful scrutiny of keen plum-colored eyes.

You have long stopped caring about such things, focusing on the peaceful arrangements of nature around you, swaying with their own set of tunes which was such a joy to hear.

Emerging from his hiding place, Roderick would reprimand you about the seemingly chaotic music that resonates in the surroundings. Swiftly taking control of the situation, and in response to his commands, the flowers obediently bloom and unfurl themselves once more. The melodies that fill the air follow his guidance, harmonizing in a more orderly manner.

At the very least, you would be near your domain and Roderick, as much as judgmental he is about some things, whether it be how your too much of a carefree woman or being agitated by your chaotic domain, he had no qualms about separating you from your home.

You supposed you will take what you get, as he exclaims that it is now time for dinner and grabs you inside his mansion by gently placing a hand on your waist and demanding you to clean yourself up.

It wasn’t all that bad, you supposed with an exasperated look directed towards him and go ahead, to wash yourself up for dinner.

Germany || Ludwig Beilschmidt 🇩🇪

You swim around the extravagantly colorful reefs with a burst of speed as dozen fishes follow your trail. Playfully, you swirl around and watch as they circle around you, filling your heart with warmth unlike the cold water which was your home.

Your tail, looked like a part of the nature itself, scales glistening with shades of green, mimicking hues of lush moss that clung to ancient stones, delicate tendrils of seaweed and aquatic flora intertwined with the moss-like scales.

It shimmered vibrantly in the ocean, as you glided through the vibrant reefs, leaving a trail of luminous pearls in their wake, so you could be easily tracked by the Deity of the twelve Oceans.

You feel the sudden change of current in the ocean, as he swims near you skillfully, his powerful tail a deep shade of forest green, with a golden hue.

The water lilies swim above you, blooming in your presence as they gently make way for the sunlight to fall upon you both. Following your and Ludwig's command with perfect harmony.

"You have been wandering quite a lot, I can’t help but be worried about you. I suppose the pearls were a good idea after all".

Solemnly you nod, as the former giddiness you shared with the fishes fades away into an empty space in your chest. Ludwig takes your hand and together you both take a dive, deeper into the ocean.

The pearls would make a fine jewelry for a more fortunate woman someday, you think, as Ludwig can’t help but collect few in with his hands.

France || Francis Bonnefoy 🇫🇷

A necklace adorned with a delicate array of ethereal feathers, gracefully embraced your neck. In the mirror's reflection, you could see the reflection of Francis, dreamy expression adorning his face, captivated by your appearance.

You swiftly avert your gaze from his, he gently takes a hold of your hand, pressing a series of tender kisses upon the top of your knuckles, his affectionate gestures ascending to graze your neck.

You don’t bother saying anything, not that he would listen to what do you have to say. Staying still, as he presses kisses across your collarbone, his hands inching towards the sides of your bosom.

In your divine beauty, you stood as a celestial masterpiece, crafted from stardust that cascaded across the vast expanse of the universe. With a single glance, you effortlessly ensnared his heart, drawing him into a realm of enchantment from which he could never escape. Your allure was irresistible and mesmerizing, leaving him forever spellbound by your radiant presence.

His adoration for you knew no bounds. He was madly in love with every curves of your body, his hands tenderly skimmed through the strands of your hair, cherishing each delicate strand. A shudder comes through you as he pushes your dress down, and then presses a passionate kiss on your lips, hands grabbing whatever they could find.

You were the nature's most precious treasure, indeed.