#The only way to fight this is to take them to court

[dmitriene]

cw: omegaverse, mating.

simon ghost riley knows well that you're a really skittish omega, his mate, too, which makes it all only more problematic, but it's shouldn't be an issue for him, not at all, he's sure that if he'll treat you right, pamper and stroke over where you tense in defense, you'll rub your face against his neck and purr sweet little sounds only for his ears alone, so he makes it his mission.

he let's you hiss and scratch all you want, slap his outstretched, offered hand, rumble like a fierce thing when he brushes a thumb down your neck, thumbing over the sensitive curve where your gland hides, blooming ripe and mouthwatering with the most luscious scent ever, and when you see the way his searing, amber eyes eclipse with dilating, opaque darkness, tracing a path of shivers over your skin from his gaze alone, you flee.

you make simon stalk you all around, to dig in the littlest corners you hide in to make sure you're nourished and feeling alright, no fever, no heat, no bite mark from someone who would dare to try, and the unmistakable care that sizzles calmly in his softened eyes makes you warm up, just a little bit, enough to not bite his hand off when he smoothes a palm over your head, or brings you some food he thinks you should have in your ration to be a healthy omega.

reluctantly, he get's to court you, as much as it can be called so, holding his hand barely from touching the small of your back as you walk beside him, the distance between you two getting smaller and smaller, but still there, when you glare daggers at him should he try to smell you, or tense as he touches you accidentally, only a brush, yet, you shiver and lean away, suppressing the flutter of warmth that creeps up your belly.

simon learns that you panic at the permeating scent of alpha pheromones the hard way, when he let's them out, noticing the lingering gazes of the unruly mutts around him that eye you like some bone, and he can't stand it at all, the lurking gazes, how oblivious you are, walking around unmarked, not mated probably, a shame to him, but he tries to be gentle, to take his time with you, yet he can't control the menacing sourness of his scent, acrid against your sensitive sense of smell.

it's scares you, the tang of menacity you pick up on, the way his lips pull up in a snarl, and when he growls, gravelly and loud, you let out an uncontrollable, instinctive whimper, shrinking in the bow of your body, trying to curl, hide, shield yourself with a sharp distress to your pleasantly sweet scent, whirling around your shivering form in waves that reach out to simon, distracting, forcing the haze of an possessing anger dissipate, leaving behind a pang of a quilt.

simon would apologize to you in private, properly, where he'd be able to persuade you to let him show how sorry he is for making you so uncomfortable, with your quivering legs spread wide, dangling at his broad, stretched out shoulders, and his drooling mouth devouring your sweet cunt, pulsing and soppy all over his twisting tongue, the pitch high keen of your voice a delight to his ears, and maybe, just maybe, you'll let him stick in with a tip, perhaps.

he just wants to make sure you'll be safe if he's suddenly wouldn't be any near you, and he was acting so good all the time, even with his gums aching to bite into the tender flesh of your neck, lick over your scent gland, make it swell, and when he does makes you gush in his mouth, swallowing gulps of your slick until dry, limbs boneless, toes spasming in a curl, you don't fight off the feel of his crooked nose digging in the curve of your sweaty neck.

your glassy eyes flutter shut, nails clawing up from simon's shoulders to his cropped hair, sharp, unsure, trying to pull him away and as close as possible, listening to the gravelly, almost purring coo of his voice, soothing your tangled, wracked nerves, and you let him, garbling, mewling, until his sharp canines pierce deep in, chapped, tissued lips suck down to soothe the sting that makes you sob, spine arching painfully, until your body sags completely, useless.

he'd wait for a next, better time to warm you up to try and take his knot, there's no pleasure in forcing you, rushing things, for now, his inner alpha is sated enough, seeing those imprinted dents of his teeth bruising over your neck like a brand, your body cradled close, deep asleep and letting out unguarded, barely audible purrs, humming something illegible as his palm cups over your gland, face nuzzling in the crown of your head, and yes, it's more than enough.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[acotarxreader]

Training wheels

Eris x Reader

Synopsis: The cauldron gifted you a blaze of power when you were sunk into it's clutches with your sisters. When your abilities start to become uncontrolled you seek out and Heir to Autumn for training.

Warnings: Snark, flirting, angsty, swearing, cute, protective sisters, secrets

A/N: An Eris fic for the friends who want it hehe

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

You swirled around the Moonstone Palace in a dress shaped like a pastry, bouncing from one foot to the other as you glided through the air, head tilted up to the decadent ceiling. 

“YNN! Stop playing around, you’re making me dizzy” You stopped hard mid-turn, hands clasping together in front of you, and your head sank to the compliant sister you always were. 

“Sorry Nesta” She scoffed at your small squeak of an apology before rising to her feet to stand in front of you, her hands finding your forearms. 

“I wish we left you at home” You looked up to meet her pitiful eyes, it rocketed a simmering rage into your veins you cared not to show, only offering a small meek smile in return to her words. The thud of a heavy door drew your attention to your sister and her dear mate, his closest friends flanking them.

“Oh YN you came and you're wearing…that” Cassian beamed until his smile dropped at the poof of fabric that consumed you, its twilight hue working against your natural palette. 

“It was what the dressmaker had to hand, she wasn't supposed to be here” Nesta responded for you, as she often did, standing slightly in front of the bunches of tulle. 

“And we're glad we could convince you to come”

“More like convince your handler to allow you” You ignored Azriels quiet comment.

“Thank you for including me Rhys, I want to be more useful”

“Sister you are useful” Feyre quickly added, squeezing your shoulder before standing in the centre of the group. 

“Should we talk about why she had to come this time…” Nesta said under her breath, receiving an uncharacteristic glare from you. 

“I didn't see the candlestick there, why was it even near the curtains!” You sighed, the three brothers laughing at your clumsiness. 

“You laugh but it was in your wardrobe that it happened Feyre” Nesta added, shock painting your older sister's face. She coughed to clear it, giving you a reassuring smile before speaking again.

“Anyways, we’ll deal with that…damage later, let's head downstairs and get this over with so we can go home”

“And drink”

“Yes Cass, and drink” Feyre laughed before taking hold of Rhysands hand again, the group assuming their normal winnowing positions leaving you on the outskirts. Azriels dropped Elaine's hand, reaching for yours with a soft smile. 

“You'll get used to the whoosh feeling the more you come with us” he whispered to you and you gave a grateful smile, not sure if you'd ever get used to anything about this world. You arrived in the similar violent way your eldest sisters had, sank to the bottom of a cauldron with great reluctance, still waiting for your cauldron blessed gift to bubble to availability or so they thought. 

The Night Court landed with their usual power into the ballroom of the Hewn City residence, an event between the solar courts to help gain more favour in the fight against Hybern. You hung to the back of the group, unsure of your place in this outwards display of power, the room stilling as they took their welcome in their stride. Eventually Rhysands and Feyre released them from their display of submission, the party bursting to life. The group other than High Lord and Lady dispersed across the ballroom, all with their set target to woo into negotiations. You scoped along the edges of the ballroom, not drawing much attention until you clattered into a server, the tray of champagne coating your dress. 

“Argh!” The biting cold of the gold liquid nipped your skin as it sank into the endless layers. The ramble of apologies from the server was interrupted by a colossal shadow.

“Hm, like a soggy burnt cupcake” you dragged your eyes from your gown up to the source of the smoky voice, a tussle of perfect auburn hair and captivating Autumn Court eyes meeting yours. Your words drained from your tongue, the imposing stature of the male enough to steal away any comeback. 

“My lady I apologise for this-”

“Go. Get out of our sight, what kind of staff does Rhysand hire around here?” you watched the server's face sink before she scurried off at the harsh tone of the male. 

“Prick” you whispered, turning to leave the shadow of the Son of Autumn, only to feel the strong hold of his grip on your forearm, turning you back to him. 

“Heir actually” he smirked deeply, Eris' eyes dancing a little as they met yours again. 

“I somehow believe that the name I called you is a more common moniker people use for you, your High Ass” you snatched your back away, his energy something you wanted to play with even with the possibility of it burning you alive. 

“Thank you for noticing” he winked as you fought every nerve to not roll your eyes as you turned to walk away from him. 

“Now if you'll excuse me, I'm wet and need to sort this out”

“I do tend to have that effect on females, I'm sure I could help you reach…resolution” this time you couldn't keep your eyes from looking up to the heavens as you left the Prince of Autumn smirking into his champagne. 

You stormed your way to the private bathroom down one of the many halls of the buried city. Alone in the bathroom you took stock of the situation. With a deep breath you looked out of the bathroom door, ensuring no one was around before you closed it gently again. With a shaky hand you began to fan your fingers down your dress, careful not to touch the soaked fabric as steady heat began to pulsate through your skin. You smiled deeply as you felt the fabric beginning to dry. The cauldron had gifted you the elements but you weren't ready to share with your new family, not ready to have them examine you even closer, attempt to control you even tighter, even if it was meant with love. The thought pings into your head, what would they think? You could create measly sparks, nothing compared to the gargantuan powers your sisters had been gifted. You suddenly felt searing heat, the distraction causing you to lose control of your abilities, as has happened earlier in Feyres wardrobe. Thankful Nesta had bought that you knocked the candlestick, a perfectly plausible explanation for someone so clumsy. 

“Shit fuck!” You cursed, the front of your dress sticking to the now uncontrolled flame as you began to pat furiously at the golden fire. You finally managed to snuff it out, looking again in the mirror to find the front layers of the poofy skirt burned through, the slip now the last layer keeping you decent. 

“Fuuuuuuuccccck” you droned, your hands finding your hips.

“You sound like you're having a terrible time in there Cupcake do I need to call a healer?” you heard Eris laugh from the other side of the door. You panickingly looked around the room for anything to cover yourself with, snatching the world's smallest hand towel from the rack to drape it across your front. 

“I'm fine” you sidestepped the Autumn Heir, his eyebrow raised as he sniffed the air. His eyes dropped down to the cloth you clung to poorly cover the damage. Your eyes met Eris’ again and you sighed, dropping the cloth to reveal the warped tulle. 

“Hmm would you believe me if I said it improved the dress?” he smirked and you found yourself laughing back at him, shoving him playfully into the shoulder and then remembering yourself.

“Sorry I-I, my sisters say I must have been in the land of imaginary beings every etiquette class we had” you offered quietly, covering back over the shriveling fabric. 

“Well, fuck etiquette anyway” Eris found himself smiling at you softly, the action seemingly catching you both off guard. 

“How'd you do that anyway?” He coughed to clear the smile before returning to his curiosity.

“Oh I-emm there was a candlestick and yanno, clumsy” you gave a somewhat panicked laugh, trying to avoid his stare. Eris replied with a hum before he stretched out his long wingspan, banging the door of the bathroom back to look into the small room, no candles to be found. He raised his eyebrow at you as the door swung close again. 

“Want to try another lie Cupcake?” He stepped slightly closer into you, the rush of fresh Autumn air seemingly flowing from him. 

“I-”

“YN! There you are, we're fin-what happened to you!” Feyre quickly took stock of your tattered dress, darting her eyes from the fraying to the Lord of Fire. She looked accusatory towards Eris, poking a finger into his face.

“Did you do this to her!?” She barked, Eris briefly looking over her shoulder to find your wild pleading eyes begging him. 

“Yes-” he responded with a sigh “-rouge flame, happens when I sneeze or something” he shrugged, you covered your mouth for a moment with the back of your hand, stifling a laugh. The smile dropped from your face as Feyre turned on the balls of her feet back to you, before looking angrily between you both again. 

“I’ve just gotten Nesta to agree to let you venture out with us more and you go and do this, I'm so disappointed YNN” her saddened face burned harsher than the earlier flames until Eris dragged back the attention.

“Eh excuse me but is Nesta her keeper? As far as I'm aware Lady YN is an adult, what do you mean let her?” he chewed out the last words as Feyre turned her attention back to him.

“You! Stay out of my family business”

“Fine by me, stay out of mine, where is my dear brother anyways?” Eris tilted his head with a grin, Feyre leaving out an exasperated huff in response.

“C’mon YN, we're not trying to damage any more relationships so let's just not mention Toasties little hayfever here, we'll say you did it yourself” she took your hand and began to pull you from the scene.

“More believable than you think” you heard Eris whisper gently, before waving at you with just the tips of his fingers, his laugh then filling the hallway. 

-

Alone in your room again you began throwing things around, practically shouting profanities at the idea that anyone might have caught you, especially him. You knew he'd use this information to manipulate something out of you but when and how. And why didn't he do it there when he had the chance? Leverage you decided, he wanted leverage for something. You sank down onto the foot of your bed, digging your palms into your eyes and wishing you never begged to leave these four walls. You threw your hands down again when suddenly a stray fireball flung free from your fingertips before you extinguished it. You huffed harshly, that was happening more and more often, soon you'd have to tell your family, ask for instruction and accept the return of the lock and key you lived under. 

-

Four weeks later

Your family sat around the large table within the House of Wind, the sinking sun causing the large windows to almost glitter. 

“Sorry I'm late I was-” the words caught in your throat as your eyes snagged on Eris, casually sitting back in one of the towering chairs of the dining table. 

“Nevermind now YNN, sit down, I swear where were you when we were at etiquette lessons” you barely heard Nesta’s comment as you sank into your usual seat, inconveniently across from Eris.

“I hear the land of imaginary beings” 

“What was that?” You lightly kicked Eris under the table at Nesta's inquiry. His eyes shot to yours in shock and you panickingly looked down at the light salad on your plate leaving Eris to brush off Nesta’s question. The table went back to its conversation, discussing various strategies that Eris occasionally weighed in on as you bore holes in the dinner plate with your eyes. 

“Prythian to YN, hello?” Your head snapped up to find Cassian waving at you from across the table. 

“Wh-what sorry?”

“I'm sure that plate is very interesting sister but Cassian just asked about your day” 

“S-sorry Feyre, it was fine thank you Cass” you smiled softly at the Illyrian.

“Just fine YN? Nothing of interest sparking to your mind? No burning comments on our plans even?”

“No” you gritted out slightly at Eris, who's grin only dipped into his cup of wine. The table looked between you both before Feyre spoke again.

“Well Elaine said you're a great help in the garden” Elaine nodded in agreement and you gave a weak smile. You knew they were lying, the only thing you could grow was height, every plant seemingly withering under your touch. 

“That's the hot new hobby YN? Roasting under the scorching sun in the garden” Eris took another sip.

“YN should come with me to learn to dance, she'd like that” Nesta smiled, ignoring the tension between you and Eris. 

“She would Nes, maybe we could teach her some traditional Night Court waltzes, what do you think Rhysand?”

“An excellent idea Feyre, YN could maybe spend some time in the library, oh she could-”

“-Maybe perhaps you should ask YN what she wants to do with her time?” Eris cut sharply across the group's planning of your time, his defence startling you. The table all looked to you, eyebrows raised for their response. 

“I-I…sounds great” you said defeatedly into your desert as the table went back to their planning of your life. You caught Eris’ eyes who looked at you with such sadness it made your skin heat. 

This whole damn conversation made your skin heat. Eris was right they should ask you what you want. Ask you what freakin dances you want to learn, not that you want to learn any dances when you have two left feet. They always did this, always controlled every step you took under the guise of protection. Well damn their protection you were sick of it, sick of you losing your voice every time they spoke to you. It was making your blood boil. Why couldn't you have the same confidence with them that you had with Eris? And you hardly knew him. 

“YN” you looked up to Eris’s softened features before glancing up at the table to see your family's faces ashen. 

“What’s wr-” you looked back down to your hand, the ball of fire from your digits melting the desert fork you once held. You left out a stifled laugh, the flame dying in your hands before you wiped the dripping metal off the now forever ruined table cloth. 

“She-she controls fire”

“I do not-” you waved your hand attempting to cover your tracks, a ball of flame slinging free from your hands, causing Eris to duck and narrowly miss being toasted. Feyre quickly shaped a snake of water from her cup to extinguish the fire before it ruined another set of curtains. 

“Control is a strong word” Eris chuckled and you glared again. 

“How long have you known YN?” Nesta asked with trepidation, dragging her eyes off the curtains back to you.

“I um-”

“You burned your own dress that night of the ball, not Eris!” Feyre realised, the table looking at her with confusion.

“YN you burned your dress? You could have hurt yourself!” Nesta gave you a worried glance as Cassian spoke again. 

“YN must be trained”

“YN should go to a healer to see to any burns-”

“YN should have told us sooner”

“YN should-”

“Hey Cupcake, watch yourself” you heard Eris whisper over the group's further discussion of your future, another ball of flame growing from your hands. Eris reached out and touched the very tip of the burning light, seemingly pulling it into his own hand before quashing it. 

“Enough” you said quietly, not taking your eyes from Eris. 

“C’mon Cupcake, use your outside voice” he winked and you finally snapped. 

“ENOUGH!” You shouted, pushing back the giant chair with a scrape. 

“YN, you forget yourself”

“No Nesta! You forget yourself!” You snapped back at her, Eris sitting smugly back into his chair, his fingers laced together in front of him. 

“I've had enough of you all telling me what I can and can't do! What I can and can't wear! Feyre you had a male do that to you for a season and you nearly destroyed his Court! That's been my whole life and I've had enough!” You snapped before releasing the breath from your lungs. It felt like a thousand pounds had been taken off your chest. 

“I am not going to a healer, I'm not going to one of your trainers and I'm not going to learn to fucking waltz!” You barked again, Eris looking down at his lap to bury his grin as the table looked almost appalled at your seemingly out of nowhere outburst.

“You!” You jabbed a finger towards Eris, his head snapping up “You are going to teach me to control this!”

“Yes ma’am” Eris gave you a fake salute, he could no longer hide his smirk, especially as the colour had completely drained from Rhysand and Feyre. 

“YN, we can get Lucien to train you-”

You thought you heard Eris growl at Azriels suggestion, only for you to raise your hand to the shadowsinger.

“No, this smug bastard here is going to do it. Lucien is busy juggling two emissary roles and I have a feeling this poxy prick in front of me hasn't got a hobby” Eris put his hand to his chest in faux hurt as the group closed their collective jaws at the language from you. 

“It will have to be in the Autumn Court if I am to continue my own role at home” Eris only spoke towards you and you tilted your head side to side.

“Okay sounds good” 

“Wait wait wait absolutely not!” Rhysand stood, the sudden spike in hostility causing Eris to stand, only causing Feyre to stand before next thing you knew everyone was on their feet in verbal outrage at the idea of you leaving the Night Court. 

“Hello! Did none of you hear me! Enough, I said enough! I'm going” you shouted over the fray before storming out of the dining room, Eris quick on your heels. 

“Just for the record Cupcake that was incredibly fucking hot”

“I've had enough fire puns out of you” You snapped slightly at him as he raised his hands in surrender before laughing. 

-

You packed your bags quickly, packing what you could of your Night Court wardrobe, afraid this sudden new found courage would burn out as quickly as it came. When you reached the large doors of the House of Wind you found your family standing in deep discussion, Eris on its outskirts with his arms folded and a bored expression. 

“YN, are you su-”

“-Yes Elaine, I'm sure” you squeezed your sister's arm lightly before Eris took your rucksack from your shoulder and threw it over his. 

“Eris has agreed to return you in 3 months for Starfall…if-if that's okay with you?” You could have laughed at Cassian's question, never once did your family ask if something was okay when it came to your life. You could get used to this. You smiled at the towering Illyrian before hugging him.

“If anything happens to her I swear I'll-”

“-Yes yes Lady Death whatever, let's go Cupcake I've had enough pleasantries” Eris batted away Nesta's pointed finger, stretching out his elbow for you to take hold of. You hugged the rest of your family goodbye before taking Eris' offered arm, sealing your decision. 

-

You landed on solid ancient wooden floors with a thud as Eris winnowed you both into his secluded cabin deep in the woods. You stepped from him in an instant, bracing your arms on your thighs as you tried to regain balance after winnowing so far. Eris just watched you for a moment before slipping his hands down his chest. 

“Right well, I wasn't expecting a house guest but you'll stay here during your time in my Court. I will remain in the main house many miles from here to keep from arousing suspicion. You will not leave this house without me. You will not talk to anyone without me. You will not-”

“Why do I have the feeling I've traded one prison for the other?” you righted yourself again, your hands finding your hips. 

“Oh Cupcake-” he stepped in closer to you as he spoke “-this is much worse than prison” he smirked, a chill rattling over your bones.

“Don't leave the house” he repeated, a dart of flame leaving his hand to fill the fire before he sank away in smoke. 

-

The next three weeks was Eris barking orders at you and you failing to comply, unable to call back the flame you created at dinner weeks previous. 

“You're not trying hard enough!”

“Maybe you're a shitty teacher!” You snapped back, the early morning sun cresting the tall ancient trees in the forest clearing Eris had deemed as your training grounds. 

“You're such a brat”

“And you're a prick, I can name call too!” Your hands found your hips, something flashing across Eris' face before he began to close the vast distance between you. He suddenly launched a flame towards you, sending you diving to the ground to avoid it. He sent another. 

“Eris stop!”

“Block me Cupcake, block me with your own flame” he shot another few sharp sparks, then singed the hairs on your arms as you failed to block. He sent more.

“Stop!” 

“Stop me!” He circled you around the clearing like a wolf and its prey, releasing a stronger than intended blast of pure destruction. You quickly realised you wouldn't dodge this one, instead you raised a hand, a blast of your own fire shooting out and deflecting his. 

“Good, again!” He didn't give you a chance to celebrate, only sent more flames. This whole process was repeated until the rising sun started to say good night, sinking down beneath the towering mountains. You sat breathless on the grass, your arms sootie from flames you weren't quick enough to stop. 

“You did good today Cupcake” Eris dropped down next to you, finally calling a truce. 

“You're such a prick”

“So you've said” he laughed, the sound sending soothing heat over your aching muscles. 

“You look sickly in those clothes by the way” he nodded towards your Night Court fighting leathers, an apology gift from your sisters. 

“You love to comment on my clothing”

“The only comment I have about your clothing is that I wish you weren't wearing any” you laughed at his grinning face, nudging him with your shoulder. 

“Or at least-” he sniffed the air “-clothes that didn't smell” your jaw dropped in fake offence, and you shoved the Autumn Heir with more force, his elbow sinking into some thick mud. 

“Ugh! I love this shirt! You're dead!” He laughed, whipping his head around only to find gone from the spot next to him and running laughing across the field. Eris was on his feet after you but not before you clattered him with a ball of river silt as you dove out of the way of his grip. 

“YN!” His laughter filled the clearing as he caught you, throwing you over one of his shoulders as you shrieked with laughter. Suddenly you didn't feel him beneath you, just crisp Autumn air and then freezing water as Eris flung you into the stream. 

“Eris!” You howled through rattling teeth, standing to clatter him with more mud. Eris blasted a quick ball of flame towards you singing your clothes. 

“Eris! You did that on purpose!” You clung the shreds to you as Eris nearly turned purple from laughing.

“I make no secret I hate those Night Court clothes on you! Or any clothes might I add” he quipped before running from your mud laden hands. Eris finally called truce when his hair turned the colour of mud with your successful aim. He walked you back to the cabin, the two of you in blissful silence as the songs of the forest at night sang to you. 

“There's a present for you in your room, good night Cupcake” Eris smiled softly at the door before sinking into flame. You hurried to the room he now called yours to find a trunk or Autumn palette clothing. You held the delicate fabric to your skin, seemingly illuminating your complexion. 

“Jealous prick” you whispered to yourself, not denying yourself the growing smile on your face. A notecard catching your eyes “from a jealous prick” penned across the cream coloured card. 

-

2 months since arriving in Autumn

“Put her in” you screamed and screamed as they dragged you towards the cauldron. Begged and pleaded that you'd be better, screamed and cried as they hauled you over the rim and sank you into the water. It's water more like molten lava to your skin as they held you under, the thick magma threatening to choke you as you screamed. 

“YN! YN! WAKE UP!” You shrieked as you shot up in the bed, Eris at your bedside, his own skin as clammy as yours as you heaved air into your lungs. You landed a hand on your throat, checking for burns down your trachea as you swallowed.

“It was a dream, it's okay, you're not-you're not there” 

“Eris” you rasped out.

“Yes, Eris, you're okay now” he sat down on the edge of your bed as you vibrated next to him. He couldn't help himself as he pulled you into his warm embrace, this healing heat worlds away from the inferno inside the cauldron. 

“I'll kill them all YN, they will pay for this” he whispered into your hair as he stroked it, calming his own nerves as much as yours. 

“Kill who?” You murmured into his chest.

“I don't know- just them all” he felt you laughing against him, relief filling his chest at the sound as you pulled back from him. Eris ran a thumb across your cheek, swiping away the stray tears. 

“Shouldn't you be at the palace?”

“Sorry I just felt you- I mean I thought I better come check on you after our rough training today and good thing I did, you were screaming down the cabin”

“What? No comment about being the one to make me scream” you laughed lightly.

“Hey if that's what you want Cupcake” he shrugged and you laughed again, lightly pushing him back. 

“There she is” you heard him whisper to himself, your eyes meeting his. 

“I know- I know this is stupid but…” you trailed off, looking anywhere but at Eris.

“Nothing you could say is stupid YN” you rolled your neck to look back at him and he laughed.

“Okay I mean when you thought my dogs were going to eat you was pretty silly but please, tell me”

“Fine…would you stay here with me? Just-just for tonight, I'm sorry I know that's stupid” you looked away from him only to have him draw your gaze back with a gentle hold on your chin. 

“I'll stay but you have to tell me everything about what happened to you in there, everything you're comfortable sharing with me” he smiled softly and you nodded in agreement. Eris cautiously crawled into the bed alongside you, swaddling his arms tightly around you until your back was flush to his chest. He then felt you laugh quietly against him.

“Wh-what?” 

“Nothing”

“No tell me” Eris felt uncharacteristically self conscious at your giggling.

“Nothing it's just- it's just I didn't mean stay here with me… in the bed with me, just stay in the cabin” Eris felt his whole face flush purple, your laugh now at full volume as you heard Eris groan in embarrassment into your hair. His hands began to slip back from you until you anchored him again to your stomach, sitting further back against his chest.

“Just stay” you said so softly he wasn't sure he heard you correctly only to have you gently nudge closer into him, your eyes falling heavy. Eris thought of all the reasons he should get up, leave you now you've settled again, protect you from what he might bring and yet, he just wanted to hold this moment in his hands forever, so he stayed. 

-

The following three weeks Eris made every possible excuse to his family to spend more time with you and every night he possibly could. The two of you began to share meals together, evenings by the glow of the wood burner, legs tangled on the couch while you both read in blissful silence. Eris couldn't stop himself from baring all to you and the thought of you leaving his Court to return home in a week was starting to turn his mood. 

“And that's how I slept with all those sisters” Eris' brother laughed aloud at the dinner table, his mother's head dipped to her dinner plate at the right hand of his father's chair. Eris entered the scene already ready to leave, slowly taking his seat to the left of his father's chair.

“What about you brother? Not like you to not be flaunting your latest conquests? All quiet these past few months” his middle brother mocked, attempting to bait and failing. 

“Where is father?” He found himself asking instead, noting his father's absence despite being already 15 minutes late for dinner himself, the rest of his family already tucking into their dinners.

“Hunting in the woods” his mother said down to her plate, her broken voice heating the usual simmering rage in his chest. Eris took his customers sniffing his goblet of wine before taking a drink. 

“Hunting some alleged fire breathing demon in the East woods corridor” the wine nearly came out of Eris' nose at the shock of his third youngest brother. His mother's eyes darted up as Eris clapped his chest with a heavy hand, begging the wine to release it's grip from his lungs.

“The East corridor?” He choked out, already standing to leave.

“Yes, reports of fire damage to neighbouring farm fences, what has your testicles in a twist? Where are you going?” Eris hardly heard his brother's questioning before he was out the solid oak doors, howling for his hounds to follow close. 

Sweat began to drip down Eris' neck as the wind beat his face, his trusted stallion hammered hooves into the dusk soaked soil. The hounds yelped and yipped, coursing ahead of their beloved owner. 

The front door of the cottage nearly came off its hinges as Eris slammed it open, the dogs flooding into the cabin.

“YN! YN! C'mon Cupcake this isn't the time to play hide and seek!” He practically roared through the various rooms of the cabin, pulling out wardrobes and looking under beds, the cabin deserted. 

“Fuck, fuck fuck where are you!?” Desperation coating his voice as he ran back to his mount before taking off into the darkening woods. Eris galloped to an empty training ring, shot across the deserted streams, you nowhere to be found and nowhere where he had set out your boundaries. In the distance Eris heard his eldest hound, Craos, snapping her teeth. Quickly coming onto the scene, relief flushed into his lungs as he watched the hound howl up at you, sat reading in an ancient tree, a look of surprised horror on your face. 

“Eris? What are you doing here?” You smiled, sliding down the bark of the tree to your feet, Eris eating up the ground between you now on foot. His heavy hands caught hold of your shoulders, your book dropping to the ground in shock as he drank in your features, scanning for injury.

“YN are you alright?”

“Yes yes I'm fine, what are you doing here? Don't you have that family dinner?”

“Wh-what am I doing here?” He whispered icy words before taking a small step back.

“Yea-”

“What am I doing here!? YN what the absolute fuck are you doing out here!?” He chewed, his tone biting at your bones with unfamiliar pain. 

“I'm just out here reading I-”

“I'm just out here reading-” he Mimicked your voice before snatching your wrist in his and pulling you along “c’mon we're going”

“Eris relax I-”

“-Relax? Fucking relax? Do you have any idea where the fuck you are? Do you live in the land of imaginary beings full time? This is not there. This is the Autumn Court and this is not your safe haven” he spun back around half barking the words into your face.

“I-I just thought- I’m sorry I just feel so at home here I-” your voice was breaking but you kept the tears in, the word home stinging into Eris soul as he began to pull you along again.

“This is not your home” he forced himself to say, words betraying his heart. You felt the world spin on its axis, never did you think this male would hurt you and here he was to prove you wrong. You yanked your wrist free, crossing your arms tightly into your chest, Eris gesturing to the horse with a hand beckoning you to mount. 

“Fuck you Eris” The words rattled out through gritted teeth. 

“Wh-what?”

“I said fuck-” you jabbed a finger into his chest “-you” almost steaming tears began to form at your water line, your skin turning red with rage. 

“YN-”

“Well well well, what do we have here?” Eris' heart dropped to his boots as he spun around to find his father mounted on a magnificent cobalt steed, a small hunting party flanking him. Eris sank to a brief bow, glancing quickly at you, beginning for you to do the same. You reluctantly dropped your arms back to your side, sinkinging into a short curtsey. 

“Well I do say son, you keep all the beautiful females to yourself these days” Eris took a subtle step forward, every so slightly obscuring you from his father. 

“She was a lost traveler, I was reprimanding her for trespassing” The ease of Eris’ lying caught you off guard and unsettled you slightly. 

“Allow me to help” a flicker of pure darkness dashed across his father's face, Eris taking another side step to block you.

“Father that isn't necessary I-” 

“-Fellows, seize her now, it's been an age since I've had a good plaything” the words sent goose bumps all over your skin, Eris' hounds circling the perimeter with a growl. You took a step past Eris before his guards could dismount. 

“Nobel High Lord, I am but a lost traveler, looking for passage to the Spring Court where my contact awaits my arrival. I am of the Night Court and they are expecting me” The faux grandeur of your voice upset something in Eris he couldn't pin down. 

“Well, they'll have to come get you from my chambers” this time you heard Eris growl as the hunting party dismounted and began to close in on you. 

“Unlikely” you laughed cooly, the realisation of what was going to happen next rocketing through the Heir to the Autumn Court. Before Eris could beg you not to, you had already raised your arms, encircling the whole group in a blaze of golden fire. The sudden change in atmosphere caught the Autumn Court members by surprise. Beron raised a hand to squash the flame, unsuccessfully as you washed a blast of heat to his hunting party blowing them back onto their tail bones. You quickly drew another wall of fire, separating you and Eris from Beron and his pack. 

“YN, are you fucking crazy?” Eris shot to you, his own flames supporting yours as he heard his father roar from the other side, just warming up to fight back. 

“I had enough of the training wheels” you strained your voice with raised hands beckoning the wall to rise higher, taking small steps back. 

“YN, get on the horse and go, don't stop until you reach the Spring Court-” Berons own flames starting to swallow yours, flickers of his enraged face through the inferno.

“-Eris I can't leave you I-” 

“-You have to go! I can't he'll know something is wrong, he'll hunt us, destroy us, I can't put the mission at risk!” He pleaded, hauling you over his shoulder before dumping you on the back of the unsettled mount. 

“I don't want to risk you!”

“Too fucking bad Cupcake” Eris then smacked the rear of the horse, sending it startled, bolting with your haphazardly on the back into the woods. Without your help, Beron quickly conquered the flames, Eris throwing himself down onto the ground before he did.

“She-she overpowered me” Eris coughed out, lying through his teeth.

“Pathetic, we will discuss this later” Beron spat before rushing back to his own steed and galloping off in your direction, Eris safe in the knowledge that he wouldn't be able to reach you after your headstart. 

Eris laid on the long, torched grass, staring up at the night sky, his hounds slowly circling into him before settling at his side. His heavy hand rested against their skin as they cuddled in, weight sitting deep into Eris lungs from the pressure of the hounds and the sinking feeling of what just happened. You wouldn't forgive him after what he said, his father was going to mangle him, what was the point of leaving this beautiful night sky unmarvelled. The punishment would come but for now, Eris just wanted to take a moment of reprieve before he was sure all hell would break out

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

Hehehe what do you think????

[tiramissyoucake]

Love your stuff!!! I never realized how much creep potential Mark had until I read your blog

Can you give us a profile on Viltrumite Mark (no mustache)?? How do interpret his character and creepiness in regard to the reader??

Thank you! :)

Aaa thank you!!✨️🩷 I think Viltrumite Mark is my most popular work here lol I have to keep a few things in mind when writing him (note that this is my interpretation and you're free to your own interpretation!).

I dont know how to format profiles so here are said aspects:

A disdain for humanity: or anything that isn't Viltrumite. We know they have unnatural strength and are basically conquerers, so I give him an impatient attitude with anyone who isn't the reader, dismissive to anyone he deems weak. He views human courting as too submissive, unlike what he's taught as a Viltrumite. Note that even if he sees humans as weak, he doesn't resist learning to blend in as long as it's for his own benefit somehlw

A fascination with reader: Viltrumite Mark's reader reminds themselves constantly that he's an alien from far away, so he doesn't understand a lot of mannerism on earth (including their kindness). He sees them as weaker but not *below him* if that makes sense, like something he's responsible for

A sense of entitlement: my takeaway is that Viltrum believes the strongest decide how the world works, so Viltrumite Mark expects no resistance when he wants something or when something needs to be done, something that ties into his barbaric power is he expresses no distress at any attempt of a fight against him. (It's a different story if someone tried to outsmart him)

Subtle but inflated ego: this applies to a lot of the variants, speed, flight, superstrength; anyone would be on top of the world if they were literally Invincible. Though a "noble" trait is humility, I think he would have a hard time being humble, he'd do well but an ego that tells you he knows he's strong and could kill easily would slip through.

Confusing submission for assertion: At times where he doesn't hold himself back from reader or indulges in affection, he thinks he's only enacting what he was taught; take what you want from your mate and they submit. I try to incorporate an underlying desperation he never acknowledges, a submission that any Invincible variant carries in one way or another.

All in all, I see him as a princely alien who's never been told "no" but is smart enough to loop around a "no" and trap you into a "yes" if that makes sense!

[monimolimnion]

ok hi sorry i have thoughts about this

To preface: I certainly don't think LUTF is an example of perfect writing, and I think it's not only held back by the 8-chapter limit (it's already very long within those) but by how much of the narrative is necessarily taken up by RADDER flashbacks.

However!

I think takes like this misunderstand something really important about VBS's narrative: it's a shounen, with certain genre expectations along with that, and it is also written within an in-universe culture where all high emotions are expressed through music, not through words.

It's not that nobody on Vivid Street comforts or encourages each other by talking, far from it (Find a Way Out is more than enough example of that), but it's a genre expectation that moments of high tension aren't resolved through talking. Would you expect a basketball anime to do anything off-court except character work and heightening tension, for the inevitable next game? It's like in musical theater, where the genre conventions allow characters to break into song once they feel too much emotion to expess it in dialogue - the big moments are always where the tension is highest, and it can't just be released quietly, that's not how the story payoff works.

You can find this motif explained in-universe in other events that characterise VBS as well, such as Let's Study Hard - An expresses to Mizuki that she's an open and friendly person specifically because Vivid Street taught her to express herself with new people through music, and that they learn about each other and can find common ground more easily through music (specifically duelling).

Because of this, the out-of-world genre expectation which is explained by an in-universe culture, I would argue that stopping to help her was the opposite of what An actually wanted in that moment.

An wanted to sing. She wanted to surpass her heroes. Even in a moment where she was experiencing unimaginable agony and betrayal, all An has done since she was born is express herself through singing, and fight with others as a way to understand them and herself - and you see that reflected in the narrative! As soon as VBS pick themselves up to keep fighting, she gets right back up alongside them, understanding that their actions meant they had her back and she wasn't alone. All she wants is to understand Taiga, and to understand herself, and to do that she needs to sing.

I wanted to see Vivid BAD SQUAD offer her words of condolence as much as the next guy, but not right then, because that's not what the narrative called for in that moment. Mattie pointed out correctly that VBS gave her as much verbal emotional support as they could after the fact, which imo is all she could have asked for (and I imagine there was a lot more offscreen.)

But by fighting back in the moment, they were supporting her. They were telling her everything people wanted them to say out loud, but speaking the language An was born into, which is exactly what she needed to hear.

what do you think the worst thing any main project sekai character has done?

feel free to be as specific as u want idgaf im just v curious and bored

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest May Mayhem Bingo event and my main card over at @steddiebingo.

i get stoned for survival (it helps with the healing)

CCF Prompt: End of the World || Steddie Bingo Prompt: Hold the Line | Word Count: 9396 | Rating: E | CW: Injuries, Unprotected Sex, Mention of Weed | POV: Eddie (and a little Steve) | Relationship(s): Steddie | Tags: Canon Divergence Before Events of S4, Zombie Apocalypse, Surviving in Hawkins, Forming An Unlikely Alliance, Virgin Eddie, Corroded Coffin Boys, Good Uncle Wayne Munson

This one got long, so it's available in full right here on ao3.

Excerpt below:

There are other survivors in town, at least Eddie thinks there are. They can't be the only ones. At least, Eddie's pretty sure. They see traces of other life from time to time and that's the only thing keeping Eddie upright. That maybe they might be able to make it to the other side. 

Run, his whole body is telling him. Run away. Run far, and fast.

But they need to stick together. They need to gather what they can salvage, what they can carry, and make it back to home base.

There's not anywhere else to go, anyway. The town is surrounded. They've checked. And they're guarded by a massive government show of force, more military than Eddie's ever seen in his life, assuring nobody leaves the area.

So, they might not be able to leave town, but they're gonna have to leave the van. If they don't, this is how they're gonna die, he's sure of it. Pressed together, protecting each other, locked in this coffin of a van.

It's ironic, how he loved the Corroded Coffin name before and now it just feels ominous. Like that's where they've always been destined to end up.

He just needs to psych himself up. He closes his eyes, just for a brief second, before he hears the crash, and looks out the window just in time to see a fire spreading across the asphalt, and the zombies turn away from the van. This is their chance while they're distracted. An opportunity given to them by unknown allies. It'll hopefully give them enough time to put some distance between themselves and the shambling creatures on foot.

"Grab what you can," Jeff snaps, "three, two, one," and they push out of the back doors, feet hitting the ground running. 

It was a Molotov cocktail, and Eddie looks back as he runs, desperate to see who threw it. Who else is out there, alive, still fighting. Catching a glimpse, Eddie is absolutely certain he's seeing Steve Harrington, wielding a nail-studded bat. Taking zombies down, one by one, hand-to-hand, as others are picked off by what sounds like a shotgun. Harrington's crazy. Fighting up close like that. Not running while he has the chance like Eddie, Jeff, Gareth and Goodie are doing right now.

And they do run, that's always Plan A. They strategize each move, voting as a group, as if they're planning their next roll of the dice. But they definitely do not fight hand-to-hand unless they've been backed into a corner with no other possible way out.

Steve Harrington getting up close and personal, swinging his big dick of a bat around? Eddie's not surprised, even if he thinks it's way too risky. Way too stupid.

But at least that means there are other survivors.

They aren't alone.

And for some reason it feels right that Steve Harrington is one of them. King Steve, still holding court in Hawkins, somehow.

Continue reading the full fic right here on ao3.

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the May Mayhem Bingo Event! (Also, you can sign up for card two over at @steddiebingo right now!)

Note: Title and some of the imagery comes from Weed, Whiskey And Willie by Brothers Osborne.

Thanks for reading, leaving kudos, comments or reblogs. All are so very appreciated! ❤️

[ladylokilaufeyson5]

Where The Shadows Dance (vi)

Bodyguard!Azriel x AutumnDaughter!Reader

CHAPTER VI: The Lake

SUMMARY: Azriel is finally helping Y/n rebel -- in more ways than one.

WARNINGS: SMUT; oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (don’t be a fool, wrap your tool), shadowplay (iykyk), teasing, overstimulation, pet names (princess, good girl, sweetheart), vanilla choking

NOTE: heyyy... hi... ITS BEEN SO LONG IM SORRY. worst year of my LIFE. had 2 sorry excuses for partners, started uni and then dropped out of uni because i hated my course, got kicked out of home, work a shit job, got offered a promotion at said shit job and then had it snatched away from me. however now i have the bestest boyfriend in the entire world and i love him so much. anyways, sorry the chapter's so fast paced i wanted them to fuck already lol

WORDS: 3K

You sat beside Azriel on your couch, book open in your lap, but you couldn’t concentrate on the words.

You wanted out. Out of this castle, out of the prying eyes of your court and father. It had been two weeks since your last outing, and with how Azriel had been acting around you, you were almost positive he’d create some sort of distraction for you. Perhaps he’d even join you.

“Azriel,” you hummed softly, eyes on the shadowsinger.

He looked up from his book, eyes locking with yours. There was such an intensity behind his gaze, an intensity that shook you to your core. Such pretty hazel eyes, a captivating blend of warm honey hues and deep caramels, swirling together like a mesmerising storm.

“Yes, Princess?” Azriel replied.

You mentally shook yourself. You hadn’t meant to fall for the shadowsinger – just flirt with him here and there, just enough to maybe piss him off and have your father get rid of him so you could enjoy your freedom. But he’d taken the flirting like a champ, and you’d just tried harder and harder to crack open his shell, only to find that you adored what was inside.

You looked at Azriel with pleading eyes. “Come to the lake with me?”

You saw Azriel fight the urge to roll his eyes, instead turning back to his book. You ripped it from his grasp and his eyes widened as you grabbed onto his wrists and leaned closer.

“Please,” you begged. “You are my only friend in this castle besides my brother, surely you understand my need to escape, if only for a few hours.”

Azriel watched you carefully, those eyes guarded, and you mentally prepared yourself to be shut down again, and have to go out at night, by yourself–

“How would we distract the guards?” Azriel mused, taking you by slight surprise. “I’m pretty sure they’d notice if we went missing.”

“I can create a glamour,” you offered once you got over your slight shock.

Azriel nodded, and gestured for you to proceed. You closed your eyes and allowed the magic to come to the surface, and before you knew it, you stood by the window, and Azriel sat at the desk. Neither of them moved, seemingly frozen in time, but their scents and presence was real enough.

“Wow,” the real Azriel said softly, looking over the two glamours. “That is impressive.”

You felt the blood run to your cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Where to now?” Azriel asked.

You cocked your head, mentally running through each of your favourite places. You landed on a place Eris had shown you a long, long time ago, and you held out your hand for Azriel’s. He took your hand instantly, and something about the ease in which he did so made your heart flutter.

Concentrating, you allowed the world to fold around you, and your magic took you to where you wished to be. The world shifted and merged, and then you stood before a small lake, the water reflecting the scarlet and amber leaves of the canopy of trees above. Azriel sucked in a breath and you turned to face him, awaiting his reaction.

“It’s… beautiful,” he murmured, eyes bright and drinking in every detail.

You hummed in agreement, the view still taking your breath away. You rarely got to visit this place — Eris tended to be too busy to take you, and no one else would allow you to leave the castle. You truly loved this place — it was far enough from the scheming court that you could actually breathe.

“Do you come here often?” Azriel inquired.

You shrugged softly. “Not so much any more. When I was little, and actually allowed out of the castle, Eris used to bring me here. There were always guards following, and it was so overbearing, but…” You paused to glance at the shadowsinger, his eyes already on you. You felt heat warm your cheeks as you continued, “It’s nice to be here with you. Your presence is… calming. Welcoming.”

Azriel smiled softly, and dipped his head. “I’m honoured you feel that way.”

You smiled back but refused to let your thoughts wander, especially as those gorgeous hazel eyes bored into yours. You cleared your throat, thinking of anything that  would get him to stop looking at you like that. Because if he didn’t, you weren’t sure if you could control yourself.

Because over these past few weeks… Azriel had opened up to you. You knew him now, as a person, and you were afraid to admit that it was something more than friendship you felt for the shadowsinger.

You turned to the lake and before you could overthink it, you began to unbutton your tunic. Azriel’s sharp intake of breath almost made your fingers fumble, but you miraculously continued.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice slightly strained.

You pulled your tunic off, your undergarments doing nothing to protect you from the cool chill. Half a thought had fire beneath your skin, keeping you warm. “I’m going for a swim.”

“It’s freezing,” Azriel protested.

You offered him a sly grin. “I’ll keep you warm.”

Azriel frowned slightly, but sighed and removed his shirt. He was the most glorious male you’d ever seen, but his half-naked body made him more so. You had to distract yourself by untying your boots to stop from simply launching yourself at him, but by doing so, you turned your back to him.

Azriel’s next words were strangled. “What is that?”

You turned back to face him, eyes following his gaze to whatever he had found. But he was looking at you with wide eyes as he clenched and unclenched his scarred fists, the scars so similar to what marred your back.

“Scars,” you whispered.

Azriel’s eyes hardened, and he walked over to you. Despite the ferocity in his eyes, his touch was gentle as he turned you around, and peered at the marks along your spine. He said nothing, just shook with rage…

“My father,” you explained, “used to hurt me the same way he hurts my mother. No one could stop him from it. He liked to… to stop them from healing, so I can feel the pain and reflect on what I have done.”

Azriel still said nothing, so you pivoted to face him. His eyes glittered with cold, dark rage — rage at your father and his actions. Something in his gaze made your heart swell, a warmth that rivalled the sudden fire crackling in your stomach. Here was someone who understood, someone who wouldn't judge you for the cruelty you'd endured.

"Let's go for a swim," Azriel growled, his voice low and dangerous.

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips despite the ache in your heart. Maybe this swim wouldn't just be a physical escape. Maybe, with Azriel by your side, it would be a chance to wash away some of the emotional scars as well.

Azriel began unbuttoning his belt, and by the Cauldron, you’d made a mistake. Having him undress himself in front of you…

No. You couldn’t think about that. You finished removing your clothes, leaving only your undergarments, before walking straight into the lake. The water was cold against your skin, but your magic quickly warmed the pool, as if it were the end of spring and not autumn. You heard Azriel follow behind, the water splashing softly, and you tried not to imagine how the water lapped against his body.

You leaned back, allowing the lake to keep you afloat as you stared up and into the canopy of ruby and gold. It was like being inside a jewellery box – so gorgeous, so rich, but kept away from everyone and everything else. It was suffocating, being in the Autumn Court.

“Tell me about Velaris,” you murmured, turning to face Azriel.

He tread water close to you, and his brows lifted in amusement. “I have already told you everything about Velaris thrice now.”

 “I wish to know more,” you hummed. “I want to know more.”

Azriel sighed, but not from annoyance. “The City of Starlight is… there aren’t words to describe it. Nurturing, peaceful, full of life… home.”

Home. The way he had described it to you every time you asked… that was exactly what it sounded like. You wished you had been born there, instead of in this wretched court. 

The water was clear beneath you, clear enough that you could see every gorgeous part of his body. The muscled abdomen, the strong arms… it was enough to make your core throb.

Stop that, you chided yourself.

A shadow darted across the water towards you, and you lifted a hand to greet it. It danced around your hand, weaving its way through your fingers. It was content in its actions, as if there was no place it would rather be. Azriel’s gaze stayed on the shadow, his brows furrowed in thought.

The two of you swam lazily for a long time, simply enjoying each other's company. It was… freeing and calm, being with Azriel. He made everything feel right.

After drying yourselves off and reluctantly putting your clothes back on, you grabbed onto Azriel and winnowed him back to your room. The glamours were still present, but faded with a simple wave of your hand. You turned to face Azriel, only to see him watching you intently. Gods, you wished he hadn’t put his shirt on, wished you could run your hands all over his body…

Azriel’s nose flared and his eyes widened at the scent you’d put off. He looked as if he’d take a step back, and you would respect that, even if it crushed your heart, but a shadow appeared at his ear, whispering its secrets. 

You didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly your lips met in a heated, rushed kiss. You wound your hands into his hair as he gripped your hips and pulled you against him. You sucked on his bottom lip and pulled, grinning into the kiss. The next second you were on your couch, Azriel hovering above you, his lips never leaving yours.

He tasted perfect, just like you dreamed he would. His hands traced up and down your sides, never going too far. Your hands roamed over his broad chest, nails scraping over clothing that you desperately needed to get rid of. You tugged at the hem of his shirt and he pulled away, breathing heavily.

“We — we shouldn’t be doing this,” he gasped.

You paused, looking up at him. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

“I want it too,” you hummed. “So with two consenting parties, I’m pretty sure we can do what we please.”

Azriel’s mouth quirked upwards slightly, but he withdrew slightly and said, “If… if your father finds out that you’ve been… that I… sullied you–”

“It’s already happened,” you stated calmly. “He doesn’t know, and he never will.” You took a breath. “But I’m not going to force you into this if it’s not something that you truly want–”

“I do,” Azriel cut in quickly. “I just… I want to make sure that we both understand the… consequences.”

You let out another breath, this one somewhat tinged with relief. And something was swelling in your chest at the fact that he didn’t just want to fuck you, but to make sure you were safe as well…

You leaned forward and kissed him softly, gently. He made a noise that made your core turn molten, and his hand grabbed your thigh, hoisting it around his hips. He began to slowly, torturously, grind his hips against yours, barely allowing any friction between the two of you. You let out a small whine, bucking your hips, and Azriel let out a low laugh.

“Someone’s desperate,” he purred, nipping at the spot where your neck met your collarbone.

In response, you bucked your hips again, letting him know where you wanted him, and you wanted him there now. Another chuckle left the shadowsinger’s lips as he continued to suck and bite at your throat, and then slowly made his way down your collarbones. Your shirt was off and discarded within seconds, your bra shortly after.

Azriel’s hands tauntingly grazed the undersides of your breasts as he kissed you again, his tongue making exploring strokes within your mouth. Mother above, you wanted him to touch you, not tease you–

As if he’d heard your thoughts, his left hand cupped your breast, his fingers circling the nipple. A noise came out of you, so full of wanting that Azriel shuddered, but continued his task. His hand kneaded while fingers inched closer and closer to that peaked nipple. As if he couldn’t wait any longer, Azriel tore his mouth from yours and replaced that circling finger with his tongue. Your body arched, needing to feel him against you… but was shoved back down by a scarred hand against your stomach, just as he sucked on that nipple. A soft moan left your lips at the sensation, your hands finding his hair and his muscled shoulder. Your core throbbed in answer, and all you wanted was for him to be inside you…

“Azriel,” you gasped. “Please.”

Azriel hummed around your breast, eyes flicking to yours. You could tell by the smirk in his eyes that he was enjoying himself, and thoroughly.

“Please,” you begged, just wanting him between your legs.

Azriel removed his mouth from your chest, and shadows skittered in his wake, replacing where his lips had been. The stimulation of his shadows felt just as good as his mouth and tongue, and Azriel shifted downwards, planting himself between your legs. Your pants were too tight, and you needed them off right now. Azriel understood and pulled them right off in one fluid motion, attaching his lips to your inner thigh. No matter how much you shifted your hips, his lips never left your legs, just leaving dark marks so tauntingly close to where you wanted him.

“Azriel,” you pleaded as he hovered over your core, before switching to the other thigh. “No.”

Azriel smirked up at you. “Where do you want me, princess?”

You couldn’t form words, couldn’t tell him as his breath fanned over that sensitive spot at the apex of your thighs. You managed a small whine, which had Azriel chuckling again, eyes trained on you as if he were a predator, and you were his prey.

“Please,” you begged again. “Please, Azriel.”

Azriel grinned, “Only because you asked so nicely.”

The first stroke of Azriel’s tongue had flames scorching through your veins. He licked a long, clean stripe up your centre, before sucking on your clit. You threw your head back in pleasure, eyes rolling back as he continued to feast on you like a man starved. Azriel slowly slid a finger inside you as he devoured you, making you both groan.

“Fuck, princess,” he growled lowly, adding a second finger. “You feel so fucking good around my fingers. Imagine how you’ll feel around my cock.”

After those words, it took an embarrassingly short amount of time for you to reach your climax, and when you did, you could have sworn the shadows around you shuddered in answer.

Azriel pressed a soft kiss to your clit, smirking as your legs twitched from the sensitivity, before hauling you into his arms and carrying you to your bed. He lay you down gently before reaching for his pants. His eyes didn’t leave yours as he undid the buttons, and took his pants off in one swift movement. You reached out, your hand meeting his rock hard cock through his boxers. Azriel let out a soft groan as you stroked the enormous length of him, your mouth watering at the feeling.

“Are you – are you sure you want to?” Azriel got out, his eyes glazed over with lust.

You nod your head, your fingers already tugging at the waistline of his undershorts. They were off seconds later, and he was lining himself up at your entrance.

“You tell me if it hurts, okay?” he said, before thrusting in slowly.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head. He was huge – your walls clenched around him as he slowly sank deeper and deeper into you. As soon as he was in to the hilt, he leaned down and kissed you, soft and slow. 

You liked this gentle side of Azriel, but it wasn’t what you’d been fantasising about these past few weeks. You wanted more – you wanted him to fuck you hard and fast – so you captured his bottom lip between your teeth and sucked. He groaned softly, pulling out all the way to the tip before thrusting back in again. You let out a gasp and he did it again, getting faster and faster.

“Fuck, Azriel,” you moaned, eyes fluttering closed as you threw your head back onto the pillows.

His movements stopped, and his hand wrapped around your throat as he growled, “None of that. I want you to look at me as I fuck you.”

Your eyes opened immediately, locking with his. Azriel’s other hand gripped your hip tightly, and a small smile grew on his face as you looked at him. He began to roll his hips again, as he purred, “Good girl.”

An embarrassing noise made its way out of your mouth at the praise, but Azriel swallowed it with his lips. The shadows still teased away at your breasts, and you felt yourself coming closer to your second climax.

“Azriel,” you begged as he thrusted in and out of you, getting faster and faster, the hand around your neck adding the perfect amount of pressure to elevate your pleasure..

“I know, sweetheart,” he groaned, hips slapping against yours. “You can come for me, princess. Come for me, Y/n.”

Your name on his lips tipped you over the edge and you cried out his name. He came tumbling after you a moment later, and his hips slowed to a stop. The two of you were breathing heavily, Azriel still hovering above you. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before sliding out of you.

He hesitated as he kneeled before you, and you gestured to the bed. He smiled softly, laying down beside you and pulling you close, your bodies pressed flush against each other.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing the top of your head.

You drifted away quickly, safe and sound in Azriel’s arms.

TAGLIST: @honeybee54321 @marigold-morelli @lucky7rosie @itsswritten @paankhaleyaar @bubybubsters @5onedirection5 @lilah-asteria @sheblogs @thelov3lybookworm @blushingfawnsposts @thisiskaylin @morganisheree @sleepylunarwolf @bakananya @bookishbroadwaybish @namelesssaviour @glitterypirateduck @sfhsgrad-blog @ash-mc @feyres-fireheart @ib525 @azrielswhore @copenhagenspirit @eternallyelvish @teenagellamaangel @thisiskaylin @littleladdty @dnfhascorruptedme @taylorgriffin @fightmedraco @superspideyparker @talesofadragon @enfppuff @darling006

[chock-and-bates]

hiiiii! i saw someone send in a scenario they imagined for "roar of the fire" and realised i wanted to get my two cents in as well lol. if like, there was a plot to poison max and charles found out about it, and it was backed by former supporters of ferrari or something, how would he deal with the dilemma? how is he feeling? because i imagine he won't abandon the man that's dicking him down on the regular and also giving him some measure of power, but i also imagine that it won't be easy for him to just let go of his past especially if he's not like, in love with him yet.

you sent me on a little 1.4k word adventure today, anon.

there actually is a scene somewhat similar to this situation in the outline, but it's quite spoilery, so i wrote a little side story instead :)

roar of the fire ficlet under the cut. (rated t)

It’s a seemingly dull day in court when Charles receives the unexpected guest.

He’s lounging in the corner of the Great Hall, playing a game of chess with Ollie while Lando drapes himself on the chair next to him, moaning about how bored he is. It’s tedious, as is the way Lord Russell is glaring at Charles from across the hall, standing at attention near where Max sits on the throne, who is looking quite bored himself as he listens to yet another dispute between Sir Alonso and Sir Lawson. 

Lord Russell should be glad Charles excused himself, he thought to himself as he captured Ollie’s rook. If he was a part of the discussions he would be tempted to tell Max he should just stick the knights in the stocks and only release them when they’ve resolved their endless feud themselves. George would be sure to love that-

“Oh, who do we have here,” Lando’s sudden purr breaks Charles out of his musings, and he looks up to see a surprisingly familiar face.

“Lord Giovinazzi and his lovely wife would like to say hello,” Lando continues, sitting up to primp himself as the lord and his lady approach.

Antonio Giovinazzi and Charles had known each other for years, growing up together in Ferrari’s court until he left some years ago when he married the eldest daughter of a Sauber duke, inheriting some land in the process.

Charles frowns slightly as they come closer, fighting back the usual shame that rises when someone from his past sees him in his new life…

But Antonio keeps his face neutral, the perfect lord as he and his wife offer their congratulations on his marriage and his coronation, with his wife simpering over Charles’ jewels while Lando shamelessly flirts with the both of them.

There is nothing untowards, nothing to arise Sir Albon’s concern where he watches from his spot behind Charles and his lords, nothing for Lando to go gossiping about, nothing to draw Max’s ire as he repeatedly glances over at them.

But when Antonio takes his hand before giving a low bow to bid goodbye, Charles quickly understands the facade when he feels the lord slip a small scroll of parchment into his fingers.

Clever man.

Charles keeps his own mask on, giving no indication that anything has transpired as the couple takes their leave and Charles discreetly slips the scroll up his sleeve.

* * *

A few hours later, when he finally has time for himself, Charles is frozen, still as a statue as he stares at the small message in his hand.

There are only a few hurried sentences scribbled onto the small paper, but it is more than enough.

It is well known the hatred you carry for your brutal husband. Lord Giovinazzi, Lord Zhou, and Lord Fuoco would like to offer you deliverance. With your help, we can slip wolf’s bane to the lion, and seize on the chaos that follows.

You could save Ferrari, Il Predestinato. Fulfill the prophecy.

Send someone you trust to the North Tower at midnight for instructions.

A plot… a plot to poison the king.

Charles re-reads the short message again and again and again, stumbling to a chair as he feels his knees go weak.

The three lords are already in the castle for the banquet in four days’ time. All three are former members of the Ferrari Court, ones who clearly have ambitions to return. Charles knows them, worked with them, fought with them-

And now they ask him to help them poison his husband, and they do so by invoking the fucking prophecy.

Save Ferrari…

Head spinning, Charles tries to think clearly, but it’s useless. His head is a maelstrom of screaming thoughts and images flashing by:

He could return home- Ferrari betrayed him- Blood on his hands- Ollie would go to the Tower at midnight, no questions- Giovinazzi’s blank face- Charles and Fuoco swimming in the sea as children- Chaos at court, screams and accusations- Sitting on Ferrari’s throne- Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal- Zhou and him in the training yard- Sitting on Red Bull’s throne- He could burn for this- Seeing his family once more- A destroyed countryside- Everyone would be suspicious- Sebastian’s proud smile- Lord Horner’s angry glare- His crown, heavy on his head- The prophecy- Crying out as his face is pushed into the sheets, Max pounding into him from behind- Max chasing him through the halls- Max’s gentle hand on his face- Their blades clashing- A tight grip on his waist- Max’s cruel laugh- His husband’s face while he slept…

Without even coming to a conscious decision, Charles' body makes up his mind for him, springing to his feet and racing to throw open his chamber doors.

“Alex! Get me Sir Riccardio. Now.”

* * *

Hours later, Charles sits in his window sill, staring up at the moon and trying not to think about all that has happened today.

Until the doors to his chamber slam open, the dramatics tearing Charles away from the night sky and his meditation.

Max strides into the bedchamber, looking a little… frenzied. His clothes are askew, as though he rushed here, and there’s a wild look on his face that makes Charles’ stomach swoop.

“Daniel told me,” Max says breathlessly, heading towards Charles with a purpose.

Scowling, Charles quickly turns away, looking back to the moon, “And what did you do to them?”

“They’re in the dungeons, choking on the wolf’s bane they meant for me.”

His eyes fall shut, a flare of pain passing through him at the thought of his old Ferrari men dying in the dark dungeons. Gritting his teeth, he tries to push the thoughts away.

Surprisingly, his husband’s hands on him help the matters along, as Max insistently tugs him down off the sill despite Charles' indignant protests, wrapping him up tightly in his arms.

“You saved my life,” Max sounds utterly awed.

Squirming against his hold, Charles glowers, refusing to look at him, “Hardly. It was clearly a sloppy excuse of a plot. They never would have succeeded.”

“You don’t know that,” his husband’s hand comes up to his cheek, firmly turning Charles' head to face him, to see what he would rather avoid. Those blue eyes are burn into his, a wonderstruck look glinting in his expression, “Why did you give the note to Daniel? Why did you not at least wait to see if they would succeed?”

Pinned in place by his husband’s arms and gaze both, Charles feels something rabid trying to break out of his chest, the confusing emotions of the past few hours overcoming him.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he snarls at Max, “I did it because I could not stand the thought of some half-rate former Ferrari idiots tossing the realm into chaos.”

“Is that so,” Max breathes, leaning closer, his eyes drifting down to Charles' lips.

“Obviously.” 

“I don’t think I believe you, sweeting.”

Before Charles can retort, Max’s mouth crushes down onto him in a hungry, relentless kiss. Caught up in a daze as his mouth is claimed, Charles only vaguely realizes Max is forcing him backwards until his back is suddenly flat against his bed, his husband quickly and eagerly climbing on top of him.

“Let me thank you anyway,” Max says, straddling Charles as he quickly begins undressing himself, stripping off his belt and doublet as Charles watches, “No matter the reason- you still may have saved my life.”

“You’re impossible,” Charles snaps at his husband, even as his gaze travels along the skin that is being revealed. As Max is preoccupied with unlacing his breeches, Charles’ hand drifts up, thoughtlessly, to trace one of his husband’s many scars, the one on his chest that is much too close to his heart, courtesy of Sir Hamilton during the Mercedes War. 

Charles touches the mark with a frown, telling himself he only did so because it was a shame it had not been fatal.

Max pulls his hand away from his chest, raising it to his face to lay a soft kiss against his palm.

The tenderness jerks something inside of him, vicious and hot, and Charles pulls his hand away, only to fist it in his husband's hair to yank him down on top of him, ignoring Max’s pained grunt. He pulls their mouths back together in another kiss, rough and biting.

“I’m the only one who gets to kill you,” Charles hisses into his mouth, punctuating the statement with a sharp nip to Max’s lower lip, “Me. I’m the one who will take your life.”

It’s a ridiculous statement. If Charles ever killed the king it would be akin to signing his own death warrant, surrounded as he was in the lion’s den. Still, he says it, something underlying in the words ringing true… 

It makes Max moan, and he kisses his wife again as his hands fumble between them, grasping Charles night gown and tearing-

“I completely agree.”

[posttexasstressdisorder]

WE HAVE MORE POWER THAN TRUMP WANTS US TO BELIEVE!

By Marc Elias' Democracy Docket

The messages have been loud and clear: You are worried about the future. You are frustrated that more is not being done. We are all angry that so few will stand up and fight.

I became acutely aware of the strength of these emotions when it was recently revealed by 60 Minutes that I was — in the program’s words — “the only lawyer the president has named who was willing to appear” on its broadcast about Trump’s targeting of lawyers and law firms for retribution.

Just like Marc, Democracy Docket doesn’t pull punches when it comes to reporting the truth about democracy. Support independent, pro-democracy media by upgrading to premium today and receive more action items like this in your inbox so we can all stay in the fight together.

After it aired on Sunday, my inbox and phone were flooded with messages from friends, others in the pro-democracy community, and even some Big Law partners. 

Many were outraged by the firms’ complicity. Others were perplexed that lawyers would be so cowardly and hesitant to stand up for the rule of law. Some understood why so many are so fearful. But mostly, people were inspired by the need to stand up to Trump and asked me what part they can play. 

Here’s my response: 

Trump wants us to believe he is all-powerful. He wants us to believe that opposing him is futile or worse. He wants you to accept that there’s nothing you can do to limit his ability to harm our country and our democracy. But that simply isn’t true.

In truth, Trump is quite weak and afraid.

His greatest weakness is elections. He fears their outcome. That’s why he issued an illegal and unconstitutional executive order to try to seize control of them.

There are things every one of us can do in our daily lives to help ensure free and fair elections — and, in doing so, limit Trump’s power. Some actions are small — so small that you might dismiss them as unimportant. Don’t. Every important journey begins with a single step, and the first is no less important than the last.

It’s also true that some actions are much bigger — so big you might doubt your ability to achieve them. Don’t give up before you start. Have faith that you can accomplish great things if you set your mind to it.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers or a comprehensive list of every way we can defend our elections or our democracy. Like you, I’m just one person doing my best to navigate a dangerous time in our country’s history. Yes, I’m a lawyer, but right now, my most important role is that of an active citizen.

So, here is a list I recently sent to premium members of what each of us can do to stand up for democracy and defend our elections. Democracy Docket is dropping the paywall and publishing it because we must all feel the power we have to stand up to Trump and protect our democracy.

Democracy won’t defend itself. Our journalists follow stories wherever they lead so that we all know when and where our action is needed. Help fund our growing newsroom with a premium subscription today. UPGRADE FOR $10/MONTH OR $120/YEAR

1. Educate Yourself

Elections can be complicated. The rules vary from state to state — and sometimes even from county to county. These rules also change frequently due to new laws, policies or court rulings. My first recommendation: spend time each month learning what’s happening with voting laws in your state and nationally.

2. Share What You Learn

Once you’ve figured out what’s going on, share that information with your networks and community. It might feel awkward to bring up voter suppression or changes in election laws when we’re not in the middle of a major election — but local elections happen in off years, and special elections are more common than you think. Now is the perfect time to start conversations about voting.

3. Run for Something

I told you some of these would be big steps — and this is one of them. But that doesn’t mean it’s too big to take. Look around your community, and you’ll see many local elected positions that need good, qualified people. These could be town or county roles — some of them even directly related to elections, like election judges or county clerks. A great place to start is the organization Run for Something, which offers invaluable resources.

4. Volunteer for a Campaign

Not ready to be a candidate? Volunteer for a campaign or your local party committee. Every campaign needs volunteers, and there’s no better way to support free and fair elections than by working for a pro-democracy candidate.

5. Join or Support Pro-Democracy Organizations

Is partisan politics not for you? There are numerous nonprofits and grassroots organizations working every day to protect voting rights and ensure free and fair elections. Supporting these groups with your time or resources helps these groups do their work.

6. Become a Trained Poll Worker

Many counties face a shortage of poll workers, especially during election season. Being a poll worker requires dedication, attention to detail and a willingness to be trained. It’s a meaningful way to serve your community and help protect the integrity of the voting process.

7. Engage Your Elected Officials

Call and write your elected officials at the federal, state and local levels. Tell them that protecting voting rights and ensuring free and fair elections are your top priorities. Even better, show up at public meetings. Ask them directly what they’re doing to combat voter suppression. Be informed about pending legislation and urge them to support pro-democracy initiatives. This applies no matter where you live or who represents you — Democrat or Republican. Constituent pressure always matters. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

8. Vote in Every Election

Yes — every election. That means local elections, primary elections and special elections. Become a super-voter. The more you vote, the more informed and engaged you become. You’ll also be better positioned to notice and report problems — like changes to polling locations or voting equipment — that could impact turnout or accessibility.

9. Stay Engaged

Trump is counting on you to give up. He assumes you’ll take action for a few months, or maybe even a year, and then move on. Don’t let that happen. To protect democracy, we all must stay engaged day in and day out. We can’t just show up right before an election and tune out afterward. If we remain committed, democracy will win.

10. Support Independent, Pro-Democracy Media

I couldn’t end without mentioning this. A healthy democracy depends on a well-informed public. Support independent, pro-democracy media by subscribing to and supporting outlets like Democracy Docket and sharing its content online and in real life. BECOME A MEMBER

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[shanie]

You know what's fucking brilliant?

[thwispsings]

the idea came to me in a migraine induced dream but now im obsessed with the concept of a mu qingfang who knew the abuse bunhe was going through at the hands of og!shen qingqiu/shen jiu and did his best to treat the kid whenever he could (and bring his concerns to zhangmen shixiong, which were obviously very much ignored) and his constant worry over the situation means that when the qi deviation happens he is suspicious of shen qingqiu’s changes for all different reasons and very much protective of luo binghe -who is a sweet child and an earnest disciple who seems to always find the most incredible medicinal herbs to bring to his mu shishu as thanks for the care bestowed upon him- which means that when the whole shen qingqiu dying thing happens instead of bad mouthing luo binghe or fighting him at every chance he does his best to come over and keep an eye on things to try and help him and make sure luo binghe won’t kill himself trying to bring shen qingqiu back because he remembers that earnest kid and he’s witnessed luo binghe’s devotion to this shen qingqiu first hand and knows there is no way that the kid who cried when ning yingying found a bird with a broken wing and begged mu qingfang to fix it and the kid that would always borrow medical texts and try to find new herb combinations as if it was a game between him and qian cao disciples is actually doing anything nefarious to shen qingqiu’s corpse.

anyways in this essay i will-

[potatoesandsunshine]

mage hawke & vivienne parallels real...

[thepoetrytheorist]

If you love Disney, its parks, its media, and its merch, listen up.

So I work for Disneyland, and we are talking about striking very soon. So soon, in fact, that we've been hosting rallies just outside of the parks. Yesterday was the 69th birthday of Disneyland Anaheim... it was also a monumental rally.

I haven't seen anyone on tumblr talking about the impending strikes against Disney. Not even going through the Disney tags or searching tumblr for "Disneyland Strike."

Let's talk about why we're striking:

Cost of living in the immediate SoCal region is nearly 2x as much as we are getting paid.

Cast members that have worked for the company for long periods of time are still paid as mucha s new hires.

Disney has showed up to union negotiations with insulting offers, including at 25 cent raise. Most cast members make $19.90

Disney rarely schedules you. In some areas and departments, you are fighting with your fellow cast members for hours. I have heard of cast members who are only scheduled for 1 4-hour shift per week. Many of those cast members have upwards of an hour commute to and from work.

Disney Admin has told attractions castmembers [so: rides, rollercoasters, and anything fun you get to do and see at the parks] that we are losing them money, which is why they refuse to schedule us and pay us. In the words of my partner, who also works at the parks, Disney without attractions is an over glorified mall and a food court. Disney needs us, and they know it, but they do not respect us.

Disney has an unfair attendance policy. It can be very difficult to get a needed day off, even when it has been requested weeks or months in advance. When you do take a day off [with-out accrued sick or vacation time] it counts against you. You can have 3 a month, 6 in 90 days, 9 in 180 days, or 12 in a year. How do you accrue sick/vacation? Hours worked, which can be impossible with the scheduling practices mentioned above. (Most cast members trade shifts among themselves to get around this.)

Cast members feel unsafe and unsupported in the parks. Many cast members have felt threatened by entitled guests upset that they are following policy. Disney Leads and Managers have to say yes to these guests and make things happen, though. [Which only makes this behavior worse and more dangerous for cast members who are only doing their job.]

Cast members also report feeling threatened, or even being literally threatened, by management in the parks. Especially cast members who have a second job. Especially cast members who know their rights.

Further, cast members work in hazardous conditions with pay that does not reflect that. Many cast members report losses of hearing, sore throats, and severe back and shoulder pain. Cast members are also exposed to infectious diseases at a much higher rate.

https://www.sfgate.com/disneyland/article/union-button-contract-dispute-19515296.php?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR2u5o_mvU3i6jpIyHxBUZpEzD2GRSKFf5Pem4uRXqa6vKWDgZuffvINd1g_aem_AA1L0fI1phugJIluYMcDSw

[afloweroutofstone]

Long day. The size, speed, and chaos of the last 10 days of the second Trump administration has been calculated and intentional. They have a big pile of abhorrent ideas which they’ve selected from the Project 2025 menu, and they’ve decided to front-load their release over the earliest of these first 100 days. Doesn’t matter that many will be struck down in the courts or overturned later. The point is that 1) the disorder and confusion will scatter the dissenters and make it hard for them to focus criticism on any single policy, 2) some of what they’re throwing at the wall will stick and become semi-permanent so long as the next Democratic administration lets it, 3) whether they win or lose, they succeed in weakening the federal government in a way that makes it harder for any future leaders to accomplish anything at all, strengthening the relative political power of the private sector.

They want you demoralized and to feel like it’s hopeless, but it’s only hopeless if you let them convince you it is. Rest well, stay informed, and take care of yourself during the fights ahead. These four years will be a marathon not a sprint

[shokocide]

HIS TO RUIN - RYOMEN SUKUNA

summary. Ryomen Sukuna is revered across the lands for being the most dangerous tyrant. Nothing gets in his way when he wants something. Or someone.

word count. 13k (oops)

content. mdni fem! reader, modern day! sukuna, arranged marriage, sukuna's highkey toxic but we get character development, angst, talks of violence, pet names, teasing, fluff towards the end, smut, oral (fem rec.), p in v, loss of virginity (reader), breeding, creampies, missionary (lemme know if i missed something!)

author's note. this was supposed to be a short drabble idk how this happened-

"Ride to the North. Deliver my words exactly as I speak them.” Ryomen Sukuna’s loud booming voice echoes through the room and the messenger falls to his knees before the King, bowing his head out of reverent fear.

“The King of the North will surrender his daughter to me. She will be bathed, adorned, and presented in the finest silks befitting a queen—my queen. She will be ready when I arrive. There will be no hesitation, no protest, no delay.

If they value their kingdom, they will obey. If they hesitate, remind them of what I do to those who defy me.

This is not a request. This is a command. And a command is not given twice."

-

The doors to the great hall burst open, the gust of winter air doing little to cool the fear that grips the court. The royal guards stiffen as a lone rider steps forward—cloaked in black, his presence as foreboding as the letter he carries.

He does not bow. He does not kneel.

He merely lifts a scroll, and steps toward the throne.

"From the Honored King of the South, Lord Sukuna." The messenger’s voice is steady, but his hands betray him, shaking ever so slightly as he extends the letter.

A long silence follows. No one moves. No one breathes.

The king’s face is pale as he takes the scroll, his fingers hesitant, as if touching it alone might bring ruin. He knows—they all know—that whatever is written inside is not a request.

It is an order.

The king���s hands tremble as he unrolls the scroll. The seal is unmistakable—deep crimson wax, pressed with the mark of a ruler who does not ask, only takes. The grand hall is silent, every noble, every guard holding their breath as he reads.

His blood runs cold.

His worst fear has come to pass. Ryomen Sukuna has set his sights on the North—and worse, on his daughter.

His fingers tighten around the parchment, but it is useless to fight the inevitable. The ink on the page might as well be written in blood. There is no choice, no negotiation. Only surrender.

He lifts his gaze to his council, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Prepare the princess."

-

Sukuna hoards the world's most precious things. He has it all for nothing intoxicates him more than possessing what others can only dream of touching.

So when he hears of you—the fabled Princess of the North, revered for her ethereal beauty—something dark and insatiable awakens within him.

Sukuna has leveled kingdoms for lesser desires and turned cities to ash for trinkets that caught his eye. This is no different. The Princess of the North is the rarest of all treasures, and if the world must burn for her to be his, then so be it.

With an unshakable desire burning in his chest, Sukuna sets forth to the North. The cold, the distance, the blood it may take—none of it matters. He has decided. The princess will be his.

You, on the other hand, have heard many legends of the whispers of Sukuna—the name that freezes even the bravest in fear, the name no one dares to utter above a whisper as if speaking it aloud might summon the monster himself. They say he is no mere man but a creature of nightmares with four arms and two faces. His empire was built on blood, his throne carved from the bones of those who stood in his way. 

The kingdom is on high alert. Every hall is scrubbed spotless, every banner hung with precision, every offering laid out with trembling hands. Servants and nobles alike move with hushed urgency because they all know—this is not a mere guest they are preparing for. And if something isn't to his liking, he is not hesitant to paint the kingdom red.

Your father bows to every command. He knows resistance is futile—knows the ruins of fallen kingdoms serve as warnings, knows that a single misstep could mean the end of everything he holds dear. And so, with a trembling hand and a voice that barely holds steady, he seals his daughter’s fate. The princess is promised to Sukuna. A gift, an offering, a desperate attempt to keep his kingdom standing.

Betrayal tastes bitter on your tongue. You stand in the grand hall, the very place where you were once cherished, now nothing more than a pawn to be bartered away. Your father’s words echo in your mind—calm, calculated, but spoken with much hesitation. Promised to Sukuna.

The weight of it crashes down on your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs. Was this always your fate? You want to scream, to run, to fight—but what good would it do when your opponent is a man who bends nations to his will? The halls you once walked freely now feel suffocating, the crown on your head heavier than ever.

And somewhere beyond these walls, he is coming for you.

-

Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t march—he descends. His arrival is not a mere procession but a declaration of power.

His army moves like a shadow stretching across the land, thousands of soldiers clad in blackened steel, their banners rippling against the icy winds.

And at the head of it all, Sukuna rides. A vision of ruthless grandeur—draped in rich silks. He does not rush. He does not need to. The North knows he is coming. The North knows there is no stopping him.

By the time his forces reach the gates, the air is thick with the smoke of torches, the ground trembling beneath the weight of conquest. And as he halts before the castle, his crimson gaze lifts toward the highest tower—where he knows she waits. His princess.

"Come, princess," he murmurs, a wicked smirk curling at his lips. "Let me see what they’ve promised me."

-

The halls are silent, suffocating under the weight of unspoken fear. Every servant, every noble—everyone—has seen the torches in the distance, the black tide of an army moving like a storm upon the land. No one speaks his name, but they all know.

Ryomen Sukuna is here.

From the highest tower, you watch as the darkness swallows your kingdom. The slow, unyielding march of his army shakes the very foundation of the castle, each beat rattling through your bones.

And then you see him.

At the head of it all, he sits atop a monstrous steed, his armor gleaming like blood-soaked silver. Even from here, you can feel his presence, suffocating and inescapable. His gaze lifts—deliberately—straight towards your tower.

Towards you.

You stumble back, breath catching in your throat.

A slow, cruel smirk curves his lips as if he already knows—you will be his, whether you want it or not.

Your hands curl into fists, your pulse hammering against your ribs. This is no fairy tale, no love story whispered in the gardens of the palace.

This is your ruin.

-

The castle doors are flung open with a force that rattles the very foundation of the palace. A cold wind rushes in, but it is nothing compared to the presence that follows.

Sukuna enters like a god among men.

He does not wait to be announced. He does not pause to acknowledge the bowing nobles, their heads lowered in terror. Instead, he strides forward with the slow, deliberate confidence of a man who owns everything he lays his eyes upon. His gaze sweeps across the grand hall—bored, amused, hungry.

The king stands from his throne, his face pale, hands gripping the arms of his seat as if it is the only thing keeping him upright.

"Lord Sukuna, we—"

A single glance from Sukuna silences him.

The air is suffocating. No one dares to move, not even the guards lining the walls. They all know—steel and numbers mean nothing to the monster before them.

And then, he sees you.

The princess.

You’re standing beside the queen, wrapped in silks finer than any he has seen, yet you look as though you would rather be draped in chains. Your hands tremble at your sides, but you lift your chin, defiance warring with the fear in your eyes.

Sukuna smirks.

“So this is what the North has offered me.”

His voice is smooth, rich, laced with amusement—but underneath, there is something far more dangerous.

He takes a step closer, his towering form casting a shadow over you.

“Tell me, princess.” He tilts your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to meet his eyes. Eyes that have seen kingdoms fall, men beg, and empires burn.

But you refuse to tremble.

“Are you as fragile as you look?”

The entire hall holds its breath.

You meet his gaze head-on, your pulse racing but voice steady. "I am not fragile."

A slow, amused smirk curls on Sukuna’s lips. The tension in the room thickens as he watches you, studying the fire in your eyes, the defiance laced within your words. He had expected fear, expected you to shrink beneath his touch—expected you to be like everyone else.

But this?

This is entertaining.

"Oh?" His thumb brushes against your jaw, his tone laced with mockery. "Then tell me, princess… should I test that claim?"

The nobles shift uncomfortably. The king swallows hard. The queen grips your arm, silently begging you to lower your gaze, to not anger the monster before them.

But you do not yield.

"If you must." Your voice is firm, each word was a blade sharpened with resolve.

A beat of silence.

And then—Sukuna laughs.

It is low, rich, and dangerous. The kind of laugh that promises both destruction and amusement.

His grip lingers a second longer before he finally lets you go. His grin widens, something dark and hungry flashing in his eyes.

"This might be fun after all."

Sukuna watches you, his smirk deepening as the silence stretches. You do not cower, do not drop your gaze, do not even flinch.

He tilts his head slightly, his amusement growing. “Interesting...”

Then, with the ease of a man choosing a fine piece of treasure, he turns to the king and declares, “I’ll take this one.”

A fog of complete grief descends upon the court. Your mother stiffens beside you, the nobles look down in sorrow, and your father—who had spent his life bending to power—looks like he might collapse where he stands. They all saw it coming but it seemed like they held some hope—hope that he would have mercy. But, of course, what do they expect from Ryomen Sukuna?

You do not move. Do not falter. Do not beg.

Sukuna expected resistance, tears, and a desperate plea. Instead, you meet his words with silence, your face unreadable, your spine straight.

He raises a brow. No fear. No pleading. Nothing.

The lack of reaction sends a slow thrill down his spine.

He steps even closer, invading your space, towering over you like a shadow of doom. “Nothing to say, princess?” His voice is almost mocking, expecting the first crack in your armor.

But you only lift your chin, your voice smooth as silk.

"You have already decided, haven't you?"

Sukuna chuckles, dark and low. Oh, he likes this one.

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “You’ll make this far more entertaining than I thought.”

The court watches in stunned horror as he turns, striding back toward the entrance like he has already won.

"Prepare her," he orders, barely sparing the king a glance. "We leave at dawn."

Then, just before he disappears past the castle doors, his crimson eyes flick back to you one last time.

Yes... this one’s going to be fun to break.

-

The palace is silent.

In the lavish chambers prepared for him, Sukuna lounges with the ease of a man who has already won. The finest silks drape over the bed, golden goblets filled with the richest wine sit untouched, and yet—he is not asleep.

He smirks to himself, fingers idly tapping against the armrest of his chair. His mind lingers on the princess, on the way she stood her ground when others would have crumbled. Strong, but for how long?

Meanwhile, high in the tower, you gaze out over the land you have cherished since childhood. The snow-covered rooftops, the lantern-lit streets, the distant hills that stretch far beyond the horizon—it is all yours. Was yours.

Tomorrow, you will be taken from it all.

A lone tear slips down your cheek, but you wipe it away before it can fall past your chin.

You clench your fists, your breath steadying. No more tears. No more weakness.

You will not break.

The door creaks. But you don't move.

You know who it is before you even turn your head—the soft, hesitant footsteps, the gentle rustling of fabric. Your handmaiden, the woman who has cared for you since you  were a child.

"Princess..." The voice is quiet, almost unsure, as if afraid of disturbing the fragile moment.

You don’t answer. You keep your gaze on the kingdom beyond your window, your arms wrapped around yourself. The silence stretches, heavy and thick.

The handmaiden steps closer, eyes softening at the sight of you. Her brave, strong princess, standing alone against a fate she never chose.

"It is late," the handmaiden murmurs. "You should rest."

A bitter smile ghosts your lips. Rest? How can you rest when tomorrow, you will leave behind everything you have ever known?

Seeing the sorrow you try to hide, the handmaiden’s heart aches. Gently, she reaches for your hair, smoothing it back like she used to when you were just a girl.

"You have always been strong," she whispers. "But you do not have to be strong alone."

You close your eyes at the familiar comfort, throat tightening.

"I will not cry," you say, more to yourself than anyone else.

The handmaiden smiles sadly. "Then I will cry for you."

The words break something inside you. You exhale shakily, leaning ever so slightly into the warmth of the only person who has ever felt like a second mother.

No sobs, no trembling—just a single tear, slipping down your cheek.

The handmaiden wipes it away with a soft touch, just as you had done moments ago.

"No matter where you go, you will always be our princess," she murmurs. "And you will never be alone."

For the first time that night, you allow yourself to believe it.

-

The first light of dawn spills through the high windows, bathing your chambers in a cold, golden glow.

You stand motionless as your maids work around you, their hands careful yet trembling as they fasten the intricate layers of silk and fur around you. They do not speak. No one speaks.

The room is heavy with unspoken grief.

Your gown is the finest you have ever worn—rich, embroidered fabric, delicate gold accents, the kind of attire fit for a queen. But to you, it feels like a funeral shroud.

Your hair brushed to a glossy sheen, is pinned back with delicate golden clasps. Your crown—a smaller, more elegant piece than your father’s—rests lightly atop your head. You are dressed not as a prisoner, not as a bride, but as a prize.

And you hate it.

The doors open. A court official steps inside, his face pale, his voice tight.

"Lord Sukuna awaits."

The room stills.

You exhale slowly. This is it.

Your handmaiden gently reaches for your hand. For a moment, neither of you speak. Then, in a voice only you can hear, she whispers:

"Do not let them see your fear, my lady."

You tighten your grip for a brief second before letting go.

You lift your chin, steel your heart, and without another word, step forward.

The halls are lined with nobles, servants, guards—all watching in suffocating silence as you descend toward the grand entrance of the palace. Some avert their eyes. Others look at you with pity.

You keep walking.

And then—you see him.

Standing at the foot of the great staircase, Sukuna waits. Clad in dark robes of crimson and black, his presence is an open declaration of power. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—those deep, red eyes—flicker with something you cannot place.

The moment you reach the last step, Sukuna’s gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate.

"Hmph." A single, amused exhale. "At least they dressed you properly."

You say nothing. You meet his gaze without flinching, without bowing.

Sukuna smirks. So the fire in you hasn’t burned out yet? Good.

Without waiting for permission, he steps forward, reaching out—and in front of the entire court, before your father, before your people—he grips your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to him.

"I hope you understand, princess." His voice is low, and dangerous. "You belong to me now."

The court watches, horrified, breathless.

You, however, do not break.

Instead, you lift a single brow. "Do I?"

For the first time that morning, Sukuna laughs.

-

The journey begins at dawn.

You are seated inside a grand carriage, its interior lined with the finest silks, yet it feels like a gilded cage. Outside, Sukuna’s army moves like a living beast—rows upon rows of soldiers marching in perfect sync, banners bearing his sigil rippling in the wind. There is no celebration, no fanfare. Only the crushing weight of reality settling in your chest.

You’re leaving home.

Across from you, Sukuna lounges in his seat, one arm draped over the cushioned backrest, his gaze heavy on you.

"You’re quiet," he muses. "Already mourning your kingdom, princess?"

You don’t answer. Your fingers tighten around the folds of your silk gown.

He chuckles, the deep, rich sound filling the enclosed space. "Good. You should."

Your jaw clenches, but you refuse to give him the reaction he wants.

The carriage rocks over uneven terrain, jolting you forward. Before you can stop yourself, you stumble—only to be caught by a firm, unyielding grip.

Sukuna’s hand clamps around your wrist, steadying you with effortless strength. The heat of his skin seeps through the thin fabric of your sleeve, and when you look up, you find his red eyes glinting with amusement.

"Hmph. Clumsy," he murmurs, but he doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, his grip lingers, his thumb tracing the delicate skin of your wrist in slow, deliberate circles.

You yank your arm back. "I don’t need your help."

His smirk widens. "Oh? And yet, here you are, tumbling right into my hands."

You glare at him, but he only chuckles, leaning back into his seat with a satisfied hum.

"Tell me, princess," he drawls, watching you with a look that makes your skin prickle, "how does it feel to know that everything you once loved is behind you… and everything ahead belongs to me?"

You refuse to answer.

But the silence only makes his smirk grow.

"Oh," he says, his voice a purr of satisfaction, "I think I’m going to enjoy this."

-

You finally stop to rest, but instead of a lavish chamber, you’re given a tent—one meant for nobility, but a tent nonetheless. You don’t complain. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Sukuna watches. He expects anger, desperation, maybe even tears. But instead, you quietly settle in, shoulders squared, face unreadable.

And that? That annoys him.

Because why aren’t you breaking? Why aren’t you begging like every other royal before you?

He expects resistance, expects defiance. But what he doesn’t expect is dignity.

And that’s when it starts.

That first, tiny fracture in his perception of you.

-

The fire outside crackles softly, casting flickering shadows against the fabric of your tent. Sleep evades you—of course it does. How could you possibly rest when you know that with each passing mile, you are leaving behind everything you’ve ever known?

The entrance rustles. Instinctively, you stiffen. And then—

He enters.

Sukuna doesn’t ask for permission. He never does. He steps inside like he owns the space—because he does. His robe hangs loosely over his shoulders, revealing ink-stained skin and muscle carved like stone. He should be terrifying. He is terrifying.

And yet, as he settles on the floor beside the low table, there is something… oddly human about him.

You glare. “Shouldn’t you be off basking in your victory?”

His lips curl into something between a smirk and a scoff. “And leave my bride all alone?” He leans his chin on his palm, watching you with those unreadable garnet eyes. “That would be unkind.”

You don’t respond.

A beat of silence. Then—

Sukuna notices the untouched plate of food by your bedside. He clicks his tongue. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Starving yourself won’t change anything.”

Still, you don’t move.

He watches you for a long moment before, to your shock, he reaches for the plate himself. With little care for dignity, he plucks a piece of fruit and takes a slow bite. The action is simple, thoughtless even, but it’s… strangely ordinary.

Domestic.

When he speaks again, his voice lacks its usual razor-sharp edge. “Eat. I need you alive, not wasting away before we even reach my kingdom.”

For a second—a fleeting, impossible second—you could almost believe this was something normal. That he was just a man, and you were just a woman, sharing a quiet meal under the same roof.

A what-if, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand.

And then his eyes meet yours again, and the illusion shatters.

Sukuna watches you, expecting something. A reaction, a glare, an outburst. Anything.

But you just sit there, unmoving. The firelight flickers against your skin, casting soft shadows across your features. You look… tired. Not weak, not defeated, but like someone carrying the weight of a thousand burdens.

And then—just as he’s about to scoff, about to say something snide—

You finally speak.

"You don’t have to pretend to care."

It’s soft. Not bitter, not sharp—just factual. A quiet, simple truth that hangs in the air between you.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

Sukuna doesn’t know what to say.

Because was he pretending?

The thought annoys him. Irritates him. Grates at him in ways he refuses to examine.

So, instead, he scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Throws the half-eaten fruit back onto the plate like he never wanted it in the first place.

He stands, looming over you like a shadow. “Believe what you want, princess.”

And then, without another word, he leaves.

But long after he’s gone—after the fire dims and silence settles over the camp—

You wonder…

Why didn’t he deny it?

-

Dawn breaks over the horizon, streaking the sky in gold and coral, but the air remains crisp with the lingering chill of the night. The camp is already stirring—soldiers dousing the last embers of the fires, banners rippling in the wind, the sound of hooves crunching against the dirt as preparations to depart near completion.

You step out of your tent, the heavy cloak draped over your shoulders doing little against the morning cold. Sleep had been fleeting, your mind restless with the weight of what awaited you. Today, you would arrive at his domain.

And there he is.

Sukuna lounges against the door of his grand, black carved carriage, one arm resting lazily on his knee, his red eyes half-lidded as they sweep over the waking camp—until they land on you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but there’s something about the way he watches that makes your stomach knot.

"Took your time," he muses when you finally approach, his voice deep, edged with something that almost sounds amused.

You meet his gaze, unyielding. "I wasn’t aware I was on your schedule."

A slow smirk curves his lips, his fangs flashing ever so slightly. He doesn’t bother responding—he doesn’t need to. Instead, he gestures toward the waiting carriages with a flick of his fingers.

"Let’s not keep your new home waiting, princess."

And just like that, the journey begins.

-

The carriage rocks gently as the convoy moves forward, the rhythmic sound of hooves against the dirt road filling the silence. Inside, the space is lavish—dark silks and embroidered cushions, the scent of incense lingering in the air. But no amount of opulence could make this feel less like a cage.

You sit across from Sukuna, your posture rigid, hands folded tightly in your lap. He, on the other hand, looks completely at ease, one arm slung over the back of the seat, legs stretched out just enough that his knee nearly—nearly—brushes against yours.

A gust of wind slips through the carriage window, making you shiver under your cloak. Before you can steel yourself against it, something shifts.

Warmth.

Sukuna, without a word, tugs at the fur-lined cloak draped over his own shoulders and tosses it over your lap, the gesture so absentminded, so casual, it nearly startles you more than the cold had.

You blink at him, uncertain.

"Can’t have you freezing to death before we even arrive," he says, red eyes watching your reaction closely. There’s no teasing lilt to his voice this time, no smirk—just a simple statement, as if the act means nothing.

But it does.

You should push it off, return it, refuse to take anything from him. And yet… your fingers curl into the fur, just slightly.

He notices.

He says nothing.

-

The journey is long, stretching through dense forests and winding mountain paths, but as the convoy crests the final hill, the castle comes into view.

It looms in the distance, a dark, sprawling fortress carved into the very bones of the mountain. Towering spires claw at the sky, their obsidian surfaces gleaming under the dying light of the sun. Crimson banners ripple in the cold wind, each emblazoned with the sigil of the man who now owns your fate.

Your breath catches.

The air grows heavier as the convoy nears the gates, the atmosphere thick with something unspoken. Soldiers line the entrance in perfect formation, their armor gleaming, their expressions unreadable. At the castle’s grand doors, figures await—advisors, servants, warriors, all standing in disciplined silence.

Sukuna watches you. He has been watching you ever since the castle came into view.

A slow smirk plays on his lips. “Welcome home, princess.”

The towering gates of Sukuna’s fortress groan open, revealing a palace unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It is both magnificent and monstrous—carved from dark stone, adorned with golden accents that gleam like fire under the setting sun. Statues of beasts, their eyes gleaming like cursed jewels, guard the entrance, their snarling faces frozen in eternal warning.

You should be afraid. And you are. But beneath that fear is something else. Something undeniable. Awe. It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying.

Sukuna, walking a few paces ahead, catches it. He sees the way your gaze lingers on the towering spires, the intricate carvings woven with both beauty and horror. He sees the flicker of wonder in your eyes before you can school your expression into something unreadable.

A slow smirk curves his lips.

"Humbled by my domain, princess?"

Your stomach knots. You turn away too quickly, feigning disinterest. "Hardly."

A deep chuckle rumbles from him. Amusement. Satisfaction. He doesn't need you to say it. 

He knows the truth.

The castle doors part with a deep, echoing groan, revealing a grand, cavernous hall bathed in the glow of towering braziers. Shadows flicker along the obsidian walls, stretching and twisting with every step as you cross the threshold. The air is thick—heavy with incense, the faintest trace of something metallic lingering beneath.

Your footsteps barely make a sound against the polished stone, but the hush that falls over the gathered figures amplifies every movement. Rows of warriors stand at attention along the hall, their expressions unreadable, their eyes tracking your every step. Servants bow their heads, stealing quick, wary glances before averting their gazes.

Sukuna walks beside you, unhurried, completely at ease in his domain. His presence fills the space, effortlessly commanding the attention of all within it. He does not guide you—he does not need to. You are already walking where he intends you to go.

At the far end of the hall, the throne room doors loom ahead, carved with intricate depictions of conquest, of gods and monsters intertwined in eternal battle. The weight of what awaits beyond them presses down on you.

Sukuna glances at you, his smirk returning. “You’re awfully quiet, princess.”

You don’t answer.

The doors swing open and you step inside.

The throne room is vast, designed to make anyone who enters feel small. The ceiling stretches impossibly high, supported by towering pillars carved with depictions of battles long won. Braziers cast a golden glow across the dark stone, illuminating the crimson banners draped along the walls—each marked with the sigil of the man who is to be sat at the far end of the room.

Sukuna’s throne is massive, made from the same dark stone as the castle itself, inlaid with veins of deep, gleaming gold. It is not just a seat of power—it is a symbol of dominion.

The moment you step inside, every pair of eyes in the room turns to you. Advisors, high-ranking officers, and attendants stand in quiet formation along the sides, watching as you make your way forward. The air is thick with anticipation, laced with something colder—fear, reverence, inevitability.

Sukuna does not rush. He walks at a leisurely pace, his hands resting at his sides, utterly unbothered. This is his kingdom, his palace, his rules. And you—his soon-to-be queen—are walking straight into his world. 

He arrives at his throne and takes his seat.

As you near the steps leading to the throne, he speaks.

“Kneel.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

The words hang in the air, heavy, absolute. Your heart pounds and your hands clench at your sides. You can feel the weight of every gaze, waiting, expecting.

You do not kneel.

The silence stretches.

Sukuna watches you, something dark and amused flickering in his eyes. He tilts his head, studying you, and for the first time since you arrived…

He smiles.

The silence in the throne room is suffocating. Eyes dart between you and Sukuna, waiting, anticipating. No one has ever defied him and walked away unscathed.

But you don’t kneel.

You lift your chin, steady, unwavering. “I kneel for no man.”

A sharp inhale echoes from somewhere in the hall. The tension coils tighter, suffocating. Even the guards, trained to be expressionless, flicker with shock.

Atop his throne, Sukuna stares at you. And then—he laughs.

It’s low at first, just a chuckle. Then it grows—rich, full-bodied, amused beyond measure. The sound sends a chill down your spine. It’s not the laugh of a man who has been insulted. It’s the laugh of a man who has just been thoroughly entertained.

“Oh?” His voice drips with intrigue as he leans forward, elbows resting on the arms of his throne, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “No man?” His crimson gaze gleams. “Then tell me, princess… what do you think I am?”

You meet his gaze, refusing to waver. The air in the room is thick and heavy with expectation.

"You?" You tilt your head ever so slightly, eyes gleaming with quiet defiance. "A man wouldn’t need to demand kneeling to prove his power."

The court freezes.

The amusement in Sukuna’s expression flickers—just for a fraction of a second. Then, something slow and dangerous stretches across his face.

The silence is unbearable. No one dares to breathe.

Then—

His grin widens.

The sharp glint in his crimson eyes is unmistakable. Oh, he likes this. He likes you.

And that is far more terrifying than his anger.

Sukuna doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watches you—studies you. His gaze drags over your face, searching, calculating.

Then, in one fluid motion, he rises from his throne.

The room tenses. No one moves. No one speaks.

And then—he starts walking.

His boots echo against the marble floor as he descends the steps, slow, deliberate. The closer he gets, the more the air shifts—thick with something you refuse to name.

And then—he’s in front of you.

Too close.

You can smell him now—spiced incense and something dark, something sharp. The sheer size of him makes you feel smaller than you’d like, his presence overwhelming.

A clawed finger tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His hands are warm—uncomfortably so.

"You have a sharp tongue," he murmurs, voice low. His breath ghosts over your lips. "But tell me, princess…" His thumb grazes your jaw, almost thoughtfully. Too gentle for a man like him.

"Will it serve you well… or get you into trouble?"

His lips curl, a smirk playing at the corner. He’s entertained. Intrigued.

And then—just as quick as he touched you, he’s gone.

He turns, voice echoing through the hall as he walks back to his throne.

"Very well… let’s see how long you last."

You stand your ground, refusing to move, refusing to let him see how his touch lingers like a phantom against your skin.

But your body betrays you.

Your heart stumbles—just for a beat, just for a second. A warmth blooms beneath your skin, creeping up your neck, pooling at your cheeks.

You force yourself to breathe. To look unaffected. But you know—oh, you know—he sees it.

Because as he settles back onto his throne, Sukuna’s smirk deepens. His eyes flicker, pleased. Amused.

He says nothing more. He doesn’t have to.

He already knows.

-

The castle is alive with movement. Servants rush through the halls, arms full of silks and gold-threaded fabrics, their whispers trailing behind them. The scent of incense and fresh flowers lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating.

It’s happening.

Your wedding to the King is being prepared in full force.

Jewels, silks, golden embroidery—everything is perfect. Everything is grand. But not once did anyone ask what you wanted.

Because it doesn’t matter.

It never did.

You sit before the grand mirror in your chamber, a seamstress adjusting the fabric of your ceremonial robes. The weight of the moment presses on you like iron shackles.

Married.

To him.

Your hands curl into fists against your lap. How did it come to this?

A knock at the door. Your handmaiden enters, hesitant. "My lady… the King wishes to see you."

Your breath stills. 

"My lady…" she says, voice low, hesitant. "The King—" she pauses, correcting herself, "Sukuna—has summoned you."

Your breath stills.

"Summoned?" you repeat, as if the word alone leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

She nods. "To the gardens."

Not the throne room. Not his chambers.

To the gardens.

That alone unsettles you.

"Did he say why?"

Your handmaiden swallows. She’s afraid. That much is clear in the way she grips the fabric of her sleeve and the way she hesitates before answering.

"No," she admits. "Only that you are to come. At once."

A demand. Not a request.

Like everything else he does.

Your fingers twitch against the folds of your dress. You should have expected this. Of course, he would summon you like a thing to be retrieved.

And yet—you hesitate.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, your mind racing with possibilities. What could he possibly want? Why here, why now?

And more importantly…

What would happen if you refused?

The silence stretches.

Your handmaiden fidgets under your stare, waiting for you to move. To answer. To do anything but stand there, expression unreadable.

"Shall I prepare your cloak, my lady?" she asks carefully.

You exhale slowly, gaze flickering toward the window. The gardens are bathed in silver moonlight, awaiting you. But you?

You are in no rush.

"No," you say at last, turning away. "Let him wait."

The words are soft, but they hold weight.

Your handmaiden stiffens. "My lady, he—"

"He will not kill me over this," you murmur, fingers brushing over the smooth fabric of your gown.

You tell yourself it’s not a game—you are not playing with fire. You are simply reminding him that you are not a woman who bends so easily.

"Stay with me a while," you say instead, settling back into your chair.

Your handmaiden hesitates, then bows. "As you wish."

But she is tense. She knows what you are doing.

And when you finally rise, when you finally allow yourself to be led into the night, you wonder if you have made a mistake.

Because Sukuna is not a man who enjoys waiting.

And you are about to find out exactly how much patience he has left.

-

The palace gardens should not exist.

Not in a place like this. Not within the walls of a kingdom ruled by a monster.

And yet, as you step past the towering arches, you are breathless.

Moonlight spills over an expanse of shimmering ponds, ivory statues, and trees heavy with blossoms. Soft petals dance in the air, caught in the cool night breeze. The scent of wisteria, jasmine, and something undeniably rich fills your lungs. The lantern-lit paths curve between marble fountains, their waters singing a song too gentle for a place so cruel.

It’s beautiful. Devastatingly, unfairly beautiful.

And then, you see him.

Sukuna stands near the largest pond, his back to you. A striking silhouette against the lantern glow, his robe open just enough to reveal the dark markings tracing his skin. His hands are clasped loosely behind him—a king at ease in his kingdom, knowing he owns everything within it.

Including you.

"You kept me waiting."

His voice is smooth, deep, and edged with amusement. He knows you hesitated.

Of course he does.

You inhale sharply, lifting your chin as you take another step forward, feet crunching softly over the white pebbled path. You will not cower.

"You did not say it was urgent."

Sukuna chuckles, finally turning to face you. Red eyes gleam in the lantern light, flickering with something unreadable.

"No," he muses, tilting his head. "I suppose I didn’t."

"Why am I here?" you ask plainly.

Sukuna hums, watching you carefully. Too carefully.

Then—he reaches.

The movement is slow, deliberate. Not a threat, not a demand. His fingers brush just beneath your chin—not gripping, not forcing—just touching. A reminder of who stands before you.

"Must there always be a reason?"

His voice is quieter now, lower—like a secret meant only for you. His fingers, calloused and warm, brush against your jaw before retreating, leaving behind the ghost of a touch.

Your breath catches, just for a second.

The night air feels heavier, thick with something unspoken. The scent of blooming jasmine wraps around you both, the silence stretching—not tense, not hostile—but charged.

You meet his gaze, refusing to look away.

"You summoned me." Your voice is steady, but softer now. "So there must be one."

Sukuna studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he moves.

Not sudden, not aggressive—slow. Measured. He steps closer, and though every instinct tells you to retreat, you hold your ground.

The space between you shrinks. It is barely a breath now.

"You intrigue me." His words are almost thoughtful, but there is something else beneath them—something dangerous. "Your fearlessness."

A pause.

Then, softer—more deliberate.

"Your fire."

The warmth of his breath ghosts over your skin, closer than you should allow. Your pulse quickens, but you do not step back.

You will not.

Instead, you tilt your head ever so slightly, meeting his crimson eyes with a quiet defiance.

"And what is it you plan to do with this… intrigue?"

Sukuna’s smirk curves into something deeper—something unreadable.

His fingers brush over your wrist now, barely there, like a whisper of a promise yet to be spoken.

"Oh, princess," he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement—and something else. "That depends entirely on you."

The space between you is almost nonexistent now.

Your breath is unsteady, heart hammering far too loudly. Sukuna is close—closer than he should be. His presence wraps around you, commanding, unyielding.

You tell yourself it’s the heat of the evening, the way the lanterns cast a golden glow over his features—too sharp, too beautiful.

But then his gaze drops.

To your lips.

And your breath catches.

His fingers, barely there, brush against your wrist again—lingering this time. His touch is a question, a challenge, a taunt.

"Tell me, princess," he murmurs, his voice lower now, something undeniably indulgent in his tone. "Are you afraid of what this might mean?"

You should pull away.

But you don’t.

Instead, you tilt your chin up—defiant, stubborn—but you don’t break the moment. His smirk falters just slightly at that.

Not in disappointment.

In intrigue.

Your breath mingles with his now, the world around you shrinking to this—to him.

His eyes darken.

And then—

A noise.

A branch snapping in the distance, a gust of wind rattling the trees. It shatters the moment, just barely, just enough.

You step back.

A breath.

Then another.

Sukuna watches you, unreadable, and for once—he does not push.

Instead, he lets the silence settle. His smirk returns, slower this time—but you know, now, that he is watching.

Waiting.

"Careful, princess," he drawls, stepping back at last, giving you space that feels far too vast now. Far too empty. "Play with fire, and you just might burn."

His words should unnerve you.

They don’t.

Instead, your lips curl—just slightly.

"Then let it burn."

The tension is suffocating.

Sukuna watches you—intensely, unblinking, unrelenting. The smirk is gone now, replaced by something deeper, something unreadable.

Your pulse thrums in your ears.

You should step away.

You don’t.

He lifts a hand, slowly, deliberately, as if waiting to see if you’ll pull back. His fingers brush against your jaw, featherlight, the touch barely there—but it sears.

A test. A game.

But you don’t move.

His thumb traces the curve of your cheek, his touch too gentle, too intimate, too dangerous. He leans in just a fraction, just enough that you feel his breath ghost over your lips.

"Say it, princess," he murmurs. "Say you don’t want this, and I’ll stop."

You open your mouth— to say what, you don’t know.

But you never get the chance.

Because he kisses you.

It’s not rough, not bruising, not like the tyrant he is supposed to be. It’s slow, controlled, deliberate—like he’s savoring the moment. Like he’s savoring you.

And for a second—just a second—you let him.

Your hands clutch the fabric of his robe, not pushing away, not pulling closer—just holding on. The warmth of him, the press of his lips, the way his hand slides to cup the back of your neck—it’s overwhelming.

Your breath is stolen, your mind blank, lost in something you never thought you would crave.

He pulls away first—barely, just enough to let you breathe. But he doesn’t let go.

His forehead rests against yours, his voice lower now, rougher.

"Still think you can fight me, princess?"

Your lashes flutter, breath uneven, but your eyes find his.

"I think..." you whisper, voice steady despite the chaos inside you, "...you have no idea what you’ve just started."

Sukuna exhales a short laugh, his grip tightening just slightly.

"Good."

The moment stretches, the air between you crackling like a fire starved for oxygen.

And then—he moves.

You barely register the way his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you in, chest to chest, breath to breath. The way his other hand cups your jaw, fingers pressing just enough to tip your face up—just enough to make escape impossible.

But you don’t even think about escaping.

Because when his lips finally crash into yours, it’s not soft, not gentle—it's a claiming.

The world tilts.

Your fingers—traitorous things—grip at his robe, twisting in the fabric as he deepens the kiss, as his teeth graze your lower lip before his tongue slides against yours, demanding, unrelenting.

You hate how easily you match his intensity.

Hate how your body presses into his, meeting him step for step, fire for fire.

You should be resisting.

But instead, you’re burning.

The kiss is a battle, a push and pull, neither of you yielding, neither willing to lose. Your breath hitches as his hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, exposing you further—taking, taking, taking.

And you—you give.

A sharp exhale leaves him, like he wasn’t expecting you to kiss him back like this. Like he wasn’t expecting you to be just as relentless.

By the time you both pull back, you’re breathless.

Your chest heaves.

His grip on you hasn’t loosened, his lips still hovering dangerously close, as if he might go back for more.

Your pulse thrums wildly, your lips swollen, heat pooling in your gut at the sheer intensity of it all.

His forehead brushes against yours, his breath ragged, uneven. His fingers at your waist flex slightly, like he’s restraining himself, like he’s memorizing the feel of you against him.

Your lips still tingle.

Your breath is still ragged.

And yet, something inside you snaps—a cruel reminder of the reality you had let yourself forget.

You rip yourself away from him, the loss of warmth almost painful, but you force yourself to step back, hand trembling as you press your fingers to your lips.

"This is wrong."

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the heavy silence between you, it cuts like a blade.

Sukuna's eyes flicker, unreadable, his breath still uneven. His hands, still curled from where they had gripped your waist, slowly lower.

And then, his expression shifts.

His jaw tightens. His brows draw together.

"What?" His voice is sharp, edged with something you can’t quite place—disbelief? Anger? Something deeper?

But you can’t let yourself linger on it.

You force yourself to look up at him, even as tears burn in your eyes.

"This was a mistake. One I was foolish enough to commit."

He takes a step forward, like he’s going to reach for you again.

"What are you talking about?"

Your breath shudders. You shake your head, stepping back again—away from the temptation of him, away from the warmth that could consume you if you let it.

"I can't do this," you whisper. Your voice shakes, but your resolve does not. "I have agreed to be your bride, but I won’t fall victim to your hedonistic desires."

Silence.

Sukuna just stares at you. And for the first time since you’ve met him—he looks stunned.

He blinks once, lips parting slightly, as if he genuinely hadn’t expected you to say that.

Then, slowly, something dark, something unreadable slithers across his expression.

His eyes lower, flickering over your face—your tear-bright eyes, your trembling lips, the way your hands clench at your sides as if to hold yourself together.

He inhales slowly.

"You think that’s what this is?"

His voice is softer than before, but there’s something dangerous beneath it.

Your throat tightens. "Isn’t it?" you whisper.

He exhales sharply through his nose, a sound almost like a bitter laugh.

Then, he takes another step forward—and this time, you don’t move away.

Because you can’t.

His fingers lift, brushing against your chin—so gentle, so unlike the tyrant he is. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw, the touch featherlight, fleeting.

"You have no idea what you’ve done to me, princess."

His voice is low, almost—pained.

And that terrifies you more than anything else.

Because if you’re not careful—you might ruin him.

Just as he might ruin you.

You force yourself to turn away.

Your legs feel heavy, your heart a war drum in your chest, but you don’t stop.

Not even when you feel the heat of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when the silence stretches too long, too unbearable.

And then—

"Go, then."

His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

But it’s not resignation.

It’s something else. Something that lingers in the air like a storm yet to break.

You don’t dare look back.

Because you know if you do—if you meet those ruby eyes, if you see whatever unreadable thing is brewing behind them—you might not be able to walk away.

So you don’t.

You keep moving.

Even when the ache in your chest becomes unbearable.

Even when you hear him exhale sharply, like he’s stopping himself from saying something else.

And he lets you go.

For now.

But deep down, you both know—this isn’t over. Not even close.

-

Sukuna leans against the stone railing of his balcony, staring out at the dark horizon. The wind is cool, the scent of rain lingering in the air. He exhales slowly, fingers drumming against the marble.

You sit by your window, staring at the same sky. The city below glows in the dim torchlight, yet it feels impossibly far away. Your hands rest in your lap, twisting the fabric of your nightgown between your fingers.

Neither of you sleep.

His mind replays the kiss, the way your lips parted so easily for him, the warmth of your body so close to his. He scoffs, jaw tightening. And yet, you pulled away.

Your mind replays the same moment, the way he kissed you with such certainty, as if you belonged to him. The way you almost—almost—let yourself believe it.

He clenches his fists. You wanted it. He knows you did. The way you leaned into him, breath hitching, fingers trembling against his chest—he felt it all. Yet, you turned away. Why?

You close your eyes, guilt twisting in your stomach. You wanted it. You can’t deny that. But that doesn’t make it right. He is still the man who tore you from your home, the tyrant who leveled kingdoms without hesitation.

Sukuna exhales sharply. This shouldn’t bother him. He shouldn’t care. But he does. And that infuriates him more than anything.

You inhale deeply. This shouldn’t affect you. You shouldn’t feel this way. But you do. And that terrifies you more than anything.

The wind howls, the night stretches on, and neither of you move.

Both lost in the same moment.

Both refusing to admit what it meant.

-

The next day, you do everything in your power to avoid Sukuna. You keep to the quieter halls, taking longer routes just to ensure you don’t run into him. If your handmaiden notices, she says nothing. But the tension in the air is undeniable.

Sukuna, on the other hand, does nothing to seek you out. He acts as if nothing happened, as if you never left him standing in the garden with your lips swollen from his kiss and your eyes shining with unshed tears. But everyone around him treads more carefully. His patience is razor-thin.

Then, it happens.

A sudden storm rolls in, the winds howling through the corridors like restless spirits. You’re in one of the castle’s many libraries, a place you assumed was far from Sukuna’s reach. You were wrong.

A heavy door slams shut behind you just as the first crack of thunder shakes the castle. You whirl around—and there he is.

Sukuna stands in front of the only exit, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The storm rages outside, but it’s nothing compared to the storm in his gaze.

Your heart pounds. Trapped. With him.

“Move,” you say, voice steadier than you feel.

He doesn’t.

“I didn’t summon the storm, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says lazily. "Though I can’t say I mind the inconvenience."

You swallow. “You think this is funny?”

“Not at all.” His gaze darkens, sharp as a blade. “I think it’s convenient.”

You take a step back. He takes a step forward.

The tension is unbearable. The storm grows louder, shaking the very walls of the castle, but all you can focus on is him—his scent, his heat, the way he watches you like he’s trying to figure you out.

The kiss lingers between you, unspoken yet suffocating.

Sukuna tilts his head. "You’ve been avoiding me."

"You noticed?"

He chuckles, but there’s no real humor in it—just something sharp and knowing. “You kissed me like you meant it,” he murmurs, taking another step closer. "And then ran like a coward."

You stiffen. “I didn’t run—”

He cuts you off. “You did.” His voice is low, rough. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but don’t lie to me.”

Your throat goes dry. The heat of him is suffocating, his presence overwhelming. The storm rages outside, the flickering candlelight casting jagged shadows across his sharp features.

You force yourself to stand your ground. “I told you, this was a mistake.”

His eyes gleam, something dangerous curling at the edges of his smirk. “A mistake?”

Then, faster than you can react, he moves—closing the distance in a single stride, his hand bracing against the shelf behind you. Not touching, not forcing, but caging you in.

Your breath catches. He leans in, his voice a whisper against your ear.

“Then tell me…why do you look like you want to make it again?”

Your eyes flash with defiance, your chin lifting despite the rapid beat of your heart.

"And why do you look like you can't stand not having everything handed to you?"

Sukuna’s smirk doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker in his red eyes—something between intrigue and challenge. His hand stays where it is, caging you without touching, testing the boundaries you refuse to let him cross.

"Careful," he murmurs, voice like silk wrapped around a blade. "That mouth of yours might get you in trouble."

You glare up at him, unyielding. "Then do your worst."

For a long moment, he simply watches you, his smirk widening. Amused. Pleased.

He leans in, just a fraction closer. Too close.

"Oh, I intend to, princess."

-

The palace buzzes with restless energy as the wedding looms closer. Servants scurry through the halls, carrying silks, gold-threaded robes, and delicate jewels fit for a queen. The entire kingdom is preparing for a spectacle—a union between beauty and terror, between the feared King of Curses and the Princess of the North.

Yet behind closed doors, the air is thick with unspoken words and lingering glances.

You and Sukuna haven’t spoken about that night in the gardens. Haven’t addressed the kiss, the way your heart pounded against his chest before you fled. But it lingers in the way his gaze sears into you during royal gatherings, in the way he looms just a bit too close whenever your paths cross.

And you? You hold your head high, but your fingers tremble when your handmaidens fasten the bridal jewelry around your neck.

It’s happening.

No matter how much you fight, no matter how much your heart wars against itself, soon, you will be his.

-

The grand hall is drenched in gold and crimson, lit by a thousand flickering lanterns. The scent of incense coils through the air, rich and heavy. Nobles and warriors alike hold their breath, waiting for the moment when the tyrant takes his bride.

You stand at the end of the aisle, wrapped in silks so fine they feel like whispers against your skin. Jewels glitter in your hair, but they feel no heavier than the weight pressing down on your heart. You’re walking toward a man feared across the world, a man who has claimed you as his.

And yet—when you reach him, he does not touch you like a conqueror.

Sukuna’s hands, tattooed and powerful, settle on yours with a gentleness that no one expects. His thumb skims over your wrist, a silent, almost reverent touch. His red eyes, so used to burning with cruelty, soften just for a second.

For a moment, there is no war. No kingdoms. No chains.

Just him and you.

The officiary looks at the both of you in quiet wonder before he speaks- “Dear beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this bride in holy matrimony-” he gestures to Sukuna, “You may begin.”

Sukuna does not hesitate. His voice is deep, rich, unchallenged.

"I vow to take you as my wife, to protect what is mine, to keep you in wealth, in power, and in blood. Let the gods bear witness to this union, for I claim you, now and forever."

A shiver runs through you. His hand is warm where it clasps yours. Too warm. Too steady.

You are meant to answer. To seal this union. To give him what he wants.

Your throat tightens.

Your mind screams—no, no, no.

Your lips part, but the words don’t come. Not yet.

Sukuna’s grip on your hand tightens—just slightly. Not in warning. Not in threat. Almost as if he is waiting.

And in his eyes, in the way they search yours—there is something else. Something like… patience.

For a single breath, the world slows.

You think of your people. Your kingdom. The life you once had—the life you could have had. And then, you think of the man before you. Of what he could become.

So you inhale. You lift your chin. And with a final, quiet surrender—

“I believe in you, the person you will grow to be and the couple we will be together.

With my whole heart, I take you as my husband, acknowledging and accepting your faults and strengths, as you do mine.”

The hall exhales. A murmur ripples through the gathered court.

Sukuna lets out a breath, so subtle you almost miss it.

He smiles—but it's not his usual smirk. Not mocking, not cruel. It's something quieter. Softer.

The officiary speaks the final words. And when Sukuna lifts your veil, when he leans in and tilts your chin up with the faintest touch—the grand hall watches in stunned silence.

Because Ryomen Sukuna, the man known as the King of Curses—

is looking at his bride like he would burn the world down for her.

The kiss is not rough, not bruising. It is slow. Intense. Claiming. And when he pulls back, his forehead lingers against yours for half a second too long.

"Mine," he murmurs against your lips.

And for the first time, you wonder—are you truly lost, or have you simply been found?

-

Sukuna doesn’t go looking for you.

He doesn’t have to.

The heavy silence in your chambers is unnatural, suffocating in a way that unsettles him—not because he cares, but because he expects defiance, not absence.

His feet carry him forward before he even registers the thought. Past the sprawling corridors of his castle, past the ever-watchful eyes of servants too afraid to meet his gaze.

He finds you where the candlelight barely reaches, sitting by the window, your silk sleeves clutched in trembling fists, your shoulders drawn tight.

At first, he thinks you’re merely lost in thought.

Then, he hears it. The shallow, uneven hitch of your breath.

He’s heard every sound a person can make. Pain, terror, rage. But this—this quiet, fragile grief—is something else entirely.

For a moment, he simply watches. He should leave you to it.

But something about the way your fingers dig into your arms, as if holding yourself together, makes him speak.

"You mourn them."

The words break the silence like a blade through cloth.

You freeze, but you do not turn to face him. You don’t deny it either.

Sukuna should be pleased. You are finally bending under the weight of your circumstances, realizing the futility of resistance.

But the sight of you like this—spilling over with grief, silent and unguarded—unnerves him.

It irritates him.

He should leave. He should turn his back and let you drown in it.

Instead, he steps closer.

And before he can stop himself, his fingers brush against yours.

"You still have yourself," he murmurs, the words slow, deliberate. "That is more than most who cross my path."

Your breath catches.

Sukuna doesn’t know why he says it. Doesn’t know why he’s still standing here. But when you finally turn to face him, eyes rimmed red, pain etched into every delicate feature—he hates it.

Hates that he has to look at it. Hates that, for some reason, he cannot look away.

His hand is still there, hovering near yours. A mistake. He should pull away. Mock you. Walk out.

Instead, he does something even more foolish.

He moves closer.

You’re still staring at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears, lips slightly parted as if caught between words and silence. Sukuna doesn’t know which he despises more.

Your grief is suffocating, filling the air like incense—cloying, inescapable. It reminds him of things long buried. Things he does not care to remember.

And yet.

"Come here," he mutters, barely above a breath.

He expects resistance. A flinch. Maybe even a trembling whisper of defiance. You always fight him. Always.

But this time, you don't.

This time, you let him pull you in.

His touch is careful, almost hesitant, as if testing the weight of this unfamiliar act. But once you’re close—once your forehead rests against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his robes—he doesn’t let go.

He can feel it then. The slight shake of your shoulders, the way your breath hitches against him. He has felt people tremble before—but never like this.

Never against him.

A sigh leaves him, low and tired. "You grieve for them, yet they still breathe," he murmurs, his lips close to your hair. "You act as if I have burned your home to the ground."

You swallow hard. "I might as well be dead to them."

Sukuna stiffens.

The weight of your words settles over him, unfamiliar and heavy. He has taken many things from many people—lives, kingdoms, freedom.

But this? The ache in your voice, the unspoken sorrow of being cast aside by those you loved most?

It is not something he has stolen.

It is something they have given.

For a long moment, he says nothing. And then—because he cannot offer you lies, nor promises of comfort—he does the only thing he can.

He holds you closer.

His grip is firm but not harsh, solid in a way that dares the world to challenge it. Let them call him a monster. A tyrant. Let them cower at his name.

None of it matters.

Because right now, you are in his arms, and he is the only one here.

And he will not let you break.

His thumb brushes idly over your shoulder, absentminded, like he's forgotten it's you he's holding. You, who have done nothing but push him away, spit fire at him when others cower.

And yet here you are, clutching onto him like he’s the last solid thing in a crumbling world.

He exhales through his nose, a quiet huff of amusement. "Tch. I didn’t know you had it in you to be so… delicate."

You stiffen, but he tightens his hold before you can pull away.

"Don’t," he murmurs, voice dropping into something dangerously soft. "Don’t start building your walls again."

His fingers find your chin, tilting your face up—just enough for your eyes to meet his. They’re still damp, shimmering like fractured starlight. And Sukuna?

Sukuna hates it.

Not because you’re crying. No, he's seen bloodied men and weeping queens before.

It’s because—against all logic, against every instinct that tells him to be cruel—he wants to take that pain away.

"You’re insufferable," he mutters, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone. "Sulking over people who abandoned you the second they found it convenient."

You swallow, a glare forming. "That’s my family you’re talking about."

"Exactly."

Your lips part, an argument forming, but you don't pull away. You stay.

He lets you.

"You have a home here," he says at last, almost begrudgingly. "Whether you like it or not."

You blink, surprised.

Sukuna tuts, shaking his head. "Don’t look so stunned, my queen. I’m not that heartless."

He leans in then, his breath warm against your temple, his voice a low murmur.

"But if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll have to kill them."

It’s a joke. Mostly.

You let out something caught between a scoff and a laugh, burying your face against his chest. And he lets you do that too.

For a while, neither of you speak. You just breathe. Just exist in each other’s presence.

And for the first time since this wretched arrangement began—since you were forced to leave the lands you loved—you don’t feel quite so alone.

Silence stretches between you. The warmth of Sukuna’s hands lingers against your skin, his grip no longer possessive, no longer a claim—just there. He watches you, the weight of his gaze heavy, unreadable.

Your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths. You should pull away. You should say something. But you can’t. You don’t want to.

Sukuna exhales sharply, a huff of amusement laced with something softer. "You're staring... Do I have something on my face?" he murmurs, his thumb ghosting over your knuckles. 

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering in your throat. The space between you is fragile, delicate—something you’ve never had with him before.

“Shut up,” you whisper, voice trembling.

He smirks, tilting his head. “Make me.”

It’s the last push you need.

You close the distance, pressing your lips against his. It’s desperate, feverish, final—a clash of everything unspoken, of battle and surrender, of all the walls you swore you’d never let crumble. His hands slide up to cup your face, pulling you deeper, letting you take as much as you give.

You lose yourself in him. In the fire, in the softness hidden beneath it. And for the first time since he took you away, you don’t feel like you’re drowning.

The world fades. The war between you quiets. There is only this.

The kiss leaves you breathless.

You’re still reeling, lips tingling, your heart pounding against your ribs like a war drum when Sukuna’s hand finds your waist. With a low grunt, he pulls you into his lap as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. You gasp, startled, your hands pressed against his chest for balance, but he only smirks—lazily, like he’s been waiting for this moment all along.

“Well,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough near your ear, “didn’t think you’d be the one to lose control first.”

Your breath hitches. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” His lips brush along your jaw. “Didn’t mean to kiss me? Or didn’t mean to want it so badly?”

You try to look away, but his fingers curl gently around your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. His red eyes—dangerous, hungry—search yours, but there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the fire. A pause. A check.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, “and I will.”

You don’t.

Instead, your fingers twist in the fabric of his robe as if anchoring yourself—and that’s all the permission he needs.

His mouth finds yours again, rougher this time. Hungrier. His hands trace your sides, down your waist, learning the shape of you with reverent ease. The kiss deepens, tongues tangling, heat building fast and thick between your bodies. You can feel him, hard beneath you, but it doesn’t scare you—it sends a jolt of heat straight through your core.

And Sukuna notices.

“Fuck,” he growls, breaking the kiss for a heartbeat. “You’re killin’ me, princess.”

And when he kisses you again, it’s different. Slower. Devouring. One hand cradles the back of your head while the other trails lower, slipping beneath layers of silk to touch skin—bare, warm, sensitive. His calloused fingers drag a line along your thigh, and you gasp into his mouth, every nerve alight.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs with a dark, amused smile. “That nervous?”

You manage a weak, “A little.”

“Good.” He nips at your lower lip. “Means you feel it.”

You’re straddling him now, nestled snug against his lap, your skirts bunched up between you. The soft silk does little to hide the growing friction, and you can feel the shift in him—his control thinning, his need sharpening.

His lips trail down your throat, warm breath skimming your skin, tongue flicking teasingly at your pulse.

“You’re trembling,” he mutters, voice thick with lust. “Is that fear, or anticipation?”

Your fingers fist into his robe. “I don’t know.”

He chuckles darkly, and the sound vibrates against your neck. “You will.”

A single hand smooths up your thigh beneath your nightgown, calloused fingertips dragging slow, deliberate paths along your bare skin. When he grazes the edge of your undergarments, you tense—but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

“Soft,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So soft.”

Your breath hitches when his fingers press lightly against the heat between your legs, and his smirk deepens.

“Already warm for me.” His voice is velvet and gravel, a dangerous purr. “Do you even know how badly I’ve wanted this?”

“Sukuna…”

Your voice breaks, barely more than a whisper—but it’s enough.

That single plea undoes him.

And then he lifts you—just like that, effortlessly, like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. His mouth trails kisses along your throat as he lays you down, his body sliding over yours. You arch into him instinctively, desperate for friction, and he chuckles against your skin. He helps undress you, eyes burning into each inch of newly exposed skin.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick with desire. “So pliant already. Didn’t even have to do anything.”

You squirm, heat pooling between your thighs. “Shut up.”

He grins at your flustered expression, and then—without warning—he disappears between your legs. You gasp, trying to sit up, but he drags your hips down, strong hands pinning you in place.

“Stay still,” he mutters, “and let me taste you.”

A cry rips from your throat the moment his tongue finds your sensitive clit and sucks. He devours you like a man starved, groaning against your core as your fingers twist in the sheets.

“S-Sukuna—”

Your thighs tremble, your back arches. It’s too much. Too good. He’s biting, kissing, licking and it’s so many sensations it makes you drip in copious amounts.

His hands part your folds, fingers prodding at your entrance before pushing in. Tears brim at your waterline and you’re sobbing. “S-Sukuna, it’s too much! I can't-”

“You can and you will. Now, spread those legs wider for me—that’s it—good.” He buries his face deeper, his nose nudging your swollen bud. His fingers continue their relentless pace and when he finds that spongy spot inside you, he pushes against it hard. And when he sucks gently, you come undone—your first orgasm crashing over you like a wave, leaving you gasping, flushed, boneless.

He rises slowly, licking his lips, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Didn’t even have to fuck you yet.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before Sukuna rises above you, crimson gaze smoldering as he watches you unravel beneath him. He strips off the last of his clothing, and your gaze drops instinctively, your lips parting.

He's big. Of course he is. Long, thick and veiny at all the right places

You squirm, suddenly unsure, but his hand cradles your jaw, tilting your gaze back to his.

“You're alright,” he murmurs, surprisingly gentle. “I won’t hurt you."

You feel the heat rush to your cheeks. “I’ve never…”

“I know,” he cuts in softly, kissing your cheek. “I'll go slow.”

But “slow” is a lie. A tease. Because the way he slides the tip against your entrance—just barely pushing in, then pulling away—has you trembling, desperate, needy.

“Sukuna,” you whimper, clutching his arms.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growls, easing in with slow, maddening precision. “Like your body was made to take me.”

You moan—loud, helpless, clinging to him as he finally thrusts in fully. You’re stretched wide, full, overwhelmed in the best possible way. He’s panting above you, struggling to hold himself back.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters against your neck.

And then he moves—rolling his hips deep, smooth, precise. Every drag of his cock sends sparks ricocheting through your nerves. He sets a rhythm, slow but firm, his control ironclad, his dominance clear.

Each moan, each gasp, each broken plea earns a smirk.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, brushing hair off your flushed face. “Fucked dumb already and I’ve barely started.”

You gasp as he thrusts deeper, one hand on your thigh to spread you wider. Your head falls back, mouth open, and he dips down to kiss you—deep, possessive, filled with heat.

You don’t know how long you’re lost in it—all you know is him. His voice in your ear, his body owning yours, his whispered praises and filthy promises.

You’re close again—so close you’re trembling—and then—

Knock-knock.

“Your Highness?” your handmaiden calls softly through the door. “I was wondering if you’d like me to draw a bath before bed.”

You freeze.

Sukuna stills inside you, chest heaving, a wicked glint in his eye.

“I-I’m fine!” you call out, voice breathless and a little too high.

A pause. “Are you alright, my lady? You sound… unwell.”

“I’m alright! J-just a headache- d-don’t wo-”

Before you can say another word, Sukuna presses a hand to your mouth, muffling your response. He leans in toward the door and, in that infuriatingly calm drawl of his, says “She’s fine. I’ve got it under control. I’ll take real good care of my queen tonight.”

Then he rolls his hips—slow, deep, deliberate.

You moan against his palm, loud enough that it echoes in the chamber.

A beat of silence.

"Apologies, Your Majesty,” your handmaiden says hastily. “I’ll leave you to it.”

As her footsteps fade, Sukuna lowers his hand and looks down at you smugly. “Oops.”

“She definitely heard that,” you hiss, mortified.

He chuckles darkly. “Should’ve kept your voice down, sweetheart.”

And then he drives into you again, hard, relentless—until you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe without him.

Your nails dig into his back as Sukuna picks up the pace, relentless now, pounding into you with a rhythm that’s pure sin. He’s feral—yet still somehow completely in control, watching every reaction, every shudder, every sweet sound that escapes you.

“You feel that?” he growls, breath ragged against your ear. “You’re taking me so well.”

You whimper, clinging to him as your body tightens again—hot, electric, right there.

“‘Kuna-”

His entire body stills and for a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Then—then—he’s on you again, lips crashing against yours like he’s lost his mind. Like that one nickname was all it took to break whatever leash he had on himself.

“Say that again,” he begs, voice rough and cracking at the edges. “Say it again, please.”

You whimper, eyes wide, breath stolen. “’Kuna.”

He snaps his hips forward, hard, claiming every inch of you all over again. “You’re mine, princess,” he hisses. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world. “Yours, ‘Kuna.”

“That’s fucking right,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder, voice ragged and trembling. “My queen. My wife. Mine.”

Each word is a brand, hot and absolute.

Mine, mine, mine.

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice is low, commanding, but there’s a strange softness underneath. “Give it to me. Let go.”

You do.

You cry out, back arching as the orgasm crashes through you—white-hot and shattering, stealing every breath from your lungs. Sukuna groans, hips stuttering, and then he's spilling inside you with a deep, guttural snarl, his entire body tensing as he rides it out, buried to the hilt.

For a long moment, there’s only silence.

Heavy breaths. Sticky skin. A faint tremble in your thighs.

And then Sukuna collapses beside you, pulling you close, one tattooed arm slung around your waist. He nuzzles into your hair, still catching his breath, and for a moment… he doesn’t say anything cruel or cocky.

Just holds you.

“You okay?” he murmurs at last, quieter than you’ve ever heard him.

You nod, cheeks flushed, heart still pounding. “Y-Yeah…”

A pause.

“That was your first?” His tone is unreadable.

You glance away, shy. “...Yes.”

Sukuna hums, fingers brushing over your arm in slow, absent strokes. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laugh weakly. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling. “You were perfect.”

You blink, startled.

Sukuna rarely says anything without an edge. But this... this feels real.

You don’t reply—just nestle closer to him, your head resting on his chest as his hand lazily trails patterns on your back.

“I scared you,” he mutters after a beat. “At the beginning.”

You nod slowly. “You still do.”

He snorts. “Good. Wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable.”

But his hold tightens, and you feel his lips brush your temple—so soft, so fleeting, it’s almost like he didn’t mean for you to notice.

You smile faintly.

Outside, the castle sleeps. The halls are silent, the air cool. But here—in this bed, tangled in sheets and limbs and breaths—you’re warm.

You close your eyes. And for the first time since being torn from your home, you feel… safe.

You’re still catching your breath, limbs tangled with his as the heat between your bodies begins to settle. The room is quiet save for your soft, uneven inhales and the rhythmic thud of your heart, still racing. Sukuna’s hand lazily traces your spine, his other arm wrapped under your head, holding you close as if you might disappear.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low, satisfied. “This suits you, princess.”

You nudge him with a scoff, cheeks warm. “You’re insufferable.”

He chuckles darkly, eyes gleaming as he shifts to hover over you once more. “Mm. And yet here you are…” He presses a kiss to your throat. “Pliant. Breathless.” Another kiss, lower. “Mine.”

Your breath hitches, fingers curling into his shoulders. “We just—”

“I know,” he whispers against your skin, voice thick with want. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyes widen. “'Kuna-”

His lips brush against yours, soft but burning. “Say yes.”

Oh, boy.

author's note : honestly wasnt planning on this being so long. also my first time writing a long fic so feedback is much appreciated <33 leave a like/reblog if you enjoyed!

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

[thekinslayed]

The Way to a Man's Heart

summary | In which Aemond's new wife earns his affections through her care for his niece.

pairing | king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader

tags | fluff, KING AEMOND HEHE, slight angst, arrange marriage, allusions to trauma, aemond is the dad that stepped UP! contains some spoilers for f&b

wordcount | 3.6k

note | back with some king aemond, but something sweeter this time :) idk music terms so apologies for anything that i might get wrong!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

“Aren’t you hungry, Jaehaera?”

It’s become ubiquitous for Aemond to be met with silence. It was rather frowned upon to act in such a way in the face of the new king, but His Grace has found that his niece was inadvertently exempt from standard.

She had refused her meals again. Since the war’s end, Helaena’s girl had reclused into the lonely solace of her mind. It reminded him too much of his fallen sister, with their faraway gazes and cryptic whispers. Jaehaera, once bubbly and exuberant with the blissful hum of youth, grew weary, burdened by matters no young girl should ever be subject to. The shift in her behavior raised much concern from her Septa that there were no other means but to call upon her uncle in hopes of a way to get through to her. Aemond would never say it out loud, but such efforts would be futile. 

Despite being the only connection left tethered by blood, the one-eyed king couldn’t be at a greater length to his niece’s reach. He used to be a prominent figure in her life, back when war hadn’t taken what they didn’t wish to give. Aemond loved being around his sister’s babes. He relished in helping them take their first steps and watch their lives take shape. 

Perhaps it’s guilt that stopped him from reaching out to her. His hands were all bloodied and bruised, porcelain flesh all torn up from fighting his way to get to the throne. His ambition cost him much, and now he has seen that it cost her too. No mother to keep her close to her bosom, no father to carry her on his shoulders, no brothers to tumble around with. He had done this to her.

“Jaehaera?” he tried again.

It would take a lifetime and more to atone for how he has wronged her. He would have to weep on his knees if it meant she would grant him the undeserved forgiveness. If she ever turned her face to look at him, that is. She would stare out the window, always so deep in thought, unacknowledging of the man sat across the dinner table. Much like Helaena, in a sense.

Her plate, bountiful with colorful bites of meat and greens, grew colder with the air in the room. She hadn’t eaten in two days, the last time being only a few reluctant nibbles of cheese during her customs. It left Aemond wary with an apprehension he hadn’t so much felt even in battle. It had him frightened. 

Watching his mother wither away had done something to his once stone-dry heart. They hadn’t seen eye to eye long before then, with their contest for power when Aegon lay burnt severing any warmth their bond once had. Alicent’s last years were spent in darkness, with nothing but ghosts to keep her company. The fever that took her was a mercy, Aemond would like to think. He couldn’t let the same happen to the young girl, now nine, before him. Yet, he was clueless. The king, in all his razor-sharp wit and dexterous intelligence, was at a loss. He’d never felt more helpless sitting there at the opposite end of the dinner table, separated by a distance ever-growing by the day.

Being queen was rather lonesome. You were left on your own most days, free to wander around the halls and indulge in whatever pursuit filled up time in your day. You didn’t see your husband much, and if you did it was only at court or by the occasional call of duty to his chambers. This didn’t surprise you really, it was not as if your marriage was borne out of romance after all. Rather, done so to appease the growing questions about the fragility of his position with his rise to power. 

It could be worse. He could be cruel, either with his hand or his tongue, but he was none of those things. You wondered whether it was only because he hadn’t had the chance to be.

Perhaps, you could say he was kind; gracious enough to grant the wants and the needs you voiced through his staff if it meant he had one less person to worry about. The king was an enigma, a passing shadow in the halls you were only granted a glimpse of now and then. 

It wasn’t for a lack of trying on your end. You had attempted in those spare moments you had with him, had dared to get through the impregnable wall of his character, all to no avail. His priorities simply lay in the crown, not in small talk and hopeful glances.

With another day left to dwell on matters out of your reach, you’d taken to establish a routine of your activities. In the mornings, an hour or two of prayer after your meals, then entertaining your ladies-in-waiting in your solar until you tire of wanting for company. The latter part of your days were spent alone, a welcome solitude after constantly being attended to. You would paint, or read, or embroider, though sitting down with your harp would be the most enjoyable of all.

You had brought your lovely carved instrument to the capital when you wed, a piece of home brought with you into a foreign court. A room at the end of the hall was bestowed upon you dedicated to your music playing, conveniently placed at the end of the hall and away from your husband’s apartments. 

Your fingers never tire of strumming tune after tune. It was the greatest pleasure in your young life to be able to procure sweet melodies ever since you were a girl. Music filled you with something bright, something alive. You could close your eyes, lean on your harp and nothing else would matter. The scriptures would describe devout faith as the means to unlocking a divine state of being, an otherworldly form where one was light as air. You would argue that music served the same purpose.

It was easy to get lost in it all. The hours would effortlessly pass you by and nightfall would greet you when you floated back to the ground. You would have to be reminded of supper sometimes, or if the king required your presence in his bedchamber. However, there was less of that these days. 

Thus, it came as a surprise when one day, while finishing up the tail end of the song of Alysanne, you found a pair of amethyst eyes watching you from the open door of your music room. Jaehaera stood there with a hand on the doorknob, curiosity evident in her face.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, turning to the young princess at your door with a soft smile. “Hello, princess.”

Not a word was uttered from Jaehaera’s lips, merely staring at you with those bright violet hues that shone in the late afternoon sun. You hadn’t spent much time with her, much to your regret. The king, a scholar partial to the importance of academics, had her busied with lessons from both the septa and the maester. The growing concerns about the princess’ well-being reached your ears in hushed whispers, as did the efforts of your husband to care for her fragility.

“I wasn’t too loud, was I?” you quipped lightheartedly, tilting your head in hopes of spurring a reaction from the quiet girl. Her response came in the form of a shake of the head; you figured that was a start. She seemed to be without her septa, nor her handmaiden, only the armor-clad Kingsguard standing tall behind her smaller form. Your eyes flickered to the knight, stating the princess would be under your care, and nodding to him as the door closed shut. “Come,” you beckoned.

She approached you with small, unsure steps until she stood an arm’s length away. You watched as she eyed the instrument with an inquisitive gaze, and you wondered if the Targaryens ever expressed interest in diverting affairs like music. With the look on Jaehaera’s face at the foreign object, you figured not. “Have you ever played the harp before?” you asked, earning another shake of the head, wispy silver tresses swaying with movement. “No?” She fidgeted on her feet, small hands absentmindedly playing with the gold embroidery on her skirts. Her eyes displayed the intrigue her lips would not voice, and it spurned a twinge in your chest. “Would you like to try?” you offered, which made her eyes flicker to look at you for the first.

“I do not know how,” she said unsurely, voice small and meek. You were delighted to hear her speak, ever more encouraged to become familiar with the young princess.

“Tis rather simple! Here, try this,” you suggested, tugging on one of the strings for her to follow. She approached the carved wood, pulling the thin hair with less sureness than you did. It visibly vibrated as Jaehaera let go, a low chord flittering through the room. You held onto the harp as the young princess, interest now fully piqued, tugged on another string, now a higher tone. “It sounds different, doesn’t it?” 

You let her pull on the strings as she liked, merely holding the instrument steady while you watched her with a smile. You had half a mind to pull her into your lap and hold her close as if she were your own, but that would be too forward. She had gone through much, been made subject to brutalities at the hands of barbaric adults that made your heart quiver at the thought of such an innocent soul going through all of it. Though your womb remained childless, you’ve always wished for children of your own. Granted, you assumed you would not be blessed with a babe any time soon if the lessening instances you and your husband tried to procreate were anything to go by, but the maternal urges in your budding heart grew in the presence of the girl. You wished to care for her if she would let you.

“Would you like to learn how to play a song, sweetling? Your favorite one perhaps,” you suggested. Her eyes brightened at your offer, eagerly taking a place on your bench when you scooted over for her to sit. Flowers of Spring, she told you. A rather elaborate song to perform for someone having never played, though you figured you could teach her the simple way of creating the melody.

You shifted to let the harp lean between the both of you, taking the weight on your leg lest it became too heavy for her. Jaehaera looked so small beneath the large instrument, her arms not lengthy enough to reach the last few strings. You watched with vivid amusement at her instantaneous shift in focusing on following which stings you tugged on. Her silver, almost white, brows furrowed when she would make the wrong note, a huff of frustration escaping her nose.

“It’s alright, just try again,” you comforted her softly. There was no real melody yet, merely a few notes played carefully in the right order, but her dedication was quite stellar. It reminded you of yourself in your girlhood, when you would escape from your own lessons with the septa in your home just to play your harp. Suffering your father’s ire was a welcome consequence if it meant you could escape the present world for a moment.

A knock on your door interrupted your impromptu tutoring, gathering both your attention. The grand oak opened to reveal your handmaiden carrying a steaming pot of tea, followed by another young servant with a tray full of teacakes and pastries. “Your afternoon tea, my queen,” she said, greeting you with a curtsy. You caught the way Jaehaera’s bright purple hues followed the sight of fresh treats, quietly observing as the table was prepared for your enjoyment. If what you heard from the maester was anything to go by, you knew the young girl was starved.

“Shall we take a break for a moment, Jaehaera? I often find myself rather famished after a bit of playing. Don’t you feel the same?” you asked, earning another meek nod from the girl. You soon found yourselves sitting by the open balcony, preparing the young princess a plate. With every bite she took, the more she spoke. Words flowed out of her crumb-lined lips, telling of anything that came to mind— her lessons, her dragon, even the dreams she would have of her mother. It was evident how much she had longed to have a listening ear, jumping from topic to topic without finishing the last, and so, you listened.

“What do you mean no one has seen her? How could you imbeciles lose a young girl?!” 

Aemond’s head was already throbbing hard enough from the tedious council meeting that took up the better part of his afternoon. What made it worse was the news that greeted him the moment he exited the small council chamber. Jaehaera was nowhere to be found, having slipped away from her afternoon customs at the library to gods know where. An instant panic settled into a chill in his spine, the memory of hearing of his sister’s peril taunting him in the back of his mind. He took slow, deep breaths, willing himself to calm. 

He couldn’t think this way. He shouldn’t get ahead of himself. Aemond had promised Helaena that her girl would be protected under his care. He can’t fail her again.

Both Jaehaera’s septa and handmaiden quivered under the king’s deathly glare, heads bowed in fear of meeting his eye. “The princess was to take her lessons, Your Grace, though a matter requiring my attention with the maester had my arrival delayed, and when I arrived… s-she was not in the library.” Exasperated, Aemond pinched the bridge of his nose. The thumping in his temples only worsened at such incompetence. 

“Her guard, where is he?”

The silence that greeted him made his hand itch to draw his sword to cut their heads off right then and there, but the arrival of a squire stopped him before he gave in to his violent urges. “My king,” he bowed. “The queen has offered her invitation for supper in her apartments.”

Gods, you sure had your timing. He waved his hand off in an angry dismissal, resolve now cluttered at what to do first. Your sudden invitation was rather odd. Aemond wouldn't deny he hadn’t cared for his wife much. His mother was sure to be reeling in her grave on his shameful treatment of such a refined woman, but you merely came with his duty.

However, he was still a man. The indifferent king would admit you were as comely as they came and of good upbringing. He was rather appreciative of the fact you were never too forward, only ever eager to drink up any ounce of attention he gave you. Until now, it seemed. 

“The queen has expressed your presence would be greatly appreciated, my king. She hopes it would be the most pleasing for all of you to dine together for your meals.”

All? 

Aemond could scarcely recall a time in the short moons you had been married when he had purposefully sought you out in your wing of the royal halls. The path to your apartments was unfamiliar, the sight that greeted him in its interior even more so. “Husband,” you greeted him from the dining table upon his entrance. Your smile welcomed him with a warmth he had refused himself to be familiar with, your eyes sparkling against the amber glow of the hearth. His apparent confusion seemed to amuse you, mirth decorating your lips as you watched him approach. 

Aemond’s good eye flickered at the sight of his niece, his anxiety from her disappearance bubbling down into an aggravation that tickled his sharp tongue. “You have left the castle in shambles, Jaehaera. Escaping your lessons like that! What have I told you about wandering off unchaperoned?” he scolded, though his ire was quick to falter at the pitiful look that flashed across her cherubic face at his tone. Jaehaera dropped her eyes to her lap, fidgeting with the napkin in her hold.

A soft hold on his wrist prevented him from speaking any further, your beseeching gaze unknowingly loosening the tension he held in his shoulders as you rose from your seat. “She was with me. I dismissed her guard while she spent the afternoon with me in the music room. I thought Ser Derek could guard us just fine. I should have informed you of it, ‘tis my fault, husband,” you explained with an apologetic look on your face. Aemond could only stare as you spoke, and he thought of a time when he was able to get a look at you this close. His mind drew blank. “Come sit, let us eat,” you beckoned him. He let you guide him to his seat, right beside yours. The small, round table served to make supper a rather intimate affair.

This all felt foreign to him. A wife who poured his wine for him, a little girl to care for, and made sure was well-fed. 

No book had taught him this. The one-eyed king was proficient in talks of politics, battle, and history, but not of domestic affairs. His upbringing surely wasn’t the standard to hold, he knew that much. Though it seemed you were more adept at this than he, gracefully bridging the gap around the table with a smile. “Would you like to tell your uncle what we did today, sweetling?” you asked with an urging nod.

His niece chewed on the small nibble of bread, pondering on her words. Aemond waited with bated breath to her speak. It had been far too long since he had heard her, past the small, one-worded response he would have to coax out of her, and even those were rare. “The queen showed me how to play the harp. I learned how to play some of Flowers of Spring, though it was quite hard, but I liked it,’ she said softly, punctuating her sentence with a bite of chicken. Aemond could tear up at the sound of her voice with such a simple answer. His chest started to feel lighter than it did in a long time. The smile that spread his cheeks wide couldn’t be helped, his relief palpable at the sight of her finally taking her meals.

“Wonderful, my darling. I am very pleased to hear you enjoyed yourself,” he remarked, his tone now rid of the harshness it held when he first walked into the room. His gaze met yours, already staring back at him. You shared a nod of understanding, and it was then the bridge between the king and his wife started to be crossed.

The young princess, who’d now taken her second plate of roasted potatoes, looked at his wife with an urging look. A flicker of remembrance had you turning back to him, voicing out her wishes. “Jaehaera has informed me of her wishes to learn music. She’s taken quite an interest in the harp, it seems.” Aemond turned to look at his niece’s eyes, small beads of amethyst that held glimmers of hope, and he couldn’t find it within himself to disapprove.

“Of course, we shall find you a mentor of your liking,” Aemond said, satisfied with the delighted look that overcame Jaehaera’s features. He’d scout the best tutor in all of Westeros himself it meant seeing the way her eyes lit up at his approval. It was the first time since the war that Aemond finally felt himself getting to her, a success sweeter than anything he’d felt on the battlefield.

Supper was a delight Aemond never expected to relish in as much as he did. The battle-hardened king had once resigned to the fact that he was alone in his glory, despite the many faces that swarm him daily. He was starting to realize his new life might not be as lonesome as he thought, with a niece who took his hand as they walked and a wife leading them to the room at the end of the hall. Your husband watched you with a newfound fascination as you strummed the strings on the harp, and you had never been so close to his reach. His good eye would study every furrow in your brow as you played, or the shift in your spine as you readjusted in your seat. Your eyes would close, carried away by the melodic tunes your fingers were able to create, and he thought you were utterly beautiful like this. He pondered on what other facets you had that made you whole, and how he could explore them. Perhaps he had been a fool; blind to what was before him. His lifelong strive for greatness had him believing he was cursed, destined to be struck down at his time of judgment. It was by some miracle that the gods deemed it fit to grant him a chance of a life of warmth and affection, a prize even more valuable than gold. “I must thank you, wife,” he said to you at the end of the night, bestowing a kiss on your knuckles that left you blushing.

You broke your fast together come morning. Afterwards, he found his way into the gardens to join you for tea. The first of many.

He would become acquainted with the path to your apartments for supper every night after that, as well as the sight of his niece and his wife awaiting him at the dinner table. The evenings would always be capped with an hour or two of you playing, and eventually, Jaehaera had mastered a few songs to play for you as you both looked on proudly. 

It would come as no surprise when he began to seek you out, a natural urge to get closer that had him yearning for his presence despite the call of his duties. His fondness only grew with the care you had shown his niece, an instinct that left him thinking how great you would be with a babe of your own. The gods would bless you when the time was right but until then, Aemond was pleased with the little family he had, with his niece and his lovely wife. 

[acid-ixx]

oooh so did we divorce Bruce, or is this an infidelity type of situation?

a loving family, an unpalatable desire: first meeting (unofficial)

— related post !

a/n: a tad bit nsfw. if this sounds messy, spare me. i'm running on like 4 hours of sleep and the will of a thirsty man in front of an oasis. i told yall im going insane for this plotline. ofc a&a still has my heart but I also love to occasionally write for smth else in the sidelines. send in more asks yall hehe.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

definitely an infidelity type of situation, anon! you see, the affair was caused by all mere coincidence. you were to attend with bruce in one of lex luthor's extravagant show of a gala, hold his arm for a brief moment when you walk out of the limousine, only to be abandoned right in the middle of the enormous room.

of course, the right reaction was to be pissed, to badmouth the very man who decided to court and entertain others in front of you; but you chose to stay silent, biting back choked tears by stumbling over the buffet table, only to be met with stupid, overbearing paparazzi and journalists.

so when clark kent rushes in to save you from stuttering over the dozens of microphones and cameras shoved right in your face, granting them access to your pathetic sobs— it's only right that your first reaction was to lean against his body, dismissing the hushed, harsh gossips of journalists.

it was at a time where you're not aware of his identity of superman. well, bruce barely permits you to enter the batcave, only if you stubbornly pester alfred does he let you, only to kick you, his darling spouse right out the moment you step on the cold, hard floors of the lair.

so it's not... a bad thing, right? your husband had a child with another woman, raised him as his own, didn't even bother to notify you with his infidelity— so is it your fault if you slowly start to fall for a man who promises you the world? who actually has the ability to give you the world in the palm of your hands? whose kid lets you pamper him without any fight?

sure, he's coping with... the loss of his previous wife but you're such a perfect spouse, so undeniably attractive, captivating in the hearts of many. your distant eyes, the way you bite the inside of your cheeks, the way your body sways back and forth as if begging for someone, your husband, to provide you a pillar of support in the suffocating heat of paparazzi.

he could be that pillar, could be your support.

when he first came up to you, his intentions weren't to obtain gossip about the oh-so silent spouse of bruce wayne. he didn't even want to acknowledge your marital status, palms already taking your wrist just so he could lead you off to somewhere quieter.

"it's an interview," he whispers an excuse to your reddened ears. but the buzz of his breath, the warmth, the caged arm on your waist tells you it's more than that.

but you don't fight back, you'd rather be anywhere than be the spotlight of a media that eats you up, makes you doubt your marriage even more.

so you're grateful that someone came to your rescue.

this would be the first time you ever saw someone as a savior, and it's not superman, no. it's clark kent, your resident, widowed, journalist.

and for clark's case, you warm his bed better than anything else. you allow clark this sense of respite, a break from heroic activities. allow him to be human, just as he allows you to play your fantasies of being a house spouse; you're perfect for each other.

to hell with useless marriage papers that don't even give bruce a sense of obligation to act as your husband, right? what can it do, when you're absolutely smitten with the current life you're living?

the first stages of your infidelity with clark is confusing, but very much welcomed into your already hectic life.

firstly, you convince yourself, it was all mere 'emotional cheating'. you began texting clark, he does too. an occasional greeting in messages, a passing congratulation for something, then the next it was good morning messages, 'have you eaten breakfast yet?, 'how'd the appointment go?'.

you don't know when it started, when your feelings started, when you began an intimate to romantic relationship with the man— all you knew was that the moment he revealed his superhero identity was the moment he decided to bed you for the night, the moment you grant the man, now your partner, access to every part of your depraved body, made him make you beg for more, giving him all the time in the world to kiss your imperfections, to fondle sensitive parts long untouched, to leave lovebites deeper and darker than the ones you caught bruce with.

you can't help it, he's unknowingly handsome, especially when he invites you over to his ma and pa's farm the next day, pretending to not notice the way your eyes hungrily flit over his topless body, sweat and budding pecs encased in a muscled form. over the course of dinner, you kept biting your lips, warm cheeks at the implications that clark merely wanted to sit next to you just so he could handfeed you, something about him being prideful that you'd definitely enjoy this week's harvest... but his fingers circling your thighs just seems to get you brain all haywired.

yet you stay, and continue visiting for long hours either way, enjoying the man's attention.

you know it's wrong, he knows it's wrong. but the way his son, jon looks at you like you mean the world, the way he's slowly starting to heal the longer you stay over at his place makes clark want to... what's the word? ah, he wants to turn you into his loving trophy spouse. all you need to do is provide jon with all the support in the world.

as for bruce... well, him and his family can deal with your absence for the first few months. but when the lingering feeling of emptiness becomes too much, when bruce no longer feels the worried gazes, or when dick can't hear anymore laughter in one of the supposed 'barren' rooms, or when tim's security systems tracked a missing device, one now in a completely different city.

that's when they start to yearn for someone they purposely let go