#Tales of the Gilded Lands

[vagabond-umlaut]

tryst, too tempest

Icarus fell for loving the Sun.

You will, for loving your lover.

▸ trueform!sukuna x wife!reader; 1.1k wc; comprises of elements inspired by the tale of 'hades and persephone' & 'fall of icarus'; warning: sukuna is sukuna, so expect the expected [mentions of violence, murder, cannibalism]; warning 2.0: the reader is not very keen to leave or not love her husband; uraume is the BEST WINGPERSON none of you two ever deserved but still got; FLUFF & ANGST & A MADLY DEVOTED LOVE YOU AND SUKUNA FEEL FOR EACH OTHER

▸ belongs to the series 'mine? yes, mine.' – same universe as the work 'six seeds, like rubies...' — but you can treat this as a stand-alone fic if you wanna!

▸ i don't own the characters, the image or the divider used. please don't plagiarize or translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

Foul winds howl through the land, the first year of your life as one Ryomen Sukuna's wife.

Servants cower before you the moment your shadow falls within their field of vision, yet their gaze stays steeped in pity and envy the entire time it remains trained on your feet. Grocers mumble to one another, eyes looking away when you move to look at the things in their shops. Even the very flora and fauna, you loved so much growing up, writing poems on them from the day you knew how to pen a poem– even the same flora and fauna feels so foreign to you—

"You do realize your importance to Master, don't you?"

Uraume's quiet question floats in through your thoughts, much akin a gentle breeze creating small ripples over the water surface. You smile. "Given how I haven't been eaten by him or sent to be murdered by his subordinate curses, I think I do."

Emotion, too similar to humor, flits across the mien of your husband's loyal follower — you decide not to think much of it. Too many days of having only them as someone to speak to, outside of requesting for a second serving of the soup or asking for the cost of yukata, has led to you imagining a smile on a person who is famous for their poker face. Shaking your head, you return to your poems, the quill fluttering over the roll of parchment you found lying at the breakfast today morning, and let out a content sigh — only for your peace of mind to be broken by the bursting of a guard into the garden, appearing too terrorstruck to utter a single coherent word.

It takes you nothing save one glance, moving from him to Uraume to your ink-stained fingers, before you find yourself keeping the papers on the ground beside and rising, feet breaking into a hasty giddy run down the corridors of the palace to the throne room where, certainly enough–

"I was under the impression you've run away in the extra while I spent sleeping, wife."

The world around you comes to a dead stop as the visage of Sukuna comes into your line of sight; you feel your heart skip two beats then begin a thundering rhythm against your ribcage.

Four years ago, if someone were to tell you there is someone who is going to free you from the gilded cage you were forced to call 'home', is going to share with you his name and is going to be the reason you will ponder the meaning of love, you would have given them a second of your time before walking away with a polite excuse.

One year before, if someone were to tell you there is someone who is going to free you from the gilded cage you were forced to call 'home', is going to share with you his name and is going to be the reason you will ponder the meaning of love, you would have huffed a quiet laugh. The first two have already come to pass (with too many lives lost and too many lives threatened) — yet the very last prediction? You would have considered it to be highly improbable, if not outright impossible.

Yet, now, if someone were to tell you the same three things, you think you wouldn't have shown much of a reaction. You would have simply turned to that 'someone' mentioned in the prediction, and gazed and gazed and gazed–

"I left the roll of parchment you bought for Mistress at the breakfast table, just as you asked, Master," Uraume's voice cuts your thoughts into half and you twist to catch them offer you both a very deep bow before hurrying out, to the left towards the kitchen, four baskets full of radishes in their arms.

You look back at your husband, only to find him seated stiffly on his throne, eyes landing anywhere but you. Stifling a giggle, you tilt your head to the side.

"Why do you act so embarrassed, my king?" you ask, stepping a timid step towards him, then another. Gleaming ruby eyes dart to your face then to your approaching feet. Something tingles through your veins. Climbing the stairs leading to him, you hum, smiling, "I don't think it's embarrassing – quite the opposite, in fact. To me, giving one's wife a thoughtful gift as that... it seems quite adorable to me."

"Be careful of your words, woman," the King of Curses growls, rising and taking a large menacing step in your direction; your smile grows intentionally too innocent, which does apparently nothing to quell his increasing fury: the precise outcome you've been wishing so fervently for.

He pulls you by the waist, flush to himself and lowers his lips close to yours, tantalizingly so. He smells very strongly of those bath salts you bought from a travelling merchant three moons back; faintly of blood and death, of the priest he diced last night after dinner — you wonder if you're worthy to be called a human, after finding the curse you have sworn yourself to forever, so terribly dear despite these.

Certainly not — but you reckon you're too far gone to care anyways, so you stop wondering such things – and lift yourself on your tiptoes to brush your lips with your husband's, then pull away a touch, words leaving your lips in a breathy whisper.

"What if I'm not careful with my words? What will you do then, hm? Will you devour me like the monster everyone says you are? Or, will you throw me away like everyone warns me you will one day– when you find someone prettier, smarter, better than me, huh?"

Two moments pass in pin-drop silence between the two of you.

Barking a noisy guffaw, Sukuna weaves his fingers through your hair, still damp from the bath you took a short time ago, and plants a deep kiss to your lips. Then parts his lips from yours, although a mere hair's breadth away, and grins, features teeming with that exotic species of malevolence you never saw yourself regarding to be charming.

Until your gaze met with his, one fated evening, that is.

Your nails dig crescents into the broad muscles of his shoulders.

Your lover's grin sharpens. "Let time tell the tale— yes, my queen?"

The next morning, you find a dozen or so heads waiting for you at the breakfast table, severed by a neat slice at the root of their neck– eyes and mouths which once looked down on your wedding with the King, frozen forever now in a scream of terror.

Forsaking the wonted theme of nature, you decide to pen a poem on scathing, soothing love, instead.

or... everyone: your husband is a despicable monster!!! you: uh-huh everyone: he might leave you for someone better!!! you: uh-huh everyone: you better not stay in this union anymore. you: nuh-nuh. i'm so gonna stay and love and fuck my hubby <3

▸ masterlist

[valaenatargaryensdragon]

The Queen's Gambit

pairing: Fanon!Viserys Targaryen x Female OC

summary: Vanesha Lannister will not rest until she reaches her goal.

Word count: 1,7K

Warnings: Smut, P in V, squirting

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

The Red Keep stood tall, its imposing towers casting shadows over the city of King's Landing. Within its walls, a game of power and ambition unfolded, and at the center of it all was Vanesha Lannister.

She was a woman of intelligence and cunning, possessing a beauty that could captivate even the most resolute of men. But her true strength lay in her ability to identify weaknesses and exploit them. Viserys I Targaryen, the King of Westeros, was her latest prey.

As Vanesha walked through the gilded corridors of the Red Keep, her mind churned with calculated thoughts. She knew of Viserys' insatiable desire for sons, heirs to carry on the Targaryen legacy. It was a vulnerability she intended to exploit to the fullest.

In the candlelit chambers, she found Viserys engrossed in his own thoughts. His brow furrowed as he stared at a map of Westeros, contemplating the future of his dynasty. He looked up as Vanesha entered, and for a moment, his expression softened.

"Vanesha," he said, his voice laced with a longing he could barely conceal. "You look as radiant as ever."

Vanesha smiled, a calculated glint in her sapphire eyes. She moved closer to him, her movements graceful and deliberate. "My lord, I've been thinking," she began, her voice a velvet whisper. "Have you noticed how few daughters my family has produced over the years? It's always sons, strong sons to carry the name of Lannister."

Viserys, ever the dreamer of male heirs, nodded eagerly. "Yes, I've heard the tales. The Lannisters are blessed with sons, while the Targaryens..."

Vanesha's hand gently touched his arm, a subtle caress that sent a shiver down Viserys' spine. "It's a trait that runs in my blood, my lord. And I would be honored to provide you with the sons you so dearly desire."

Viserys' eyes widened, his vulnerability laid bare. It was a promise he had longed to hear, and Vanesha knew she had him ensnared. The courtship began, a dance of seduction and manipulation, and Viserys was utterly captivated.

Years passed, and Vanesha became Viserys' confidante and advisor. Her beauty remained undiminished, even after childbirth, as she presented him with not one, but three sons. The King was besotted, his every decision influenced by the woman who had fulfilled his dreams.

In the shadows of the Red Keep, Vanesha Lannister's ambition thrived, and Viserys I Targaryen remained a willing puppet, unaware of the strings that bound him to her will.

"Gods yes" Vanesha's head fell back, pure pleasure coursing through her body. She wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment forever.

"Viserys please" Vanesha moaned out loud. her thighs burned from the position. Viserys smirked watching her bounce on his cock, she looked like a goddess, his cock so deep inside of her, filling her.

"Take it" Viserys ordered, grunting as he pushed his hips up to meet her thrusts. Vanesha felt her whole body beginning to tremble with the orgasm coursing through her fighting to come forward.

"So close" She cried. her arms wrapped around his neck yelping when he moved. Her whines made his heart thump as he pulled out of her hole.

"Whore" Viserys smirked. he manhandled her body to move her to kneel on the bed. He pushed her down on her hands before entering her again.

"Viserys!" She squeaked, desperate to cum again. Viserys' hips snapped forward into her, burying his entire length inside. He felt delicious, so deep inside of her. He had already pulled an orgasm from her earlier with his lips merely suckling on her breast, emptying them helping her with the ache from not breast feeding their newest addition, Jahaerys, their son was being fed by the wet nurse while Vanesha finished her queenly duties.

"Yes, you like to be filled up, don't you?" Viserys asked. He never felt anymore power than he did with his cock deep inside of her cunt.

"Yes fill me up, give me a child" Vanesha whined, she pushed her hips back wanting him deeper. One of her hands sneaked in between her thighs, rubbing her pearl furiously.

"Cumming" She warned, Viserys picked up his pace. Vanesha's eyes rolled back with pure pleasure. She gasped when he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her back.

"Viserys" She moaned, her back falling on his chubby belly. Her head rested back on his shoulder giving him access to kiss up and down her neck. He pushed her hand away and took over rubbing her clit.

She wiggled in his arm with overstimulation, he was adamant on making her cum having heard that when a woman cums there are higher chances to conceive. After the orgasm he gave her from suckling on her breasts he moved down to suckle on the same clit he was rubbing like a mad man, she made him a mad man and he was happy with it.

"Shit" She wailed hoarsly, her whole body falling forward, the knot in her stomach snapping making her gush around Viserys' cock. Viserys watched proudly as his wife's body trembled under him but refusing to push his cock out, her hips moving back unconsciously keeping him inside.

Vanesha shivered as Viserys ran his hands up and down her side to comfort her. She moved back on her hands and looked back over her shoulder at Viserys with a dazed smile. Viserys grinned in return and resumed the movement of his hips.

"I shall make sure your womb is filled to the brim with my seed tonight" Viserys declared. One of his hands moved onto her lower belly and pressed down on it. Vanesha gasped deliciously eating the pleasure he gave. She was ready to give him a millions sons.

"Don't stop" She begged, she was desperate. Viserys picked up his pace feeling his balls tighten, he was close.

"Fill me with your royal seed" Vanesha begged. She was going to give him more children, she was going to choke him with them, she was going to rule him with them.

Viserys' head fell back, her soaked pussy was just right, he has never felt this kind of pleasure before. He wanted to devour her if possible. His thick finger rand down till they reached down between her legs pinching her pearl again.

Vanesha's cried echoed off the the walls losing herself to the pleasure. Each touch made her skin light up on fire. Viserys collected her wetness and moved his hand up to her face. Vanesha opened her mouth welcoming his fingers into her mouth, moaning loudly when she tasted herself on his fingers.

"Good breeding mare" Viserys praised. Vanesha almost fainted right then and there at his words. She sucked his fingers as if they were his cock.

"Viserys" Vanesha moaned around his fingers. He pushed her tongue down, moaning when she swirled it around his fingers.

"Fucking hell, will fill you up with another son" He gasped quickening his thrusts. Vanesha thrashed in between his arms. he pulled out his fingers from her mouth with a pop. Vanesha cried now moans on full volume with nothing blocking them from coming out of her mouth.

She thrashed and cried and pushed back and forward, her orgasm was like fire, her back arched like the one of a cat as she squirted. Viserys pushed his cock inside of her as deep as possible making sure to shoot his seed as deep inside of her as possible, not to waste a singular drop even when he walls resisted him, even when her liquids tried to push him out.

The birth of their fourth son, Aeryn, marked another significant moment in Vanesha Lannister's plan for power and influence within House Targaryen. She had already achieved the unimaginable - securing her position as the mother of four sons, each of them a potential heir to the Iron Throne.

As Aeryn's cries echoed through the halls of the Red Keep, Vanesha held the newborn close, her mind racing with thoughts of the future. She had successfully given Viserys the sons he so desired, and now her attention turned to the next phase of her ambitious scheme.

In the privacy of their chambers, she broached the topic with the king, her voice gentle yet persuasive. "My love," she began, "I cannot help but think of the future of our sons. Aegon, our eldest, is a true heir in every sense. Strong and capable, he embodies the qualities of a future king."

Viserys, who had longed for male heirs, listened intently. "You speak the truth, Vanesha. Aegon is a fine boy, and I'm proud to call him my son."

Encouraged by his response, Vanesha continued, her words carefully chosen. "Rhaenyra is a remarkable girl, but it's well known that sons are favored in the realm. Aegon should be our heir, my love. It's the best way to secure the future of House Targaryen."

Viserys hesitated, torn between tradition and the desires of his heart. "Rhaenyra is my daughter," he replied, his voice filled with paternal affection.

Vanesha placed a reassuring hand on his arm, her eyes filled with concern. "I understand your love for her, my king. But we must consider the stability of the realm. Aegon is the strongest choice, and he would have the support of many lords and allies."

Viserys contemplated her words, his gaze fixed on the newborn Aeryn. He had always dreamed of strong sons to carry on the Targaryen legacy, and now he had them. The idea of naming Aegon as his heir, instead of Rhaenyra, held a certain appeal.

Vanesha continued to work her persuasive charm, planting the seeds of doubt in Viserys' mind regarding Rhaenyra's suitability as an heir. She knew that, with time, she could mold his thoughts to align with her ambitions.

As the days turned into weeks and months, Vanesha's influence grew, and the idea of Aegon as the heir to the Iron Throne gained traction. Viserys, still enamored with his sons, began to entertain the possibility.

Little did he know that his queen, Vanesha Lannister, was orchestrating a quiet revolution, one that could alter the course of history in Westeros. The future of House Targaryen hung in the balance, and the queen's ambitions knew no bounds.

[hookhausenschips]

Eternal Bonds: A Love Across Time {OP81}

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Summary: Every soul carries a unique mark—a tether invisible to the eye yet undeniable to the heart. Some call it destiny, others call it a cruel game played by time. For Y/N and Oscar, their connection defied the natural order, binding them across centuries. Each life they lived told a tale of love and loss, as if the universe itself conspired to keep them apart—until the present day, when their stories converged to finally bring closure to their enduring bond.

WC: 4.7k

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

---The Desert Sands of Ancient Egypt 

The sun blazed over Thebes, casting a golden hue over the Nile’s waters. Y/N, a skilled healer in service to Queen Nefertari, was known across the land for her unparalleled knowledge of herbs and remedies. Her beauty was equally renowned: her dark, coiled hair was adorned with gold beads that shimmered in the sunlight, and her rich, deep skin seemed to reflect the Nile’s brilliance. Her sharp mind and unwavering confidence made her a trusted confidant of the queen. 

One fateful day, Y/N was summoned to the palace to tend to a group of foreign warriors who had arrived as part of a diplomatic delegation. Among them was Oscar, a strikingly handsome emissary with piercing hazel eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of faraway lands. As Y/N wrapped a bandage around his wounded arm, she felt an inexplicable pull, as though she had known him before. 

Their conversations began with formal pleasantries, but soon evolved into deep exchanges about their homelands, their dreams, and the stars above. Oscar spoke of his people’s customs and the distant mountains he longed to show her. Y/N, in turn, shared tales of her childhood by the Nile, her ambitions to bring healing to those in need, and her admiration for the queen’s wisdom. 

The more they spoke, the more their connection deepened. But their love was fraught with obstacles. Y/N’s position as the queen’s healer demanded loyalty and discretion, while Oscar’s role as an emissary placed him under constant scrutiny. Still, they found ways to steal moments together, meeting in the cool shadows of the temple or under the cover of night by the riverbank. 

One evening, under a canopy of stars, Oscar took Y/N’s hand. “If fate were kinder, I would stay here with you forever,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. 

Y/N’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And if the gods would grant me one wish, it would be to follow you to the ends of the earth.” 

Their clandestine meetings did not go unnoticed for long. A jealous courtier, seeking to curry favor with the queen, reported their forbidden bond. Summoned before Queen Nefertari, Y/N was confronted with a terrible choice: renounce her love for Oscar or face banishment from the palace. 

Before Y/N could answer, guards seized Oscar, accusing him of attempting to undermine the queen’s court. Despite Y/N’s pleas, the queen was resolute. “His presence here threatens the delicate balance of diplomacy. He must face the consequences.” 

Oscar was sentenced to death. On the night of his execution, Y/N fought her way to the prison, her cries echoing through the stone corridors. She reached him moments before the guards led him away. 

“I will find you again,” she whispered, clutching his hand through the iron bars. 

“In every lifetime,” Oscar replied, his voice steady despite the doom that awaited him. 

Y/N’s screams pierced the air as the blade fell, her heart shattering into a thousand pieces. Alone in the silent aftermath, she vowed to the gods that their love would not end here. Somewhere, sometime, they would be together again. 

--- The Gardens of Renaissance Florence 

Centuries passed before Y/N’s eyes fluttered open to the golden light of Florence, Italy. It was the age of the Renaissance, a time of rebirth, when art, science, and humanism flourished in gilded splendor. Y/N, now a gifted apprentice in a renowned atelier, found her days filled with the scent of linseed oil and the vibrant colors of crushed pigments. Her fingers danced across canvases, bringing life to the faces of Florence’s elite, including the illustrious Medici family, patrons of the arts and wielders of great power. 

Her skin, kissed by the Tuscan sun, was a rarity in these parts, an enigma that both inspired and unsettled. Though whispers followed her, her talent proved undeniable. Her frescoes adorned chapel walls, and her portraits captured souls in ways others could not. 

One fateful evening, Y/N attended a gala hosted at the Medici Palazzo, a shimmering bastion of wealth and influence. Draped in a gown of deep emerald, she moved through the gilded halls, her presence a quiet defiance to those who doubted her place. There, beneath the glimmer of Venetian chandeliers, she encountered a man whose presence struck her like a bolt of lightning. 

Oscar, now a charismatic inventor, stood surrounded by curious onlookers, his hands gesturing animatedly as he described his latest mechanical contraption. His features, softened by time but sharpened by experience, were strikingly familiar. When their eyes met, it was as though the air had been sucked from the room. Neither could explain the overwhelming pull between them, the ghost of a memory just out of reach. 

Their connection deepened quickly. Both driven by an insatiable hunger for creation, they spent hours in the Medici gardens, sketching designs for Oscar’s flying machines or perfecting Y/N’s portraits. Their late-night conversations, carried by the scent of orange blossoms and the rustle of cypress trees, drifted toward whispered secrets and dreams of a world where they might truly belong. 

Yet Florence, with all its beauty, held a darkness. The rigid social hierarchies were unforgiving, and Y/N, as a Black woman in this world, bore the brunt of its cruelty. The Medici patriarch, Lorenzo il Magnifico himself, grew suspicious of her influence over Oscar, whose inventions were beginning to garner both praise and envy. “Your liaison threatens our house,” Lorenzo warned one evening, his voice as cold as the marble statues that adorned the palazzo. “She is a distraction—a danger to everything we have built.” 

The lovers tried to navigate the rising tensions, but their bond, as fiery as it was forbidden, became impossible to hide. When whispers turned to outright scandal, the Medici family’s ire boiled over. An ultimatum was delivered: Y/N must leave Florence, or Oscar would face dire consequences. 

The decision was made. On a moonlit night, with shadows cloaking their movements, Y/N and Oscar prepared to flee to Venice, a city where they believed they might find refuge among its labyrinthine canals and the anonymity of the Serenissima. Their modest carriage, laden with only the essentials, creaked as it made its way out of the city, the sound blending with the soft trill of nocturnal birds. 

But Florence’s grip proved relentless. Just beyond the city’s gates, as their carriage descended into a wooded ravine, the clatter of hoofbeats shattered the stillness. A group of masked men, sent by the Medici, emerged from the shadows, swords drawn. The ambush was swift and brutal. 

Oscar leaped to defend Y/N, using his cane as a makeshift weapon, but they were outnumbered. Y/N, with the same fierce determination that fueled her art, grabbed a dagger concealed in her belongings and fought alongside him. Amid the chaos, one of the attackers lunged toward Oscar, his blade aimed for his chest. 

“NO!” Y/N’s scream tore through the night as she thrust herself between them, the steel sinking into her flesh. Time seemed to freeze as she fell into Oscar’s arms, her blood staining his hands as red as the poppies that bloomed in the fields they had once dreamed of escaping to. 

“Y/N, stay with me,” Oscar pleaded, his voice cracking. “Please, stay.” 

Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her eyes searching his. “Oscar,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. “Do not let this end us. Promise me you will create a world where love like ours is no longer a crime.” 

Tears streamed down his face as he clutched her, the warmth of her life slipping away. The attackers, seeing their task complete, melted back into the shadows, leaving Oscar alone with his grief. 

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky, Oscar buried his face in Y/N’s hair, his soul fractured. Her words echoed in his mind—a plea for a future he vowed to realize. 

In the days that followed, whispers of Y/N’s death spread through Florence. To those who had known her only as an artist, her loss was merely a passing tragedy. But to Oscar, it was the loss of a part of himself, a wound that no time or invention could ever mend. Her memory became his muse, her sacrifice the fuel for his creations, each one imbued with the hope that love could transcend even the cruelest barriers. 

And though the Medici gardens bloomed with the beauty of the Renaissance, for Oscar, they would forever bear the shadow of the night he lost her—the woman who had been the light of his life. 

-- The Battlefields of World War I 

The year was 1917, and Europe was engulfed in the Great War. The Western Front stretched like a festering wound across the continent, a no-man’s land of mud, barbed wire, and death. The air carried the acrid stench of gunpowder and the low, ceaseless rumble of artillery fire. Against this grim backdrop, Y/N worked as a nurse with the Voluntary Aid Detachment, tending to the unending tide of broken men sent back from the front lines. 

Her hands, though steady and skilled, were perpetually stained with blood. Day and night, she moved between cots in the crowded field hospital, her soft voice a balm to the suffering and her touch a small mercy in a world gone mad. She was a woman of extraordinary resilience, her presence in the midst of chaos a testament to the enduring human spirit. Yet the horrors she witnessed weighed heavily on her, seeping into her dreams and stealing moments of quiet. 

One cold, rain-soaked afternoon, as Y/N wrapped a fresh bandage around a soldier’s mangled arm, the doors of the hospital swung open. A stretcher was hurriedly carried in, the figure upon it groaning softly. The soldier was young, his face pale beneath the dirt and streaks of dried blood. His left arm hung at an awkward angle, and shrapnel wounds marred his chest. The tag pinned to his uniform read: Lieutenant Oscar Piastri, Australian Flying Corps. 

Y/N felt an unexplainable jolt as her eyes met his for the first time. Though his features were unfamiliar, something about him stirred a memory buried deep within her soul. She shook off the sensation and focused on her task, instructing the orderlies to prepare a clean cot for the new patient. 

Oscar was delirious with pain as she worked to clean his wounds, but even through the haze, he managed a faint smile. “An angel, come to save me,” he murmured, his accent thick with the drawl of the Australian outback. 

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle softly, despite the grim circumstances. “Hardly an angel, Lieutenant,” she replied, her voice firm yet kind. “Just a nurse doing her duty.” 

Over the weeks that followed, as Oscar’s injuries slowly healed, he became a fixture in the ward. Unlike many of the soldiers, whose spirits were crushed by the horrors they had endured, Oscar exuded a disarming optimism. He joked with the other patients, shared stories of his childhood in Australia, and helped boost the morale of the weary nurses. 

For Y/N, his presence became a source of unexpected solace. Though she maintained a professional demeanor, she found herself lingering at his bedside after her rounds were complete, drawn in by his charm and wit. They spoke of everything—his dreams of flying after the war, her aspirations to study medicine, and the lives they had left behind. Each conversation felt like a reprieve from the darkness of the world around them. 

One evening, as the sound of distant shelling reverberated through the camp, Oscar confided in her. “It’s strange,” he said, staring at the ceiling of the canvas tent. “I’ve seen death more times than I can count. But meeting you feels like a second chance at life.” 

Y/N, taken aback by his candor, looked away, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her apron. “This war takes so much from us,” she whispered. “I suppose it’s only natural to cling to whatever light we can find.” 

Their bond deepened with each passing day. In stolen moments, when the ward was quiet, they walked together outside the hospital, breathing in the crisp air and finding comfort in each other’s presence. They laughed, shared dreams, and even dared to imagine a future beyond the war. 

But the war was relentless, and its shadow loomed over them. As Oscar regained his strength, he was cleared to return to active duty. The news came as a blow to Y/N, though she tried to hide her despair. “You’re needed here,” she said softly one evening as they sat on a low wall overlooking the makeshift hospital. 

Oscar placed a hand over hers, his gaze steady. “And you’re needed here too,” he replied. “But we have to do what’s right, Y/N. I have to go back up there. For my mates. For all of us.” 

Their goodbye was bittersweet. Y/N gave him a small pendant, a simple token she had carried with her for years. “For luck,” she said, her voice trembling. “Promise me you’ll come back.” 

“I promise,” he said, pressing the pendant to his lips before tucking it into his jacket. “No matter what happens, I’ll find you again.” 

For weeks, life at the hospital continued as usual, though Y/N’s heart ached with worry. Letters from Oscar arrived sporadically, each one a lifeline in the midst of the unrelenting chaos. He described the thrill of flying, the camaraderie among his squadron, and his longing to see her again. 

Then, one fateful day, the news came. A bombing raid had gone disastrously wrong. Oscar’s squadron had been ambushed by enemy fighters, and his plane had been shot down behind enemy lines. The official report listed him as missing, presumed dead. 

The words hit Y/N like a physical blow. She staggered, her knees buckling as she clutched the telegram. Her mind refused to accept the reality, clinging to the hope that perhaps, somehow, he had survived. But days turned into weeks, and no further news arrived. 

Y/N threw herself into her work with a ferocity that bordered on desperation. She tended to the wounded with unwavering dedication, but her laughter was gone, replaced by a quiet grief that weighed heavily on her shoulders. At night, when the ward fell silent, she sat alone beneath the stars, clutching the small pendant she had given Oscar, now returned to her among his personal effects. 

“Once again, fate has stolen you from me,” she murmured to the void, her tears falling freely. “But I will find you, Oscar. In this life or the next, I will find you.” 

The war raged on, but for Y/N, the battle had become deeply personal. The love she had found amidst the carnage had been snatched away, leaving her with only memories and the unshakable conviction that their souls were destined to reunite. 

-- 1980's Mafia Battles 

The neon lights of the city flickered against the thick fog of cigarette smoke that hung in the dimly lit streets. New York, in the 1980s, was a landscape painted in shadows and chaos, where power was bought and sold on every corner. Beneath the glittering skyline, the streets thrummed with danger, alive with the silent wars of the Five Families—the Gambinos, Genovese, Luccheses, Bonanno, and Colombos. It was a world of whispered betrayals, blood-stained deals, and shifting alliances. The city wasn’t merely a backdrop; it was a battlefield, where power was currency and loyalty was fleeting. 

The city pulsed with a heartbeat that echoed in the alleyways and the boardrooms, where the mafia families of the city ruled with a quiet, deadly force. Oscar Piastri had learned early in life that love was a commodity that could be bartered for power—or destroyed when it was inconvenient. 

Oscar Piastri was born into this crucible, a scion of the Gambino family and nephew to the infamous John Gotti, the "Dapper Don." Gotti’s rise to power had reshaped the family, bringing both prosperity and chaos. As his protégé, Oscar was groomed for greatness, expected to embody the ruthless cunning that defined their legacy. From a young age, Oscar had learned the rules of survival: be ruthless, be calculating, and above all, trust no one. Yet, for all his uncle’s lessons, nothing could prepare him for the storm that would upend his carefully ordered life. 

She was that storm: Y/N, a woman of elegance and enigma, a deadly agent of the Genovese family. Her name carried weight in whispers, a shadow within shadows. The Genovese were known for their subtlety, their long games of manipulation, and Y/N was no exception. Her dark eyes held secrets, her presence commanded respect, and her beauty was a weapon as sharp as any blade. The tensions between their families simmered just below the surface, but it was her arrival that would ignite an inferno. 

The Silver Dagger was a sanctuary of sin. A nightclub where the walls had ears, but the patrons didn’t care. Under the glow of neon lights, it was a place where alliances were forged and broken, where power whispered promises under the cover of music and laughter. That night, Oscar stood at the bar, his drink in hand, his mind elsewhere. Until he saw her. 

Y/N was magnetic, her presence drawing every eye in the room, but it was Oscar’s gaze that lingered. Her confidence was unshakable, her every step deliberate. She moved through the crowd as if she owned it, and perhaps she did. When their eyes met, the air seemed to crackle, the world narrowing to just the two of them. 

He knew who she was. He’d heard the stories, the warnings. Yet, he couldn’t look away. And when she approached him, it was as though fate had taken control. 

“Oscar Piastri,” she said, her voice a blend of silk and steel. “The Golden Boy of the Gambino family. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

He raised his glass, his smirk masking the storm inside. “And you must be Y/N. The Genovese family’s finest. Should I be flattered, or concerned?” 

Her lips curved into a dangerous smile. “A little of both, perhaps.” 

Their words were a dance, a sparring match veiled in civility. Each knew the stakes; each felt the pull. The world around them blurred, the music and chatter fading into the background. This was no ordinary meeting. It was the beginning of something neither could escape. 

For weeks, they met in secret. Abandoned warehouses, dimly lit corners of neutral territories, stolen moments in a world that would destroy them if it knew. Their connection was electric, a forbidden bond that defied logic and loyalty. Yet, as their love grew, so did the danger. 

It was a betrayal from within that shattered their fragile world. A mole in the Gambino ranks leaked their secret to the Genovese family, and Vincent “Chin” Gigante seized the opportunity. For the Genovese, it was a chance to assert dominance; for John Gotti and Carlo Piastri, it was an unforgivable insult. The stage was set for a reckoning. 

Oscar and Y/N’s final meeting was under a blood-red sky, the city bracing for the storm to come. They knew what awaited them, yet they clung to hope, however fleeting. 

“This isn’t the end,” Y/N whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “Promise me, Oscar. Promise you’ll find me.” 

His hand tightened around hers, his heart breaking. “I promise. In every lifetime, I’ll find you.” 

The ambush came swiftly, a symphony of violence orchestrated with ruthless precision. Y/N was lured to a meeting with promises of a truce, but it was a lie—a trap designed to send a message. The Genovese hit squad surrounded her in a desolate warehouse, their guns raised, their faces cold and unforgiving. She fought like a lioness, her skill and determination unmatched, taking down three of her attackers before a shot struck her shoulder, then her leg. She fell to her knees, her breath ragged, yet her eyes burned with defiance. 

When Oscar arrived, the scene was chaos. Bodies littered the floor, blood pooling beneath them. And then he saw her. Y/N lay against a shattered crate, her once-bright eyes dimming, her breaths shallow. He rushed to her side, his hands trembling as he cradled her broken form. 

“Oscar...” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. Her blood-stained hand reached for his face, her touch feather-light. “Don’t... don’t let them win.” 

Tears streamed down his face as he held her close. “I’m so sorry. I’ll make this right, I swear.” 

A faint smile touched her lips, bittersweet and fleeting. “Find me. No matter how long it takes.” 

Her hand fell away, her body going still. Oscar’s anguished cry echoed through the empty warehouse, a sound of heartbreak and fury that could silence even the most hardened soul. 

In the days that followed, Oscar became a ghost of himself. His love had been ripped away, his world shattered. John Gotti’s fury was unrelenting; vengeance became the family’s rallying cry. But for Oscar, the fire of revenge was tempered by a deeper promise. The vow he made burned within him, a beacon in the void. Their love had defied the odds, and he knew, with every fiber of his being, that it wasn’t the end. 

“I will find you,” he swore, staring into the city’s endless horizon. “No matter how many lifetimes it takes.” 

And so, Oscar Piastri began his journey, a man burdened by fate, driven by love, and haunted by the ghost of Y/N. The world may have torn them apart, but he would defy it again and again, until they found their way back to each other. 

-- Present Day 

Y/N stood on the balcony of her sleek apartment in London, the city skyline sprawling before her. The shimmering lights of the city danced on the surface of the Thames, casting a soft glow that mirrored her contemplative mood. As an accomplished sports journalist, Y/N had spent years chasing stories that brought the adrenaline of the racetrack to life for millions of readers. Her life was a whirlwind of high-stakes interviews, international travel, and deadline pressures. Yet tonight, the quiet hum of the city brought an unexpected stillness. She swirled a glass of wine in her hand, her mind drifting to the unshakable feeling that something was missing, though she couldn’t quite define what it was. 

Meanwhile, across the city, Oscar Piastri was stepping out of McLaren’s state-of-the-art headquarters, the faint scent of rubber and motor oil lingering in the cool night air. His rookie season with McLaren alongside Lando Norris had been a rollercoaster of triumphs and challenges, and every day was a testament to the grueling yet exhilarating nature of Formula 1. He loved the sport—the speed, the precision, the electrifying rush of crossing the finish line. But even amid the chaos of his dream career, a quiet void gnawed at him, as though something vital was just out of reach. 

Their paths crossed on a crisp autumn evening at a charity gala hosted by McLaren. Y/N had been invited to cover the event, her editor insisting on a feature that would capture the human side of the racing world. She arrived dressed in an elegant black gown, her professional demeanor cloaking the nervous excitement she always felt before mingling with the elite. The room buzzed with energy, the air heavy with the mingling scents of champagne and expensive cologne. 

Oscar had reluctantly agreed to attend, his team’s PR insisting it was good for his image. He stood near the bar, nursing a sparkling water, his sharp tuxedo doing little to mask the restless energy that came from being off the track. He scanned the crowd absently until his gaze landed on Y/N. Something about her—the confident way she moved, the glimmer of determination in her eyes—drew his attention. It wasn’t just her beauty; it was the inexplicable pull, as though he’d known her forever. 

“Excuse me, are you Y/N Y/L/N?” he asked, his Australian accent warm and unmistakable as he approached her. She turned, startled by the familiarity in his tone, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, the world seemed to still. 

“Yes, I am. And you’re… Oscar Piastri?” she replied, her voice steady despite the sudden flutter in her chest. 

He offered a charming grin. “Guilty as charged. I’ve read some of your work. You’re quite good at what you do.” 

“Thank you,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve been following your season. You’re quite the rising star.” 

“I’ve had a lot of help,” he admitted with a modest shrug. “But enough about me. What’s it like covering the madness of motorsport?” 

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, like two old friends catching up after years apart. They talked about the pressures of their careers, the sacrifices, and the shared love for the thrill of racing. By the end of the night, they had exchanged numbers, the connection between them undeniable. 

What began as polite texts turned into late-night phone calls. Y/N found herself looking forward to their conversations, drawn to the sincerity beneath Oscar’s confident exterior. Oscar, in turn, was captivated by Y/N’s sharp wit and unshakable determination. They began meeting up during race weekends, the line between professional and personal blurring with each passing day. 

But with their growing closeness came something else—strange and vivid dreams. Y/N began waking in the middle of the night, her heart racing from visions of sun-drenched deserts, the scent of ancient temples filling her senses. Oscar, too, found himself haunted by fleeting images of Florence’s cobblestone streets and the metallic tang of war. At first, they didn’t speak about it, each afraid of sounding ridiculous. But the memories became impossible to ignore. 

One evening, as they sat together on the balcony of Y/N’s apartment, the setting sun casting a golden glow over the Thames, Y/N finally broke the silence. 

“Oscar, have you ever had dreams that feel… too real to be dreams?” she asked hesitantly, her gaze fixed on the horizon. 

His hand found hers, his touch grounding her. “I have. They’re about us, aren’t they?” 

She turned to him, tears pooling in her eyes. “Yes. It’s like we’ve lived a thousand lives together. And I’m just now remembering.” 

As they spoke, fragments of their shared past began to surface. They remembered the deserts of Egypt, where they were torn apart by war. They spoke of the gardens of Florence, where stolen moments of bliss had ended in heartbreak. They relived the trenches, the despair of separation, and the hope that somehow, they’d find each other again. Each memory collided with the present, overwhelming yet bringing clarity. 

Through tears and laughter, they pieced together their history, their voices trembling with emotion. “This time,” Oscar vowed, his voice thick with resolve, “I’m not letting anything come between us.” 

Y/N leaned into him, her heart swelling with a love that spanned millennia. “We’ve been through so much. Maybe now, finally, we can have our forever.” 

As the last rays of sunlight faded, Y/N turned to Oscar, her voice barely above a whisper. “But what if we lose it again?” 

Oscar’s eyes searched hers, filled with a bittersweet ache. He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Even if we do, we’ll find each other again. We always do.” 

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their shared past. Slowly, he leaned in, and their lips met in a kiss that felt both like a beginning and an ending—a tender, desperate promise to fight for the love that had been tested time and time again. It was a kiss filled with the sorrow of their losses, the hope of their reunion, and the unshakable truth that their souls were forever intertwined. 

When they finally pulled apart, the night seemed quieter, the city lights softer. Y/N rested her forehead against his, her tears mingling with a bittersweet smile. “Maybe this time, we can finally get it right.” 

Oscar nodded, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. “We will. One lifetime at a time.” 

As the moon rose high above the Thames, the universe seemed to exhale, watching as these two souls, bound by an unbreakable bond, stood on the precipice of a love that had transcended lifetimes. And for the first time in countless reincarnations, they chose to face the uncertain future together, their hearts full of hope and the bittersweet knowledge of what they had endured to get here. 

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[tabletopresources]

The King and His Throne

Once, there was a King, proud and mighty, who ruled a rich and fertile land. One day, he received an invitation from a Jarl of the northern lands—rugged people of ships and swords. Thinking to impress upon them his majesty, the King traveled across the sea to the Jarl's great hall.

When the king arrived, he was greeted with welcome but no bows, and he was led to a seat among the commons, barely more than a stool, far from the high table where the Jarl sat. The Jarl's throne, carved from the rough wooden remains of a ship and adorned with simple engravings, was seen as a mockery to the eyes of the King.

The King raised his voice and told of his conquests, his wealth, and his wit, expecting applause. Yet his jests landed heavily, drawing only polite smiles from the hall. Meanwhile, the Jarl’s laughter was infectious, his tales of storms and sea monsters brought gasps and cheers. He spoke not of himself but of his crew and the bonds they shared.

The King left that hall humiliated by the indignity shown to his grand station, his heart burning with rage.

Upon his return to his kingdom, he immediately devised a plan. He would host a grand banquet of his own and invite the Jarl to sit among his small folk, while he himself sat on his tall, gilded and bejeweled throne.

Then, would the impudent Jarl learn who held the true power.

The day of the banquet came. The king’s hall was a marvel—rich tapestries, golden candelabras, and a table groaning with local and foreign delicacies. The Jarl arrived, smiling, dressed plainly but standing tall. As planned, the king directed him to sit among the commons, far away and well below the throne.

The Jarl took his place without hesitation, greeting the common folk with warmth and laughter. He shared their food and drink, told stories of daring raids and great feasts, and soon had the entire hall roaring with merriment. The servants poured his drink before the King’s and clung to his every word. Even the king's lords seemed drawn to the Jarl, leaning in to hear every word of his tales.

The King sat stiffly on his golden throne, his fingers clutching the bejeweled arms. Each cheer for the Jarl felt like a knife to his pride, each laugh a drumbeat of his growing rage. As the hall grew louder, drowning out the grand musicians he had hired, the King’s face turned red. He clenched his fists, his voice trembling with anger as he stood.

"I AM THE KING!" he bellowed, slamming his fist on the arm of his throne. "I sit here, above you all, on this great throne! This throne is the seat of power, a grand chair apart and above you all, and not where this lesser man chooses to sit!"

The hall fell silent, and all eyes turned to the Jarl. The Jarl’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, held the King’s as he stood. He set his cup down, the clink of metal on wood ringing through the silent hall.

“The power I carry is mine, King. And wherever I sit, there is the throne.”

[semisolidmind]

For the Lion’s Den AU, what was it like when Wukong and Macaque first met Peaches? Love at first sight? Didn’t really notice her until she did/said something? Did they meet her separately or together?

(i briefly mention how they met in one of the earlier lion's den posts, but i guess i should give it some explanation)

reader attends her first meeting understandably apprehensive. she was told explicitly by azure not to draw too much attention to herself, given the nature of his comrades. he would defend her if needed, of course, but she would have to be prepared for their... disapproval, if it arose. she began to imagine what truly frightening beings may be behind the gilded doors that lead to the council hall.

the three demons already seated at the large table were not at all what reader was expecting.

they were worse.

azure failed to mention that his allies were none other than the dreaded monkey king, the six-eared macaque, and the demon bull king. anyone paying even the slightest bit of attention to local gossip had at least heard of these three; the tales of the bloodshed and ruin that followed in their wake were known across the land.

reader had seen it firsthand when the occasional survivors of their conquests would make their way (bloodied, broken, and burned) into her village begging for shelter.

truly a terrifying band.

even more terrifying was the way reader made accidental eye contact with the monkey king every time she dared to glance upward. she'd look down as soon as his golden pupils shot over to her, but reader could feel them on her for a few moments afterwards. even looking away, she could sense the way his sight would drift over to her every time he would address azure; the seating arrangement (azure on one end of the table, reader right next to him, with the monkey king on the other) didn't give her anywhere to hide.

she had to admit, the simian demon was more... upbeat? than she expected? despite his appearance, he acted not as a conquering warlord meeting with his allies to discuss how best to subdue their enemies, but as a man sharing a table with his friends. he joked, he laughed, he talked about old stories.

and what surprised reader the most... was that the demons around him joined in.

were reader not horribly aware that she sat among some of the most powerful demon lords in the world, she'd have felt as though she were back in her village listening to the farmhands after a hard day's work.

it was unsettling knowing that these were the monsters who had killed many innocent people just like those farmhands, and felt no remorse.

reader couldn't wait for this meeting to be over.

---

wukong couldn't wait for this meeting to be over.

as much as he enjoyed talking with azure and the brotherhood, he was much more interested in the human woman azure had brought with him. he could tell macaque was interested, too; any mortal that could catch the interest of one so goal-driven as azure lion must be something special.

wukong really wanted to know what her deal was. but, as much as he would've liked to call on her during the meeting, he got the feeling she'd freeze in fear if he brought attention to her that way. she looked like she wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.

there were little tears at the corner of her eyes the last time she accidentally looked at him.

...it was kinda adorable.

the monkey king glanced over at his brother, finding him staring at the woman as well; seems he'd had the same idea. it also seemed like reader hadn't noticed macaque looking at her in favor of keeping tabs on wukong (which was kinda flattering; he half-jokingly decided that meant she liked him more).

wukong came up with a spilt-second plan. he hid his mouth behind thoughtfully steepled fingers (he was only pretending to listen to the battle strategies being discussed anyway) and whispered it so that only his ever-vigilant brother could hear him.

once the meeting was over, the brotherhood had dispersed outside to get some fresh air. the monkey king crossed the courtyard, intent on distracting azure. he asked the general to take stock of a recent battle so that he and a nearby scribe could make note of it. though azure was a tad confused (shouldn't they have done that right after the battle happened?), he begins to list off information such as casualties, equipment lost, rations used, etc.

conveniently taking the lion's attention away from his little companion, who seemed to be wandering off toward a grove of fruit trees a ways away from the courtyard.

wukong flicked his tail in a certain way, meaningless to anyone but his brother, who took that as his signal.

the shadowmaster sunk into his namesake as soon as eyes were no longer on him.

wukong will join up with them later, once his side of the plan is complete.

---

macaque usually didn't pay much attention to mortals, aside from when he was killing them.

but the fact that the ever-so-honorable (more like hypocritical) azure lion had a little mortal woman at his side? well...that was certainly interesting.

macaque knew that azure was much gentler when it came to human commoners, letting them escape before raiding their towns. the shadowy simian found it amusing that the lion believed he was being merciful; a crowd of defenseless humans with nowhere to go, out in the wilderness? they were basically a demon buffet. and if demons didn't get them, wild animals or the elements would.

deciding to keep that observation in his back pocket for the next time azure nagged him about killing villagers, macaque stepped out of the shadows. the human sat a short distance away, leaned back against a flowering tree. it looked like she was admiring the scenery, completely unaware of him.

what did azure call her...? reader?

hm. azure could've picked anything to give her as a protective pseudonym, and he chose that? wonder what that could possibly say about her. she doesn't really look the academic type.

although, now that he's able to see her a little closer...

perhaps the six-eared demon could understand why the lion was taken with this human, at least physically. she's pretty, she's got nice proportions...but if looks were all that mattered, there's definitely more outwardly attractive humans to choose. her appearance can't be all there is. so, macaque decides to speak to her.

he calls out, casually asking her how she's enjoying the view. she startles and begins to rush out apologies and promises that she didn't mean to come here, she didn't realize she wasn't supposed be here, she didn't mean any harm by it, she'll leave—

macaque laughs, genuinely. she definitely used to be a servant or lower class, no one of any sort of status would apologize just for being somewhere. he goes and sits himself down next to her before she can stand and run away.

he can practically feel her trembling—oh. oh, she's starting to tear up a little...but she's putting on such a brave face.

macaque's pupils dilate a little.

she's just too precious.

after assuring her she's not in trouble, he asks her about herself; where'd she come from, what was her life like before, how did she meet azure?

now that was an interesting story. she actually nursed the stupid cat back to health, despite the fact that he's a big, scary demon? she's brave, he'll give her that. her story would certainly explain why azure took a shine to her. macaque jokingly asks reader if she regularly took demons in, or if azure was just a special case—because he really wouldn't mind being taken care of by her, he says flirtatiously. reader laughs a little at that.

the demons' six ears twitch. he likes that sound, he decides.

macaque can tell reader's getting more comfortable with him. she's opening up, even joking back at him. the attractive blush on her face makes him want to tease her more. the darker-furred demon finds that he likes it when she flusters at a compliment.

he kinda...doesn't want to stop talking with her. it's so easy, like he's always known her.

of course, that's when wukong shows up.

---

wukong had managed to sit through all of azure lion's report without falling asleep, which was an accomplishment all on it's own. afterwards, he managed to get yellowtusk on a long-winded lecture on...something or other, which he always insisted his brothers sit for.

having successfully trapped azure and peng in a manners-mandated lesson (one he knew would keep them for a good while; once the old elephant got started talking, he was difficult to stop), wukong excused himself to "check on dinner preparations." he sped off on his cloud toward where the kitchens were, intent on making a u-turn where the others couldn't see.

if azure wanted to follow, he'd have to interrupt his brother; something wukong knew he'd be hesitant to do.

with that taken care of, the simian ruler quickly tracked his little mark, finding her and his brother under a flowering peach tree. deciding to eavesdrop on their conversation, he stepped gently from his cloud onto the branches above them.

after a moment listening to them (and getting a little jealous that mac had managed to get her to laugh, which was a pretty sound he wanted aimed at him), wukong swung down, shaking some flower petals free, landing gracefully in a crouch at reader's feet. he cheekily apologizes for "dropping in" so unexpectedly.

at her frightened gasp and backpedal, wukong rushes to reassure her he means no harm. he's just curious, he wants to hear her story too, honest! he keeps his tone gentle and playful, and attempts to be as non-threatening as possible (which is tough, since he knows his reputation precedes him).

when reader finally manages to speak (thanks to a little encouragement from macaque), wukong perks up. she doesn't seem as scared of his brother anymore at least, which is a very good sign. as she tells her story, he takes in her features up close.

after hearing how she cared for azure, wukong unknowingly echoes his brother's earlier sentiment; he kinda wants reader to take care of him, too.

he sees how her eyes shine with dewy unshed tears, her face flushed at the demons' proximity (they're both in her space, macaque practically leaning against her shoulder and wukong sitting so close in front that their knees were touching). he notices the way the dappled sunlight hits her skin, the way her lashes frame her eyes. he notes the way loose peach blossom petals decorate her hair. he has to stop himself from reaching out to tuck the little strands that have escaped her updo back into place.

wukong finds himself becoming a bit enamored. his tail curls a bit, and his smile becomes gentler the longer he looks at her.

after talking with her for a while and sharing his and macaque's own stories, wukong realizes that they've been gone for a few hours; the sun is beginning to set, the grove taking on a golden hue. they should probably actually go check on dinner, and (regrettably) return reader to azure.

buuuuut....maybe not right away.

wukong offers reader a tour of the stone palace before she leaves.

---

reader didn't know what was happening.

why was she able to speak with these— these murderers so easily? she should be running away, she should be excusing herself back to azure's side as politely and quickly as she could!

but...but she was having fun. she was having a friendly chat with the monkey king and six-eared macaque of all demons—and laughing, for heaven's sake.

though most of it stemmed from her fear of offending them, the fact that she's speaking with them at all feels like a betrayal of her race. these two, on their own, had killed hundreds, possibly thousands of humans. they could change their minds about playing nice at any moment.

but—but in this light, in this context...they were almost like any ordinary men. were it not for their obviously demon appearances (though reader couldn't say the two were unattractive; the soft glow of the evening light did them many favors), their status, their bloody history—reader could consider them good company.

thinking about it made her want to cry, like she'd been on the verge of the entire time she'd been on this mountain. she wanted to go home and have that cry in the privacy of her bedchambers.

so when the monkey king (he insisted she call him wukong) offered to take her on a tour of the palace, reader thoroughly considered refusing, politeness be damned. she should really just go back to the monster she knows, not run off with one she doesn't.

however, she was curious about what the rest of the cave looked like. she and azure had entered through the massive water curtain, been lead through a large foliage-infested pavilion full of wukong's chattering simian subjects, into the reception hall, and then immediately into the council room. she hadn't gotten to see much, but what she did see she considered very beautiful.

reader, through her anxiety, had marveled at everything she saw. flower fruit mountain was so...alive compared to camel ridge. she preferred it here, at least in that way.

maybe...maybe going on a little tour wouldn't be so bad. it'd give her an excuse for her absence from azure's side, for one (though it wasn't like she was doing anything wrong by not being next to her kidnapper every second). he could stand to not have her near for a few more hours. plus, how could he say no to something as innocent as a tour? and if the eager look on the monkey king's face along with the coaxing smile on macaque's were any indication, they probably weren't going to take "no" for an answer.

well, reader thought in a resigned manner, she'd already gotten this far. what was the harm in spending a little more time with these two?

[lovezbrownies]

I wanna make a request for Nia, the yandere queen.

Have you ever seen the anime, Dororo? It's pretty dark.

Anyway, for my request scenario: Queen Nia is pregnant with her darling's child. But, when she gives birth, they're met with a startling sight; the child is born without any arms, legs, eyes, nose, ears, and ears. They still have a mouth though.

Astonishingly, the baby is alive and breathing. (In the anime, Dororo, the protagonist's adoptive father fitted him with a bunch of prosthetics.)

How would they react? And what happens afterwards.

Hello! I felt like this would be a pretty sensitive topic to write about regarding disbality so I hope i did well! If I ever said something horrible or ableist please please tell me so i can change it! ofc other than Nia being ableist

Loser. (Yandere!Queen x GN!Reader x Queen.)

Nia's Masterlist - General Masterlist

Synopsis: A greedy self-absorbed Queen loses the love of her life by being an ablesit shitbag.

Warnings: Ableism, a lot of it, be warned. Nia goes crazy, Darling is a rizzler bagged two baddies. Happy ending, sad honeslty

The palace had always been a monument to opulence—a fortress of splendor rising against the backdrop of an unyielding kingdom. With its grand marble columns reaching toward the heavens and tapestries woven with tales of glory draping its walls, it was a place meant to inspire awe. Yet, for you, it had become a gilded cage, a space filled with echoes of laughter and revelry that only served to highlight the absence of warmth and love. As you sat in the nursery, the air thick with a melancholic silence, you cradled your son in your arms, feeling the weight of a thousand burdens settle upon your shoulders.

Born into a world that had never asked for him, your son was an embodiment of hope and despair. He was born without arms, legs, eyes, or ears—his only defining feature a small mouth that could barely form a sound. The first time you laid eyes on him, your heart had shattered and mended all at once. In a moment that should have been filled with joy and celebration, you found yourself wrestling with a storm of emotions. And yet, through that storm, one truth remained clear: he was your child, a beautiful miracle in a world that had no place for him.

Every day, you fought against the oppressive atmosphere of the palace. Nia, your queen and wife, used to be so nice, so sweet, but since the moment she had seen their child, everything had changed. You had watched her features twist into horror and disbelief, her disdain wrapping around her like a suffocating shroud. “This is not my child,” she had whispered in that cold, clinical tone that stung your heart. Those words echoed in your mind like a ghost, haunting every moment you spent with your son. Her eyes, once filled with adoration for you, had turned into a mirror of contempt whenever they landed on him.

You spent your days nurturing your fragile son, filling the nursery with soft whispers and gentle touches. He was a tiny being full of potential, and you had made it your life’s mission to give him every ounce of love you could muster. You’d sing lullabies that filled the air with a warmth he could feel, even if he couldn’t hear them. You’d tell him stories of brave knights and far-off lands, weaving tales of adventure that would inspire dreams in the darkest corners of his mind. Each interaction, no matter how small, strengthened the bond between you, forging a connection that defied the cruel world outside those nursery walls.

But Nia’s disdain for their son only grew. Her laughter, once filled with lightness and joy, turned hollow whenever she passed the nursery door. The whispers of her courtiers followed her, echoing her sentiments. “Why would they waste their time with that monstrosity?” they’d ask, their voices laced with condescension. “He’ll never be anything.”

With each derisive comment, your heart ached for your child. You wished more than anything that Nia could see what you saw. The beauty of his spirit, the strength in his fragile existence—it was all there, waiting to be embraced. But Nia was blind to it. She only saw a burden, a shadow that loomed over her once-glorious life.

In her mind, your love for your son had turned you into a stranger. You were no longer the partner she adored; you had become a parent, a protector, a barrier between her and the life she craved—a life of frivolity, laughter, and the adoration of her subjects. The palace was filled with parties, celebrations, and grand events, but you had begun to drift away from it all, entangled in the delicate needs of your child. And Nia resented you for it.

You tried to explain it to her, to make her understand. “He needs me, Nia,” you would say, your voice trembling with urgency. “He needs us. He’s our son.” But each time, Nia would turn her back on you, her shoulders rigid with anger, her lips set in a tight line.

“Don’t bring him into this,” she would snap, her tone icy. “He’s not a part of our world.”

And yet, to you, he was everything. He was the light in your life, the reason you got out of bed every morning. You often caught yourself dreaming of a world where he could run and play, where the laughter of children rang through the air without the weight of judgment looming above them. You wanted to shield him from the cruel realities of the kingdom, to create a haven where he could simply be.

Days turned into weeks, and the distance between you and Nia grew. Her obsession with you morphed into something darker, something possessive that gnawed at the edges of her sanity. She began to visit the nursery less and less, preferring the company of her courtiers over the child she had borne. Whenever she did grace you with her presence, her remarks were sharp and cutting.

“Why do you spoil him so?” she would demand, her voice filled with contempt. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Every child deserves love, Nia,” you would reply, your heart heavy with frustration. “He deserves a chance to be loved, even if you can’t see it.”

She would scoff, her eyes narrowing with disdain. “He’s a monstrosity. He’ll never amount to anything. You’re wasting your time.”

You found yourself growing weary of the fight. How could you convince someone so resolute in their beliefs? Nia had crafted a fantasy world in her mind, one where she reigned supreme and was adored by all. And in that world, there was no place for your son. He was a living reminder of everything she detested, everything that disrupted the perfect image she had built around herself.

You often turned to the stars for solace. On sleepless nights, you would sit by the nursery window, cradling your son as you gazed up at the vastness above. Each twinkling light was a promise of hope, a reminder that beauty existed even in darkness. You would whisper your dreams to him, telling him that one day, you would escape this place together. You envisioned a life beyond the palace walls, far away from Nia’s possessiveness and the cold judgments of the world.

But as much as you dreamed of freedom, the reality of Nia’s fury loomed like a storm cloud over your head. She could be volatile, and every time you saw her slip deeper into darkness, fear gripped your heart. What if she decided to take matters into her own hands? What if she tried to erase him from existence altogether?

The night it all came to a head, Nia’s anger erupted like a volcano, spewing forth a torrent of words that cut through the air like knives. She stormed into the nursery, her face a mask of fury, and you felt your heart drop into your stomach. “Enough!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the walls. “I will not have you ruin everything for a creature that doesn’t deserve your love!”

You felt your breath hitch in your throat, and instinctively, you tightened your hold on your son, feeling his fragile form against your chest. “He’s our son, Nia! You can’t just dismiss him like this!” The desperation in your voice was palpable, but Nia’s eyes blazed with fury, her lips curling into a sneer.

“My son?” she spat, her tone venomous. “He is a burden, a mark of your weakness! You think I want to be reminded of him every day? You think I want to watch you waste away caring for him?”

“Caring for him is not a waste!” You could feel the fire of your emotions surging within you. “He deserves love and compassion, even if you can’t understand that!”

Her expression shifted, something dark and dangerous flickering in her eyes. “If you won’t let him go, then I will. I’ll send him away—far away—somewhere you’ll never find him. I won’t have him here, ruining everything.”

You froze, the words hitting you like a physical blow. “You wouldn’t dare.” Your voice was barely a whisper, fear coiling around your heart. The thought of her taking your son from you, of him being lost to the world, was too much to bear.

Nia stepped closer, her presence oppressive and overwhelming. “I will do whatever it takes to protect what’s mine. You think I won’t?” Her voice dripped with malice, and you could see the glint of madness in her eyes.

“No!” You couldn’t breathe. Panic surged through you as you turned and bolted from the nursery, clutching your son close to your chest. The weight of her threat pressed down on you, suffocating you as you raced through the palace corridors, your heart pounding in your ears.

You could hear Nia’s voice echoing behind you, her angry shouts growing fainter as you reached the stables. You didn’t think; you just acted. You mounted a horse, your hands shaking as you settled your son securely in your arms. He whimpered softly, sensing your fear, and you whispered promises of safety to him as you urged the horse into a gallop.

The night air whipped around you, cold and biting, but you didn’t care. The palace receded behind you, its towering spires fading into the darkness as you rode deeper into the unknown. Each beat of the horse’s hooves against the ground matched the frantic rhythm of your heart. You were escaping—escaping from Nia’s madness, from the gilded cage that had constrained your life. But the freedom you craved was laced with uncertainty, and your thoughts spiraled into a whirlpool of emotions.

The moon hung high in the sky, a silver sentinel watching over your flight as you rode into the night. With every stride, the sound of your heart echoed in your ears, thrumming with a mix of fear and determination. You could still hear Nia’s voice ringing in your ears—her threats wrapping around your heart like a vise, squeezing tighter with each passing second. You had to get away, to put distance between your son and the chaos of the palace, where Nia’s obsession could twist into something darker.

As you rode, you glanced down at your child, whose tiny form felt so fragile in your arms. His skin glowed softly in the moonlight, and for a moment, you let the world around you blur. His breathing was steady, a reminder that he was here with you, alive and full of potential despite the harsh realities of his existence. In that moment, he was your everything—the reason you had fought so hard to carve out a life for him within the confines of the palace.

You reached the edge of the forest, the trees standing tall like ancient guardians. You dismounted and found a secluded spot beneath the canopy, where the branches intertwined overhead, creating a natural shelter. You spread your cloak on the ground, carefully laying your son down on it, and knelt beside him, your heart swelling with a mix of love and fear.

“I promise,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his soft skin, “I won’t let anyone take you away from me. You are my light, and I will protect you with everything I have.”

Tears filled your eyes as you looked down at him, every moment of nurturing and love flooding back to you in a rush. Memories of soothing him when he cried, of the laughter shared during those quiet moments, filled your heart with warmth. He was your child—innocent, beautiful, and deserving of all the love you could give.

But the darkness of the world loomed larger now, and the thought of Nia hunting for you sent shivers down your spine. She had always been fiercely protective of her image and her reign, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that she would stop at nothing to regain control over the life she believed was slipping away from her grasp. Your heart ached with the knowledge that the woman you loved had become a stranger, consumed by her fears and obsessions.

As the night deepened, you held your son close, whispering stories of adventure and bravery to fill the silence. The stars above twinkled brightly, casting a soft glow that illuminated his fragile features. You thought of the life you had envisioned for him—a life where he could thrive without fear, where he could feel the love of a parent unburdened by the weight of judgment.

Hours passed, and the cool night air wrapped itself around you like a blanket, the chill biting at your skin as you held your son close, feeling his soft breaths against your chest. Exhaustion crept in, your eyes growing heavier with each passing moment, but the adrenaline still coursed through your veins, fueled by the single, burning thought of keeping your son safe. You knew you couldn’t stay in the woods forever; the shadows of the trees offered momentary refuge, but Nia’s reach was long, and her wrath was unrelenting. You needed to find a new home, a place where her power would never touch you or your child again.

As dawn began to break, the soft light filtering through the canopy of trees, you made a decision. You mounted your horse once more, your son securely nestled against you, his tiny body providing a fragile sense of purpose and hope. With a deep breath, you urged the horse forward, its hooves pounding against the earth as you moved deeper into the forest, farther from the only home you had ever known—and from the woman who had once filled your heart with joy, but now filled it with dread.

Days blurred into each other as you journeyed further into the wilderness. Each night, you found a secluded place to rest, your arms wrapped protectively around your son, and each morning, you pushed onward, driven by the fierce love you felt for the small life that depended on you. The bond between you and your son grew stronger with every mile, his innocence a source of strength as you navigated the harsh realities of survival. You foraged for food, hunted when you could, and discovered a resilience you hadn’t known existed within yourself.

The first time you found fresh berries, the joy of providing for your son filled you with a deep, unexpected warmth. You watched him eat, his tiny face lighting up with delight, and for that brief moment, your worries seemed to ease. You would do anything for him, anything to protect him from the world that had turned so cruel.

But Nia’s shadow loomed ever closer, her obsession with finding you growing with each passing day. Word had spread throughout the kingdom of your disappearance, and Nia’s anger had turned into a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. She searched for you with a madness that had begun to unravel her once formidable reputation. You could almost feel her presence in the distance, a suffocating weight that hung over you, but you refused to let it pull you back.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of wandering, you stumbled upon a stone wall—tall, thick, and ancient. It was a fortress, a symbol of strength and safety. Your heart raced as you searched for the entrance, and when you finally found it, you realized where you were: the kingdom of Dacos, Xelera’s sworn enemy. This was the land Nia despised, the kingdom that had risen from poverty and oppression to become a powerful force under the rule of its new queen. And now, it seemed, fate had led you to its gates.

You approached the guards, desperation evident in your voice as you begged them to let you in, your son cradled in your arms. The guards exchanged glances, recognizing your story—whispers of the mad queen of Xelera and her “kidnapped” spouse had spread far and wide. By a stroke of fortune, they allowed you entry, offering you a chance at safety in a land Nia could never touch.

You were brought before Queen Estoria, a woman of undeniable strength and grace, slightly older than Nia but with a warmth that instantly put you at ease. When she heard your tale, her eyes softened, and without hesitation, she welcomed you into her palace, offering you and your son sanctuary. There was an immediate connection between you, a shared understanding of the pain Nia had caused. Estoria promised you protection, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you felt a glimmer of hope.

Life in Dacos was a world apart from the one you’d left behind. Estoria’s palace became your sanctuary, a place where your son was adored and cherished. Estoria, in particular, took a special interest in him, requesting the finest prosthetics to be made every six months to accommodate his growing body. She showered him with love and care, becoming a mother to him in ways you had never imagined. Over time, her role in your life deepened, and she became not just a protector but a partner—a stepmother to your son and a source of comfort and joy for you.

Years passed, and the bond between the three of you only grew stronger. Estoria’s love for your son was as fierce as your own, and together, you created a life full of warmth and happiness. Your son, who had once been abandoned by his birth mother, now thrived in a home filled with love, his laughter echoing through the halls of the palace.

But Nia… Nia had not forgotten you. Her obsession had driven her to the brink of madness. She waged a war against Dacos, a desperate attempt to reclaim what she had lost, but her forces were no match for Estoria’s army. The war ended swiftly, and with it came a final, crushing defeat for the Queen of Xelera. Estoria, ever strategic, offered Nia a peace treaty—one that would seal Nia’s fate forever.

“Give up your rights to your son and legally divorce your runaway spouse,” Estoria had declared. “Swear never to wage war against Dacos again, or face total annihilation.”

Nia, her power shattered and her kingdom in ruins, had no choice. With a heart full of bitterness and regret, she signed away her last claim to you and your son, her hand trembling as she forfeited everything she had once held dear.

As Nia faded into the past, your life in Dacos flourished. You had found love, safety, and a future for your son—something Nia could never offer. And as you stood by Estoria’s side, watching your child grow, you knew that you had finally escaped the shadows of the past, finding peace in a kingdom where love reigned supreme.

Meanwhile Nia’s downfall was inevitable. Her obsession with finding you had twisted her mind, her once-sharp intellect dulled by the madness that had consumed her. The queen who once ruled with calculated precision now spent her days locked away in her chambers, pacing frantically as she ranted about betrayals and conspiracies. The kingdom that had once flourished under her assistant's iron rule crumbled around her, her subjects whispering of her insanity. Rumors spread like wildfire—Nia had lost her mind, and with it, her grip on the throne.

It wasn’t long before the council stepped in. Her cousin, a distant relative with no interest in power but a keen sense of duty, was called upon to take the throne in her stead. The decision was made quietly, behind closed doors, as the council agreed to strip Nia of her title until her son—your son—came of age to rule. The transition of power was swift, and Nia, once the fierce and unstoppable Queen of Xelera, was quietly removed from the palace, confined to a distant estate where her madness could no longer harm the kingdom she had once ruled.

As for the throne of Xelera, it waited—an empty seat of power, destined for the day your son would come of age.

News of Nia’s final fall reached Dacos weeks later. You and Estoria sat together when the messenger arrived, the weight of his words settling over the room like a heavy cloud. Estoria’s brow furrowed in thought, her hand resting on your shoulder as the two of you exchanged a glance. The message was clear: Nia’s reign was over, and your son was now the rightful heir to the Xeleran throne.

Later that evening, you found yourselves sitting with your son, the weight of this revelation resting heavily between you. He was older now, his mind sharp and curious, the prosthetics Estoria had commissioned for him growing more advanced with every passing year. You could see the flicker of understanding in his eyes as you told him the news—the kingdom of Xelera, the throne that was now his by birthright, and the choice he would one day have to make.

Estoria knelt beside him, her voice gentle but firm as she explained, “One day, you will have a decision to make, my love. Whether you will take your place as King of Dacos, alongside me and your parent, or… whether you will return to Xelera, to rule the kingdom that once belonged to your birth mother.”

Your son looked between the two of you, his face thoughtful, yet unreadable. The question hung in the air, a heavy silence filling the room as he considered the weight of the choice laid before him. His young eyes, once filled with innocence, now held a glimmer of something else—something deeper.

He finally spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “I’ll need to think about it.”

And with that, the future hung in the balance, teetering between two kingdoms, two worlds—one that had embraced him with love and security, and another that had been shaped by the shadow of his birth mother’s madness.

[thebestofoneshots]

THE MARAUDERS

Your favourites: ❈ Lilly’s favourites: ✩ Smut: ♡

Want to support me? Consider buying me a Ko-Fi <3 Or just rebloging this post

SIRIUS

timeless morning bliss

REMUS

No sweeter Innocence Than Our Gentle Sin Part 2 ♡

Drabbles:

Ink and Secrets

JAMES AND LILLY

Drabbles:

Chasing Butterflies

SIRIUS AND REMUS

ONESHOTS

A little bit of paint ♡❈✩

Waiting for a girl like you for @msblacklupin & @propertyofrjl

SERIES

Gilded Constellations ✩ ❈

The book that tells the story of how you, Sirius and Remus, ended up entangled in a poly relationship. A/N: This is my current baby (weekly updates)

JAMES, REMUS AND REGGIE

Mr. Blue Sky for @starchaser-lily

JAMES, SIRIUS AND REMUS

ONESHOTS

Cum Feel the Noize ♡❈✩

The Stash ♡❈

Birthday Girl ❈ for @kquil

ANTHOLOGY SERIES

The Five Senses ♡ ❈

Anthology series, each chapter is a stand alone, independent fic, where passion intertwines with the symphony of our senses, beckoning you into a land of infinite possibilities derived from the way we perceive the world around us.

Maraudween ♡ ✩

Halloween-inspired anthology series where each chapter transports you into a distinct alternate universe. From the real world to old western Texas and even through the dark times of vampires. These standalone tales invite you into a realm of boundless potential. Experience the enchantment of Halloween as it weaves its spell, intertwining the magic of costumes, terror and spice.

[assmaster-8000]

𝑪𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒐 ✧

✧ Regret

✧ Rememberance

✧ Reunion

✧

All men are equal in death. To Clotho, such is their reigning tenet.

And to Clotho, a man like them sheds no tear for the departed. A necromancer need not fear death, for it is a cycle devouring upon itself, and they are the ringmaster of this primal instinct. As in— need, should, must. One must not fear, one must not ache or pine or rage. A snake is still a snake. Death is still a wild animal. Show your soft palm within the ribcage of your fist, and it will not yield to you. Clotho, for all their cool expertise, knows this through trial and error.

All men are equal in death. So this mantra becomes their epitaph for every sentiment buried under the grave of their tongue.

It's a corpse beneath the floorboards; this memory. The tremble in their fingers - the shortness of breath. Their prized coherence pooling out their ears like brains on a sidewalk. Black is all they've known the world to be, but this time it is blue. Saliva spilling past the shore of her lips. Piercing red lightning streaking through the sky of her eyes. She does not respond when they shake her. By God— what have you done?

All men are equal. Their mother was no man, no monster. Mother, simple and sweet, was cruel enough to damn her. As they were.

Their tears come soft on the linen of her robes. She is softer still. The used crowd of spellbooks and artifacts and alchemical instruments behind them laugh hollow at the display. Wire is taut, so is cloth. Neither will hold them now, after destroying the muscle that stretched to cradle their wretched self. So they bind her in her day shroud. And they bury her in the belly of the primordial Mother.

On her grave, they plant a singular Asphodel. Their one specimen.

And when they shakily kneel back to look down at the mount of soil, for a moment - just a moment, their nails slip back beneath the dirt. Back to where home was.

A moment was all it took. Soon as it comes, they rip it out her shabby resting grounds and lay it on their crown. That brain-shaped gilded mausoleum of theirs. So it has remained all this while - so has she, with that memory just as equal as a dead man.

But you know they never stay where they're supposed to for long.

In the land of the dead, asphodels are for the gray in between. They are the sustenance of the dead. They are my regrets, following you to the grave. O, Mother. You raised a walking corpse. As long as I hold you in my heart, the grave goes where I go; and dead men tell no tales, so... I love you. Isn't that the worst thing you've ever heard?

[zapreportsblog]

Yandere Aemon Targaryen ( Jaehaerys 1 son)

❝you and I will rule together❞

✭ pairing : yandere aemon targaryen x reader

✭ fandom : game of thrones

✭ summary : aemon targaryen is a known as the ruthless prince and it’s a wonder to the people how he managed to get with a sweet young women such as (y/n), wherever she goes, he lurks in the background watching her every move.

✭ authors note : yeo I turnt his picture around and now it’s fucking with me 😭

✭ yandere masterlist

In the realm of Westeros, tales of the Targaryens had always been shrouded in mystery and intrigue. Stories of dragons, madness, and power were whispered through the halls of King's Landing. Yet, amidst the legends and blood feuds, one Targaryen stood out in a different way - Prince Aemon Targaryen.

Aemon Targaryen was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the Ruthless Prince. His demeanor was cold and calculating, his words sharper than Valyrian steel. His reputation for cunning, ambition, and a ruthless determination to achieve his goals preceded him wherever he went. Many pondered how such a man could ever find solace in the arms of a woman, especially one with a reputation as sweet and gentle as his wife, (Y/N).

(Y/N) was a stark contrast to her husband in every way imaginable. Her smile was a beacon of warmth in a world that seemed perpetually shrouded in shadows. Her kindness and compassion had won the hearts of all who had the privilege of knowing her. But what truly puzzled the court and commoners alike was how Prince Aemon, the feared and obsessed protector of his wife, could ever have found love in the first place.

Their union had been a source of endless fascination, for Aemon had always been notorious for his affairs and dalliances. He had indulged in passionate liaisons with countless women, including his younger niece, before the day he married (Y/N). Yet, as soon as their wedding vows were exchanged, a transformation occurred. Aemon's infidelity ceased, and the relentless pursuit of his desires turned towards his wife.

It was said that he had been obsessed with her long before their marriage, though few dared to speak of it openly. Some whispered that he had been captivated by her ethereal beauty, her radiant kindness, and her unwavering loyalty to him. Others believed that it was something darker, an obsession that consumed him entirely, making him willing to forsake all others for her.

Regardless of the reasons behind their union, one thing was certain: Aemon Targaryen was fiercely protective of his wife, (Y/N). Wherever she went, he was never far behind, though often he remained concealed in the shadows, lurking like a silent sentinel. It was as though he believed himself to be her unseen guardian, sworn to protect her from any harm that might befall her.

The courtiers of King's Landing often gossiped about the strange relationship between the Ruthless Prince and his sweet wife. Some speculated that he kept her locked away in their chambers, a delicate bird in a gilded cage. Others claimed to have witnessed tender moments between the two, glimpses of a love that defied the prince's reputation.

As the tales of Prince Aemon and (Y/N) continued to unfold, it became clear that their union was far more complex and enigmatic than anyone could have imagined. The Ruthless Prince had indeed been tamed, but the reasons behind this transformation remained hidden, buried beneath layers of secrecy, obsession, and the shadows that clung to them both.

The court of King's Landing was always abuzz with rumors and speculation about Prince Aemon and his sweet wife, (Y/N). Some said that their marriage was nothing more than a strategic alliance, a move to solidify power and alliances in the ever-shifting game of thrones. Others believed that there was something deeper, something hidden beneath the surface.

(Y/N) moved gracefully through the courtly affairs, her gentle smile lighting up even the darkest corners of the Red Keep. She was a beloved figure among the nobility and commoners alike, known for her charitable deeds and her ability to bring a sense of calm to the chaos of the capital.

But as beloved as she was, there was always a lingering unease whenever the conversation turned to her husband. Aemon Targaryen was a man of sharp edges and unpredictable moods. His obsession with (Y/N) was undeniable, and it was often the source of hushed whispers among the courtiers.

Whenever she attended social gatherings or events, Aemon's presence was felt, if not seen. He remained hidden in the shadows, a vigilant guardian who watched over his wife with unwavering devotion. Some found his protectiveness endearing, a testament to the depths of his love. Others couldn't help but feel a shiver of discomfort at the way he loomed, unseen but ever-present.

Aemon's transformation from a notorious philanderer to a devoted husband had been abrupt and mysterious. It was as though a switch had been flipped on the day they were wed, and his former pursuits were cast aside. No longer did he entertain the company of other women, no longer did he engage in reckless liaisons that had once been the talk of the court.

The court's intrigue only deepened as time passed. (Y/N) seemed content in her role as the beloved wife of the Ruthless Prince, but there were moments when glimpses of unease flickered in her eyes. Those who were closest to her noticed the subtle changes in her demeanor, the way her laughter sometimes sounded forced, and the hints of sadness that occasionally clouded her bright spirit.

As the court's whispers grew louder, one question remained unanswered: What had driven Aemon Targaryen, the Ruthless Prince, to forsake his past and become the shadowy protector of (Y/N)? What secrets lay beneath the surface of their marriage, and what price had been paid for their union?

The sun hung high in the sky as (Y/N) strolled through the bustling marketplace of King's Landing, her heartlighter than usual. The aroma of exotic spices, the calls of vendors haggling, and the vibrant colors of fabrics and trinkets surrounded her. Despite the lively scene, there was a persistent absence by her side, a shadow that never strayed too far.

"Sweet King," she whispered, her voice gentle as a summer breeze. It was the affectionate nickname she had bestowed upon her husband, Prince Aemon. She paused her steps, glancing over her shoulder towards the concealed figure lurking among the crowds. "Would you come out from the shadows and walk beside me today?"

Aemon hesitated, his silver hair concealed beneath a hood as he observed his wife from afar. He had always been vigilant, his eyes sharp and wary. But at her request, he reluctantly emerged from the shadows, his presence sending ripples of unease through the marketplace.

His tall figure materialized beside (Y/N), and for a moment, the people of King's Landing seemed to hold their breath. The Ruthless Prince, now visible in the daylight, was an imposing sight. But as his wife took his arm, her smile warm and welcoming, some of the tension dissipated.

As they strolled through the market, (Y/N) couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. Her husband had a reputation as the ultimate protector, a guardian that lurked in the darkness. Yet today, he had yielded to her request, stepping into the light by her side.

Amidst the stalls and vendors, (Y/N) stopped at a jewelry merchant's cart, her eyes sparkling as she admired a delicate necklace adorned with sapphires. She exchanged a few words with the merchant and handed over a few coins, and he, in turn, reached out to give her the purchased item.

Aemon's watchful eyes never left her, even for a moment. He saw the merchant's hand brush against (Y/N)'s as he handed her the necklace, a seemingly innocent gesture of transaction. But to Aemon, it was an intrusion, an unwarranted touch that sent a jolt of anger through him.

Later, in the privacy of their chambers, Aemon summoned the merchant who had dared to touch his wife. The man, trembling with fear, stood before the Ruthless Prince, unaware of the storm that was about to descend upon him.

With a swift, merciless stroke, Aemon ordered the man's hand to be severed, a gruesome punishment for what he had perceived as an act of disrespect towards his beloved (Y/N). The merchant cried out in agony, his life forever altered.

When (Y/N) came to her husband with questions in her eyes, her voice trembling with concern, Aemon held her close, his arms a shield around her. "My perfect little dove," he murmured, his voice soft but filled with an underlying intensity. "I saw that man doing something unspeakable with his hands before he touched you. I couldn't let him near you."

(Y/N) was mildly horrified by the brutality of her husband's response, but she didn't doubt his words. She had always trusted Aemon's judgment, even when his actions seemed extreme. Nestled in his protective embrace, she nodded and whispered, "I know you'll always keep me safe, Sweet King."

The enigmatic shadows that clung to their marriage deepened, and the secrets that bound them together remained hidden from the prying eyes of the court. As they held each other close, Prince Aemon and his sweet wife (Y/N) faced a future filled with uncertainties, their devotion to each other stronger than ever, and their love veiled in mystery.

Late that day, as the moonlight gently cascaded through the curtains, Aemon lay beside his wife, watching her peaceful slumber. He couldn't help but be captivated by the delicate contours of her face, tracing his fingers softly over her features.

Whispering tenderly, he shared his deepest promises, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. "I'll always be there for you, no matter what," he murmured, his words filled with unwavering devotion. "When I am king, you will rule beside me as queen, sharing in the power and responsibilities that come with it."

His heart swelled with affection as he imagined a future where she stood by his side, their love a beacon of strength and unity. "By my side is your rightful place, your birthright," he continued, his hand resting gently on her stomach, envisioning a time when it would be rounded with their heirs.

In that moment, the room seemed to hold an air of anticipation, as if the dreams they shared were on the brink of becoming reality. Aemon's mind raced with thoughts of the legacy they would create together, a dynasty built on love and unity.

As he watched her breathing steady and calm, he felt a surge of gratitude for the woman lying beside him. She was not only his partner in life but also the embodiment of everything he held dear. Her strength, grace, and unwavering support were the foundations upon which his dreams were built.

With a gentle touch, he pressed his lips against her forehead, sealing his promises with a silent vow. In that quiet moment, Aemon knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, he would face them with unwavering determination. For his wife, his love, and the future they would forge together, he would give his all.

As sleep finally began to claim him, Aemon held her close, cherishing the warmth and comfort they found in each other's embrace. The night was filled with whispered dreams and the tender hopes of a future that seemed closer than ever before.

[floweroflaurelin]

So Pixlriffs’ finale is a masterpiece and I’m experiencing a lot of emotions right now ✨🌻✨

For my own reference I made a transcript of the monologue and thought I might as well share it! It's under the cut to avoid spoilers but the whole first 8ish minutes of his video are typed out. I recommend watching at least that much, if you haven’t yet, because it’s really something worth hearing.

We are not done.

Not yet.

Our stories do not begin here, and neither do they end. But before they fade into obscurity, as so many events do, there is one more story left to be told.

[It is the Story

of

the World.]

It’s important to remind ourselves that history is an account of events remembered—and there are so few left who remember, so it mingles with myth and hearsay, folklore and fireside stories. This is the account of just one man, and others may recall the tale differently. Others still may decide to change the narrative to suit their own ends. And this, it must be said, is no bad thing. So it goes.

[Sun setting

over

our Creation.]

—

In a long-lost age before records truly began, our world was built by Titans (or so it is said). The lands they created became home to people who would seek to emulate and even to surpass that act of creation, and that would eventually bring about their destruction. But destruction is simply part of a cycle. Nothing is ever truly lost.

Those who foresaw the destruction fled before it could bring the walls of their homes down around them. And many who had been downtrodden and overlooked saw it as their chance to find a new life for themselves.

Thus began a great migration, leaving behind the old nations of the world and striking out for somewhere new, a life untethered from the follies of their former state. And though the road was long and treacherous, and many fell behind in the wake of such an awful endeavour, new bonds were forged in the fires of adversity.

As time passed, and more joined the great caravan, the host became a nation of its own, a glorious congregation sharing one purpose, singing the same resolute song. Though the road was long, they were homeward bound.

And a home they found nestled in a mountainous landscape, one that might have been carved by the very bones of the gods themselves. There they planted roots, drank deep from the water, and continued to grow. The farmers sowed new fields and raised new flocks. The work of many hands turned to building a new city. And together the architects conceived a castle upon a great plateau that would stand as a monument to their past apart and their future together. To them, the castle itself would tell the Story of the World.

Stone-whisperers from Mythland and the Grimlands, well-versed in masonry of all kinds, sculpted its walls from the abundant rock of the nearby mountains quarried for the glory of their new capital. They wrought rock and iron, carved and timbered their great halls, and raised mighty towers to stand atop the grand cliff.

The mages of the Crystal Cliffs brought knowledge of magic and the beauty of gemstones, and theirs was the sanctum at the heart of the castle, ever-seated at the Ruler’s left hand: their shield and protector.

A tribute was raised to Gilded Helianthia, whose ruler was still revered in the hearts and minds of many, and in time she became their warden against the spectres of the past, carrying the twin burdens of light and shadow on her shoulders; a burden with which the people of Rivendell were all too familiar.

And below, far below, the engineers of Pixandria sought to reproduce the jewel of their empire. A mechanism that would surpass the work of the Copper King himself.

Not all who came to found the Ancient Capital remained for long. Like dandelion seeds, the people of the Overgrown were scattered on the wind, alighting on the mountaintops and valleys. The vast majority of them came to settle in the rolling meadows of Chromia, which was renowned for the richness and beauty of its dyes for lifetimes after.

In the absence of their king, the nation of Mezelea resettled in new badlands, establishing laws and ordinances of their own. Many of them had been armour stands before the king imbued them with life, and some found this a hard habit to shake.

The people of the Cod and Ocean empires, bereft of the waters that gave them life, took to diving in the rocky pools of vast caverns and their affinity for stone grew. Over many generations they adapted, becoming the green-skinned race that folk came to know as goblins—their pointed ears the only remaining vestige of the fins they had once had.

For the gnomes of the Undergrove, this was a homecoming! They had long dwelled here before their exodus through the Nether and the fairy circles of the Evermoore welcomed them with open arms.

And the villagers of the Lost Empire, hiding in plain sight amongst the caravan of peoples, sought to find a place where they would be unburdened by this facade of humanity, standing at last on their own two feet.

But the boundaries of this land were ever-changing, and the nations soon found the cataclysm they had left behind had weakened the walls between their world and others. Waters rose and fell unpredictably; incursions from other realms were possible, bringing chaos in their wake. The tide of history churned and rippled.

None now remember how the Capital fell, only that its remains have lasted: an epitaph to all they had achieved together.

And just like before, new nations would arise. The pirates of Eversea ruled the waters from their secret cove. The inventors of Cogsmeade arrived sailing in from the air on their skyships—only to find whole buildings floating in the golden kingdom of Stratos. Rumours abounded of a Sanctuary hidden in the deepest jungle for those who knew the way.

Their tales are better told by those who knew them well. Our stories do not begin here, and neither do they end. But for this tired historian, it is perhaps best to leave these things in the past and begin to look towards the future.

For whatever comes next, we who have sown the seeds can only hope for a bountiful harvest.

[63ls]

Eternal Chains Of Desire

tried to do plot as accurate as possible!

pairing: ryomen sukuna x reader

SFW! Kinda changed jjk final

Heian Era

In the grand halls of his temple, adorned with offerings from trembling hands, Ryomen Sukuna sat on his throne of carnage. The land was painted in blood and fear, his name a curse uttered only in whispers. Yet, in the depths of his tyranny, a tale reached his ears—of a woman whose beauty could rival the gods. Her name was Mitsuri, a mortal untouched by the horrors of his reign.

Sukuna’s curiosity was piqued. He had no need for companionship, but his insatiable greed for all things rare and exquisite demanded her presence. With a flick of his hand, he commanded his vassals.

“Bring her to me,” his voice, deep and sharp as a blade, resonated through the chamber. “I wish to see if the stories are true.”

________________________________________

Mitsuri was taken from her village under the cover of night, her cries drowned out by the howling wind. When she was brought before Sukuna, she stood trembling in the massive chamber. Yet, even in her fear, her beauty was undeniable. Her raven-black hair fell in silken waves, her eyes gleamed like moonlit lakes, and her presence carried an air of serenity that defied the chaos around her.

Sukuna leaned forward, his four eyes narrowing as he studied her. She was mortal, fragile, yet something about her felt untouchable, like the stillness before a storm.

“You will stay here,” he declared. His tone left no room for argument. “You are mine now.”

Mitsuri’s protests were ignored, her defiance met with amusement. Sukuna did not love; he possessed. To him, Mitsuri was a jewel, a rare treasure to be admired. She became his concubine, bound to his side in gilded chains.

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

Days turned into months, and though Sukuna treated Mitsuri with indulgence, she saw through his façade. His desire was raw, unbridled, but devoid of affection. To him, she was an object of desire, not a person. Mitsuri longed for freedom, for a life where she could be more than a possession.

When Sukuna was finally defeated by the combined might of sorcerers, his empire of terror crumbled. Amid the chaos, Mitsuri seized her chance. Disguised and with her heart pounding, she fled the ruins of his domain. She disappeared into obscurity, vowing to never again be ensnared by the shadow of Ryomen Sukuna.

__________________________________________

Centuries Later: Sukuna’s Return

The world had changed, yet Sukuna's essence endured. Bound to a cursed finger, he waited in silence, his thoughts lingering on his past conquests. When Yuji Itadori consumed the finger, Sukuna was reborn into a new age. But with his resurgence came an unexpected sensation—an image he could not shake.

Mitsuri.

Her face haunted him in fragmented memories. He had believed her beauty was all that had captivated him, yet her defiance, her courage, and her quiet strength lingered in his mind.

“What nonsense,” he growled to himself. “She was nothing more than a fleeting indulgence.”

But even as he told himself this, he felt a flicker of something foreign, something unsettling: longing.

_______________________________________

Shibuya Incident

Amid the chaos of the Shibuya Incident, Sukuna reveled in destruction. The city burned, and screams filled the air, but amidst the carnage, he felt a strange pull. He followed it, cutting through the chaos until he saw her.

Mitsuri.

She stood in the ruins, her beauty even more striking than before. Her presence was like a beacon amidst the devastation, her gaze sharp and unwavering. The years had tempered her, turning her from a frightened girl into a formidable woman.

Their eyes met, and for the first time in centuries, Sukuna felt the weight of his own emotions. It wasn’t just desire; it was something deeper, something he had never known he was capable of.

“Mitsuri,” he said, his voice low but carrying an unfamiliar softness.

She stared at him, her expression unreadable. “You should have stayed buried, Sukuna.”

Her words were like a dagger, yet Sukuna found himself smiling. Even now, she resisted him.

__________________________________________

As the battles raged on, their paths crossed again and again. Mitsuri, now a skilled sorcerer, fought alongside the modern age’s warriors. Sukuna, torn between his nature and his growing feelings, found himself seeking her out—not to claim her, but to be near her.

In their final confrontation, the world teetered on the brink of destruction. Sukuna, for all his power, was faced with a choice: continue his path of conquest or let go of his hatred to protect the one person who had ever made him feel human.

“I’ve killed countless,” Sukuna admitted, his voice raw. “But you… you’ve haunted me in a way no one else has. Mitsuri, I—”

She interrupted him with a bitter laugh. “You don’t know how to love, Sukuna.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But I want to try. With you.”

____________________________________________

In the aftermath of the final battle, Sukuna’s reign of terror was brought to an end. Yet, instead of fading into oblivion, he chose a different path. He turned his back on his cursed legacy and sought out Mitsuri.

It wasn’t an easy road. Mitsuri carried the scars of his past actions, and Sukuna struggled against his own violent nature. But over time, they found a fragile peace together. Sukuna learned to temper his impulses, and Mitsuri, against all odds, began to see the humanity buried beneath his monstrous exterior.

In a quiet village far from the chaos of the world, they lived out their days. Sukuna, the King of Curses, and Mitsuri, the woman who taught him the meaning of love, found solace in each other.

And for the first time in his long, tumultuous existence, Sukuna chose not power, but love.

[dwellordream]

Best Reads of 2024

this year i read 300 books. which i think is impressive but not as impressive as it sounds bc many of these books were very short, easy reads meant to be like, stuff you read at the airport or sitting by the pool on vacation. so it's not like i was tackling the harvard classics. i also read extremely fast; it only takes me about an hour to do 300 pages unless it's a super dense complex text. that said, here is a list of all the books i read this year that i would rate 4 stars or higher, separated by genre: Fantasy/Magical Realism: The Tainted Cup by Robert Jackson Bennett Highfire by Eoin Colfer Tehanu by Ursula K. Le Guin Gifts by Ursula K. Le Guin The Last Tale of the Flower Bride by Roshani Chokshi Chlorine by Jade Song The Passion by Jeanette Winterson The Magic Toyshop by Angela Carter Realistic Fiction: We Are Not Like Them by Christine Pride & Jo Piazza Young Jane Young by Gabrielle Zevin My Absolute Darling by Gabriel Tallent Only Child by Rhiannon Navin Movie Star by Lizzie Pepper Prima Facie by Suzie Miller Acts of Desperation by Megan Nolan Marjorie Morningstar by Herman Wouk The Subtweet by Vivek Shraya All Grown Up by Jami Attenberg Piglet by Lottie Hazell The List by Yomi Adegoke A Winter's Rime by Carol Dunbar The Resurrection of Joan Ashby by Cherise Wolas

Mystery/Thriller: Queenpin by Megan Abbott Bury Me Deep by Megan Abbott Beware the Woman by Megan Abbott Firekeeper's Daughter by Angeline Boulley The Guest by Emma Cline Advika and the Hollywood Wives by Kirthana Ramisetti Kala by Colin Walsh Descent by Tim Johnston Wahala by Nikki May When We Were Bright and Beautiful by Jillian Medoff We Could Be Beautiful by Swan Huntley Bright Young Women by Jessica Knoll Nothing Can Hurt You by Nicola Maye Goldberg Fruit of the Dead by Rachel Lyon The Lagos Wife by Vanessa Walters Grown by Tiffany D. Jackson Yes, Daddy by Jonathan Parks-Ramage Cape Fear by John D. MacDonald Sea Wife by Amity Gaige Last Seen Wearing by Hilary Waugh The Black Cabinet by Patricia Wentworth Historical Fiction: Everyone Knows Your Mother is a Witch by Rivka Galchen Gilded Mountain by Kate Manning All You Have to Do is Call by Kerri Maher Cruel Beautiful World by Caroline Leavitt Payback by Mary Gordon A Dangerous Business by Jane Smiley The Affairs of the Falcons by Melissa Rivero Longbourn by Jo Baker The Hazelbourne Ladies Motorcycle and Flying Club by Helen Simonson Go to Hell Ole Miss by Jeff Barry The Divorcees by Rowan Beaird Consequences by Penelope Lively Iron Curtain: A Love Story by Vesna Goldsworthy Homestead by Melinda Moustakis Not Our Kind by Kitty Zeldis Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell Teddy by Emily Dunlay Science Fiction: Prophet Song by Paul Lynch Aesthetica by Allie Rowbottom Fever by Deon Meyer The Salt Line by Holly Goddard Jones Land of Milk and Honey by C. Pam Zhang Gold Fame Citrus by Claire Vaye Watkins A Children’s Bible by Lydia Millet Briefly Very Beautiful by Roz Dineen

Romance: Everything’s Fine by Cecilia Rabess Adelaide by Genevieve Wheeler Meant to Be Mine by Hannah Orenstein When Katie Met Cassidy by Camille Perri Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson American Royalty by Tracey Livesay The One by Julie Argy The Mountain Between Us by Charles Martin Queen of Urban Prophecy by Aya de Léon That Dangerous Energy by Aya de Léon The Dove in the Belly by Jim Grimsley Fatima Tate Takes the Cake by Khadija VanBrakle Faro’s Daughter by Georgette Heyer Horror: Red Rabbit by Alex Grecian The Parliament by Aimee Pokwatka Cujo by Stephen King Night Watching by Tracy Sierra The Garden by Clare Beams The House of Ashes by Stuart Neville The Suicide Motor Club by Christopher Buehlman True Crime: In Cold Blood by Truman Capote Columbine by Dave Cullen Kent State: Four Dead in Ohio by Derf Backderf Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley Startup by John Carreyrou While Idaho Slept: The Hunt for Answers in the Murders of Four College Students by J. Reuben Appelman The Bishop and the Butterfly: Murder, Politics, and the End of the Jazz Age by Michael Wolraich Fatal Vision by Joe McGinniss Billion Dollar Whale: The Man Who Fooled Wall Street, Hollywood, and the World by Tom Wright and Bradley Hope

History: Midnight in Chernobyl: The Untold Story of the World’s Greatest Nuclear Disaster by Adam Higginbotham Capote’s Women: A True Story of Love, Betrayal, and a Swan Song for an Era by Laurence Leamer The Astronaut Wives Club by Lily Koppel The Burning Blue: The Untold Story of Christa McAuliffe and Nasa’s Challenger Disaster by Kevin Cook The Splendid and the Vile: A Saga of Churchill, Family, and Defiance During the Blitz by Erik Larson Grace and Power: The Private World of the Kennedy White House by Sally Bedell Smith As Long as We Both Shall Love: The White Wedding in Postwar America by Karen M. Dunak Babysitter: An American History by Miriam Forman-Brunell Game Change: Obama and the Clintons, McCain and Palin, and the Race of a Lifetime by John Heilemann and Mark Halperin All She Lost: The Explosion in Lebanon, the Collapse of a Nation and the Women who Survive by Dalal Mawad Psychology: Hidden Valley Road: Inside the Mind of an American Family by Robert Kolker The Anxious Generation: How The Great Rewiring of Childhood is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness by Jonathan Haidt Beautiful Boy: A Father’s Journey Through His Son’s Addiction by David Sheff Misdiagnosed: One Woman’s Tour of -And Escape From- Healthcareland by Jody Berger Stolen Child: A Mother’s Journey to Rescue Her Son from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by Laurie Gough Zig-Zag Boy: A Memoir of Madness and Motherhood by Tanya Frank I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy Us, After: A Memoir of Love and Suicide by Rachel Zimmerman Everything Is Fine: A Memoir by Vince Granata Juliet the Maniac by Juliet Escoria

Memoir: Upstairs At The White House by J.B. West A Mother’s Reckoning: Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy by Sue Klebold Goodbye, Sweet Girl: A Story of Domestic Violence and Survival by Kelly Sundberg This Boy We Made: A Memoir of Motherhood, Genetics, and Facing the Unknown by Taylor Harris I Am, I Am, I Am: Seventeen Brushes with Death by Maggie O’Farrell Fragile Beginnings: Discoveries and Triumphs in the Newborn ICU by Adam Wolfberg The Longest Race: Inside the Secret World of Abuse, Doping, and Deception on Nike’s Elite Running Team by Kara Goucher and Mary Pilon Remedies for Sorrow: An Extraordinary Child, a Secret Kept from Pregnant Women, and a Mother’s Pursuit of the Truth by Megan Nix Brazen: My Unorthodox Journey from Long Sleeves to Lingerie by Julia Haart Minding the Manor: The Memoir of a 1930s English Kitchen Maid by Mollie Moran Love in the Blitz: The War Letters of Eileen Alexander to Gershon Ellenbogan by Eileen Alexander Any Given Tuesday: A Political Love Story by Lis Smith The Apology by Eve Ensler Wild Game: My Mother, Her Secret, and Me by Adrienne Brodeur One Way Back: A Memoir by Christine Blasey Ford Biography: The Matriarch: Barbara Bush and the Making of an American Dynasty by Susan Page Untold Power: The Fascinating Rise and Complex Legacy of First Lady Edith Wilson by Rebecca Boggs Roberts King: A Life by Jonathan Eig Louisa: The Extraordinary Life of Mrs. Adams by Louisa Thomas American Girls: One Woman’s Journey into the Islamic State and Her Sister’s Fight to Bring Her Home by Jessica Roy Susan, Linda, Nina, and Cokie: The Extraordinary Story of the Founding Mothers of NPR by Lisa Napoli

Gender: Becoming Nicole: The Transformation of an American Family by Amy Ellis Nutt The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan We Were Feminists Once: From Riot Grrrl to CoverGirl®, the Buying and Selling of a Political Movement by Andi Zeisler All the Rage: Mothers, Fathers, and the Myth of Equal Partnership by Darcy Lockman Ain’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism by bell hooks Enslaved Women in America: From Colonial Times to Emancipation by Emily West You’ll Do: A History of Marrying for Reasons Other Than Love by Marcia A. Zug The Red Menace: How Lipstick Changed the Face of American History by Ilise S. Carter Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers: A History of Lesbian Life in Twentieth-Century America by Lillian Faderman

[faeriesandfolklore]

The Faerie Monarchs: The Erkling

The world to the north is a frosty tundra of knotted trees and darkness. No mortal dares venture there, especially because of the king who rules over this foreign land. There are many tales about him. He snatches up mortal children, he chases faerie beasts with his iron net. Stories have passed from village to village, warnings of how to avoid his ire. 

Few know the king’s true name. It is said that the only creature in the entire world who knew it was his first bride, Titania, who perished in an icy blizzard centuries ago. Few recall this event, only speaking of the glint of his eyes- so blue they are a violet-  and a bellow that shook the world. His true name died with her, as did any softness in the icy heart of his. He resides in a palace far in the Unborn North, where he rules over an army of the undead. 

His hunters are his closest companions, those who were truly wicked during their time alive. As a punishment, or perhaps a blessing, they serve as part of the king’s Wild Hunt. They ride horses with frostbitten hooves, their skin flecked with blood as they tumble through the forest in search of the faerie beasts. 

And the faerie beasts, poor souls who have caught the eye of the king. Some are creatures of myth, unicorns and phoenix and dragons that are too young to fly away. Others are faeries as well, moss maidens and cursed boys who have caught the attention of the king. It does not truly matter what you are, so long as the king finds a use for you. 

His menagerie is the heart of his castle, hidden in the icy mountains. There he locks away his prizes in gilded cages, where faerie nobility from all walks of life come to peer upon his treasures. On the nights of the full moon, mortals lock their doors and leave out offerings to him, in hopes that he will pass them by. When the Hunt comes riding, it is unwise to be out after dark. 

The Erlking hunts for something that no one truly knows. After the death of his queen, he has grown ravenous for something. He is unrelenting in his Hunt, unwilling to give in until he catches the prize he has sought for centuries. 

[itsguysnightitsironic]

INDEX

Beneath Dark Wings, Out of context -- THE TITLE OF THE EP.

EXTRA CONTENT: . ILLUSTRATION (🦇) . COMIC (🪵) . VIDEO / ANIMATIC (🍂) . SHITPOST (⛺) If emojis are fuss together it's the two things ---> example: (⛺ / 🦇 ) SHITPOST AND ILLUSTRATION. If it's surrender by stars (⭐) it means it's an official LOA short that I was commissioned to animate.

The land still resists the horrors, walk the path, someone needs to put up signs.

EP. 1 IT BEGINS

And you will get horns! AND YOU WILL GET HORNS! (⛺)

EP. 2 TROUBLE

EP. 3 LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

EP. 4 SEALED FATE

EP. 5 MAZE OF MYSTERIES

EP. 6 THE ENEMY WITHIN

EP. 7 LYING EYES

EP. 8 BEAST IN THE MACHINE

EP. 9 THE FINAL SACRIFICE

EP. 10 THE SOUND OF THUNDER

EP. 11 HOOT AND HOLLER

EP. 12 EXECUTIVE POWER

EP. 13 ERUPTION

EP. 14 TIMELESS TALES

EP. 15 THE WAY THE WIND BLOWS

EP. 16 PARADISE LOST

EP. 17 THE PASS

EP. 18 UNNATURAL LAW

EP. 19 THE WEBS THEY WEAVE

EP. 20 ROAR OF THE BULL

EP. 21 DREAM OF MIRRORS

EP. 22 BEYOND THE GILDED CAGE

EP. 23 VALLEY OF SHADOW

EP. 24 LOSS OF INNOCENCE

EP. 25 HUNGRY LIKE THE WOLF

EP. 26 TRAPPED IN AMBER

EP. 27 TEMPLE OF GLOOM

EP. 28 CHILDREN OF THE DAMNED

EP. 29 LAND OF THE LOST HORIZON

EP. 30 ANIMAL ANTICS

EP. 31 TOMB OF KINGS

EP. 32 SLAVE TO THE POWER OF DEATH

EP. 33 MEMORIES UNMASKED

EP. 34 FALLEN ANGEL

EP. 35 HIGH TREASON

EP. 36 THE ECLIPSE

EP. 37 BARGAINS AND BROKEN THINGS

EP. 38 A CHANCE IN HELL

EP. 39 DARK WATERS

EP. 40 WINDS OF CHAOS

🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲

🌲🌲🌲STAY ON THE PATH, IT'S DARK 🌲🌲🌲

🐺🐺OF HEART AND HARVEST🐺🐺

This 13th feels very 31st if you ask me, because it feels like the end of me. (⛺) Put the witch hunters in the carriage and nobody gets hurt (⛺)

OUT OF THE LOOP.

Kith and kin. /Aromantic week 2024/ (💀) ---->ft. 🌹🌹CURSE OF STRAHDANYA🌹🌹 ---->ft.🌼🌼ONCE UPON A WITCHLIGHT 🌼🌼 ---> ft. 💠💠ICEBOUND💠💠 ---> ft. 🥀🥀 EDGE OF MIDNIGHT🥀🥀 ---> ft.✨✨STARDUST RHAPSODY ✨✨ ---> ft. 🌻🌻PRIME 🌻🌻 ⭐ Born to talk in infernal forced to learn common (⛺ / 🍂)⭐

🌲🌲🌲🌲

[pradnyesh1008]

Embark on a journey to the heart of Veridonia, an empire shrouded in tradition and mystique. The Golden Throne stands as the symbol of power, yet beneath its gilded exterior lies a realm of political intricacies and hidden secrets, waiting to be unveiled. In a world where politics, intrigue, and war are the norm, you must navigate your way through the complex web of alliances and enemies that surround you. This game is for those who love adventure, drama, and intrigue. It is a game where every decision matters and every outcome are different. It is a game where you can shape the fate of an empire and make history.

“Dive into the epic world of ‘The Golden Throne’ with its first book, ‘Crown of Conquest’. A journey you won’t forget!”

In the vast continent of Veridonia, a great empire stands on the brink of uncertainty. Emperor Varian III, the revered ruler who has led his empire with wisdom and strength for decades, finds himself facing a devastating reality.

As his health deteriorates, the absence of a suitable heir threatens to plunge the entire continent into chaos and ignite a destructive war between the kingdoms. Now, facing his own mortality, the emperor grapples with the realization that his thriving nation could crumble without a clear successor.

News of the Emperor’s failing health spreads like wildfire, reigniting ancient rivalries. The various kingdoms, each vying for power and control, sense an opportunity to assert their authority. Fear murmurs within the hearts of the people, and trepidation blankets the land.

Whispers of an impending civil war pervade the corridors of power, and tension begins to mount as rival factions strategize and secretly forge alliances in anticipation of the emperor’s demise. Drawing upon an elite advisory council, composed of trusted ministers, scholars, and military strategists, the emperor endeavours to explore all possible avenues to secure a peaceful transition of power.

Noble houses assert their claims to the throne, while whispers of treachery and deceit echo through the corridors of the imperial palace. A sense of urgency fills the air, as the emperor’s condition deteriorates, and time becomes the most precious commodity.

As the final days of the asserting claims and authority draw near, a solution begins to emerge from the chaos. King Aric, the king in the north, your/MC’s father, emerged victorious, chosen as the heir to the Golden Throne. In this epic tale of power, loyalty, and betrayal, will you succeed in helping your father preserving the legacy of his predecessor, or will Veridonia descend into a dark age of war and destruction? Are you ready to claim your destiny? Will you follow your father’s footsteps and become a worthy successor to the throne? Or will you carve your own path and challenge the established order? The fate of a continent hangs in the balance, and only time will tell. This is the thrilling saga of “Crown of Conquest”.

 A rich and immersive setting inspired by real medieval history, culture, and geography.

 A branching storyline with multiple endings and consequences based on your choices and actions.

 A customizable character with four different personality options and various traits that define your skills and abilities.

 A dynamic stat system that reflects your character’s growth and development throughout the game.

 A diverse cast of characters with their own backgrounds, motivations, and agendas.

 You can befriend, romance, or antagonize them depending on your choices.

 Violence and Gore: The game frequently depicts gory, brutal battles and graphic acts of violence.

 Frightening/Intense Scenes: There are many intense scenes that can be frightening for some readers.

 Graphic Deaths: Characters often meet violent, graphic ends.

 Torture Scenes: There are scenes depicting torture.

 Sexual Content: There will be many scenes with sexual acts.

 Dark Humor: The game contains dark humor, which may be unsettling or offensive to some viewers.

 Sadistic Behavior: Some characters exhibit sadistic behavior which can be disturbing.

 Substance Abuse: Characters are shown consuming alcohol excessively.

Demo:

Forum:

https://forum.choiceofgames.com/t/wip-the-golden-throne-60k-words/142838/59

RO's

Male RO's

Female RO's

[court-of-constellations]

there's just something about identities.

you lie as you breathe, weaving the illusion into reality until not even you know what's real and what's not. you start believing you truly are who you pretend to be, until the two of you are so deeply intertwined that it's impossible to separate fiction from fact.

you discard names and faces as needed, move on to a new life and a new opportunity, but you cannot forget what brought you to this point. you will not forget, because if you forget, then that time and place will be lost forever. if you forget, then there's no reason to keep going.

you really did think you were them. you delighted in their joys, mourned their losses, let their goals and beliefs shape you into who you are today. your entire sense of self has been built on them, on who they once were. but they're gone. and you are nothing but a pale imitation of their light.

you know you're not them. you could never be them. you think their loved ones know it too, but they can't face it. you're a liar, a fraud who has taken their place, but even that is better than admitting that they're really gone. that their light was snuffed out long ago, and this twisted version of them is all that remains.

you can't escape who you once were. your sins taint everything you do, your inner darkness pervades every inch of the life you've carved out for yourself. and every lie you speak, every false tale you tell in order to keep this new life, it's all just another weight on your shoulders. you will never be able to truly escape, and you know you deserve it. there's nothing that has happened to you that wasn't entirely your own fault.

you live only for their sake. they are the only thing you have left. you've destroyed anything else you could have had, all to protect them. they are everything to you. they have to be. you must live for them, die for them, offer up everything you are at their altar, because if you don't and they lose, then what was it all for?

you live and die and live and die again and again. you will never be granted the sweet embrace of death for long, for there is something twisted and broken in your very soul that spurs you ever on. you have to find something to cling to, something that will never die. your other half is with you always, until they're not, and you know you'll be reunited in the next life, but you're still alone now. madness threatens to consume you whole, so you throw yourself into blood and death in the hopes that it will keep the monster at bay. you are a broken vessel, a tool for others to use as they wish, and it has been so since before you ever came into this world. you attach yourself to one of the worst monsters of all, for they will protect you and stay with you, for they are the only trace you can find of the mother you lost so long ago.

you are not real. you were never real. you are simply a reflection, an ideal of someone in some long-forgotten land. your wishes, your hopes, your dreams, none of it mattered. the malice that threatened to tear your mind to shreds was manufactured, made to make their mistake disappear. you are not real, your life was a lie, your entire world was just an experiment to see if they could. you are not real, nothing was ever real, and now it's all destroyed.

you are not yourself. who you were is gone, your past self entirely erased. you are just your title now, a false prophet. you are revered as you sit atop your throne of lies, and your true name is never spoken- not even by yourself. still, you hold it close to your chest, clinging to those days when you were still free. you are trapped within a gilded cage, a puppet to be played with as they please. are you even human? or are you just a broken doll, without a heart and without any true life?

who are you? you cannot remember. there are so many people you could've been, so many lives and stories that might have once been your own. your story was always a tragedy, and it is only a matter of discovering which tragedy it was. you don't know if you want to remember, or if you'd rather forget. you don't know anything.

there's just something about identities.