#one of the worlds greatest undefeated warriors is a woman

[wraith-caller]

Never been a fan of people trying to shape the Golden Order into conservative Christianity. Reading fics where they talk about women needing to be "traditional" or seen but not heard, when the figurehead of the Order is a woman who has waged loads of wars, had two husbands, makes a point of examining her faith rather than submissively accepting it. Seeing posts that seem to say the GO is villainizing the use of sorcery, a way of deriding the carians, when one of the greatest champions of the Order himself studied sorcery of his own volition, and married perhaps the greatest sorceress ever known. There's nothing to indicate the GO ever had a beef with the practice of sorcery, and it's not like they shuttered Raya Lucaria after the union of the Moon and Erdtree. Cringing every time someone describes Fundamentalism as the "thoughtless extremist" wing of the Order when it's supposed to be about taking a scholarly approach to the examination of the laws of causality and regression.

Idk. It's just, there's so many reasons to be skeeved out by the GO, and it exists within a fantasy with a totally distinct history from our own world. While there are obviously influences from a wide variety of real-world sources on the mythology and world of the game, it's not a direct copy of reality. It's lame to see sth so full of opportunity for interesting world building from fans just turned into a watered down copy of what they despise in reality.

[cosmicaura7]

THREADS OF FATE

Pairings : pedro pascal (marcus acacius) x megara!reader

Genre : (AU where Ancient Greece and Rome existed at the same time, Hercules/Herakles is the general of Greece, use of Y/N L/N for reader and is the princess of Greece, inspired by Megara, described to have long hair, angst, mentions of death and war, sexual tension?, enemies to lovers trope, Marcus is an asshole at first)

Synopsis : In which the general of Rome captures the princess of Greece.

Word Count : 8.7k

Taglist : @orcasoul

Moodboard :

-----

“FOR THE GLORY OF ROME!” 

The general of Rome proudly shouts in victory as his entire army of soldiers and warriors rejoices that Rome has once again won another war.

The air was thick with the stench of smoke and the clamor of soldiers as the Roman legions paraded through the conquered lands of Greece. The earth trembled beneath the weight of their triumph, Rome's banner now draped over the fallen city. The battle had been brutal, the resistance fierce, but in the end, the might of Rome had crushed it all.

Marcus Acacius, victorious and undefeated, rode at the head of his men, his armor gleaming in the dying light of the day. His eyes were sharp, his mind calculating. The campaign had been long and taxing, but Greece was finally subdued. The banners of Rome now flew high across the lands, marking the fall of one of the greatest civilizations to ever rise. And Marcus, he had earned his place as a general in the annals of Roman history.

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a fiery red glow over the battlefield, Marcus’s steely gaze fell upon something that made him pull his horse to a halt. It was not the bodies of fallen soldiers, nor the smoldering ruins of a once-great city that caught his attention, it was the figure of a woman, kneeling amidst the wreckage of what had once been a proud Greek encampment.

Her hair cascaded around her face, her lavender dress stained with dirt and blood. Her posture was one of deep grief, as if the weight of the world had fallen upon her slender shoulders. Her eyes, swollen from crying, stared mournfully at the lifeless body cradled in her arms. The man she held was the very same Greek general who had fought against Marcus, whom he had killed in the final battle.

Her lover.

General Herakles.

For a moment, Marcus’s heart twisted in an unfamiliar way. It was a fleeting emotion, one he could barely comprehend, but it was there. The sight of her, clutching the body of the man who had once been her world, made something within him shift. He had never been a man to pity, but there was something about the raw anguish in her eyes that unsettled him.

The soldiers around him were unaware of the emotional stirrings of their commander, too busy with the spoils of war to notice the woman. But Marcus's mind was far from the victory feast awaiting them back in Rome. He dismounted from his horse with a swift motion, his cloak swirling around him. The rest of his men watched curiously, but none dared to question his actions.

“General.” One of his soldiers ventured cautiously, “We’ve taken the city.”

“I see that.” Marcus interrupted, his voice cold and sharp. He didn’t need the reminders of their conquest. His eyes remained fixed on the once princess of Greece.

Without a word, he began to walk toward her, his footsteps soft but steady on the charred earth. She did not notice him at first, too lost in her sorrow, her fingers gently caressing the dead general’s face, her lips whispering words of mourning. Her eyes were glazed over, lost in the final moment of what she had loved.

It was only when Marcus’s shadow fell over her that she lifted her gaze, her eyes locking onto his with a mixture of disbelief and fury. She recognized him immediately. The man who had taken everything from her, the man whose sword had ended the life of the only man she had ever truly loved. The same man who brought her home into ruins.

Her breath hitched, and the tears that had not yet dried began to spill once more. This time, however, they were no longer the tears of a woman mourning a lover, they were the tears of a princess wronged. Her grief hardened into something darker, more dangerous. The last thing she wanted was to face this man again. She had wished that she would never have to look upon his face again after what he has done.

But here he was.

“What are you still doing here, you monster? I thought you would be long gone by now.” Y/N spat, her voice trembling with a mixture of hate and sorrow. “Your precious Rome has betrayed us. You made sure to rob him of the chance to defend himself, to defend our lands.”

Marcus’s jaw clenched as she spoke. Her words were like daggers, each one striking a place inside of him he didn’t know was vulnerable. The way she spoke, with such raw venom, reminded him of why he had fought in the first place. To keep the world in order. To bend it to Rome’s will.

But the sight of her now, holding her dead lover, pierced through that certainty.

Her words struck deeper than the blade he had buried in her lover’s chest.

“Get up.” He ordered, his voice low and commanding. “We are leaving.”

The soldiers who followed Marcus approached slowly, unsure of what to make of the scene unfolding before them. One of them moved toward Y/N to drag her away, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even acknowledge the soldiers at first.

She simply stared at Marcus, her eyes cold, narrowing with every passing second.

“I won’t go with you.” She said firmly, her voice stronger now. “You have already taken everything from me. Do you truly think I would ever willingly follow you?”

Marcus’s gaze hardened. “You will follow me because I command it. You are coming back to Rome as a symbol of the victory of Rome. The world will know that even Greece has fallen to the might of the empire.”

Y/N shook her head, tears streaking down her face once more, but there was no defeat in her eyes. There was only the fire of defiance. “I have no place in your empire, Roman. I am a prisoner of my own sorrow, not yours. Do you think you can break me by forcing me into chains? You have already taken my life from me. I will not allow you to strip me of my dignity.”

The tension between them was palpable, but Marcus’s face remained stoic, unreadable. He had commanded the deaths of many, and had crushed countless opponents beneath his heel. He had brought entire cities to their knees, and this woman, this Greek woman, was no different.

“Chain her.” Marcus ordered coldly. “And bring her to the camp.”

Y/N resisted as they moved to restrain her, but the soldiers were swift and strong. She fought back with every ounce of her strength, but the pain in her chest was too overwhelming, and the soldiers’ iron grip proved stronger than her fury.

She was dragged away, her head held high despite the pain that coursed through her, her thoughts a storm of hatred and grief. Her world had been taken from her once, and now, once again, she would find herself under Roman control.

As the soldiers escorted the princess of Greece toward the Roman camp, Marcus Acacius rode silently beside them, his mind a tangled web of thoughts. He had won his victory, but in the depths of his heart, something unsettled him. Something about her, the way she had defied him, the strength in her sorrow, made him wonder if this war had truly been won.

The road to Rome was long, but the battle within Marcus had only just begun.

-----

The clinking of iron shackles echoed through the entire camp, the rusted irons grills of her cell and the undeniable scent of blood filled her senses. Y/N L/N, her form cast in shadows, paced back and forth in her cell, her mind sharp despite her exhaustion. The faint smell of blood and sweat filled her nostrils, but it was nothing compared to the bitterness that had settled in her chest. The memories of her life before captivity seemed like distant echoes, a cruel reminder of what had been lost.

She thinks back to the abandoned corpse of her husband, General Herakles, a man who had fought valiantly for their people. The now rotting corpses of her soldiers, her people and everyone who she had no choice but to leave behind, abandoning them to the desolate lands that were once the majestic grounds of Greece, her beloved home. But that was before Marcus Acacius had entered the battlefield, before he had torn her world asunder. He had slain her beloved husband in cold blood, a man she had adored and cherished. The very same man whom she was promised to and has shared dreams and promises of creating a brighter future together for Greece. Marcus's name had haunted her every waking moment since, a reminder of the power that men held and the devastation they could leave in their wake.

Her captors, the Roman soldiers, had treated her with the same cruel indifference they afforded to any prisoners of war. They all know who she was. The royal blood running through her veins and the crown she holds high upon her head. But they didn’t give a damn. To them, she was just another woman to be paraded in the gladiator pits, another piece of property in a city overflowing with ambition and lust for power. A reminder of their victory and glory for another war won. A proof of their never ending greed to expand their dynasty like it was the damn plague.

Her hair, tied into a high ponytail, swayed as she moved, the curls at the tips bouncing with each step. The lavender dress she wore clung to her form, accentuating her curves, but it was a mere symbol of her past life, a time before she had been reduced to a mere shadow of herself. The golden strap of her dress dug into her skin, reminding her of the chains that still bound her, metaphorically and physically. Her eyes were sharp and calculating, yet betrayed a deep sorrow that had no end.

Y/N had learned to keep her thoughts to herself. She knew better than to speak freely in this land of men who valued conquest above compassion. But despite her cold exterior, she dreamed of escape, of vengeance, of a world where men like Marcus Acacius did not get to dictate the fates of those they saw as lesser.

The fates had a cruel sense of humor, for now Marcus found himself standing before her. The same woman, who was once the princess of Greece. The same defiance that he has seen in countless prisoners that Rome has taken. And now she is no longer the dignified princess of Greece and was nothing more than a slave, bound to a life that had no dignity.

-----

The grand city of Rome was a sight to behold in the wake of its victory over Greece. The streets buzzed with triumphant energy as the Roman people poured out from their homes, eager to witness the return of their victorious general. Banners flew proudly from every corner, the golden eagle of Rome soaring high above, a symbol of power that now stretched across the lands of Greece. The people roared in approval, their chants rising up in a cacophony of celebration.

Marcus Acacius rode at the head of his soldiers, his armored figure a symbol of Rome’s invincibility. The cheers from the masses grew louder with each step he took. They hailed his name, shouting, "Marcus! Marcus!" The streets seemed to pulse with the energy of the people’s adoration, their voices like a thunderous storm that seemed to echo through the very foundations of the city.

But amidst the jubilation, Marcus’s gaze remained focused, his expression as stoic as ever. Though he basked in the glory of Rome’s triumph, there was something that gnawed at the edges of his mind. The sight of Y/N walking beside him, her chains that he was holding in his very hands, was a stark reminder of the weight of what he had done.

Y/N L/N, the Greek woman who had once held the heart of her fallen general, now stood at the center of Roman pride. Her eyes burned with defiance, her head held high, her posture regal even in the face of captivity. She did not beg for mercy. She did not weep like the many others had when brought to Rome as prisoners. No, she stood as a noblewoman would, unyielding, proud, and fierce in her own sorrow.

Her chains clinked with every step, the iron biting into the skin of her wrists, but she didn’t flinch. To the Roman people, she was but a symbol, an object of conquest, a mere prisoner to be paraded before their eyes. Yet, the princess of Greece was not so easily broken.

Her lavender dress, though now stained and torn from the journey, still held an air of dignity. The golden straps, now dulled from the harsh journey, glinted faintly as the sunlight caught them. Her hair, once immaculately styled, now fell in, tangled waves, but it didn’t matter. She was still beautiful, still a force to be reckoned with. Her eyes, though filled with the remnants of grief, held an unshakable strength that no Roman could take from her.

Marcus’s fingers curled around the chains that connected them, the weight of them in his hand a constant reminder of his authority, but even as he gripped them, he found his attention drawn to the woman beside him. There was something about the way she carried herself, as though she were not a prisoner at all. The crowds around them may have been celebrating Rome’s triumph, but Y/N’s quiet defiance was a challenge, one that lingered in the air like a slow-burning flame.

The people of Rome could see nothing but a prisoner at Marcus’s side, a broken woman who had lost everything. But Y/N knew better. She knew her worth, and she would not let these people forget that she was not just a casualty of war. She had been a figure of nobility, a woman with a past that was far more complicated than they could ever know. And in her heart, she would continue to hold herself as such, no matter the chains that bound her.

“Do they think you’ll beg for mercy, Greek?” Marcus’s voice cut through the sounds of the celebration. His gaze was still forward, but his words were pointed, as though testing her resolve. “You may be a woman of Greece, but here, you are nothing but a prisoner.”

Y/N didn’t turn to him, her steps steady as she walked beside him, feeling the weight of the eyes upon her. She had no intention of letting her spirit be crushed by this Roman parade. Her eyes scanned the crowd, the faces of the people who watched her as though she were an exhibit, a trophy to be admired.

“I will not beg for mercy.” Y/N replied, her voice low but firm. She met his gaze with a quiet intensity, her eyes never wavering from his. “And you will not break me. You may have conquered Greece, but you will never conquer me.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened at her words, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The people around them cheered louder, a deafening roar rising up from the masses as they reached the grand stairs leading to the Imperial Palace. There, a large crowd had crowded for Marcus’s triumphant return, where he would receive the accolades of Rome’s Emperors, senate and the people alike. The princess of Greece, however, was not to be treated as a guest. She was led to a smaller, less ceremonious area, far from the glory that awaited her captor.

The grandeur of the Imperial Palace was like no other in the empire. Marble columns stretched high into the sky, their surfaces gleaming with the brilliance of Rome’s wealth and power. Statues of past emperors lined the hallways, their stern faces gazing down on all who dared to enter. The palace buzzed with the preparations for the grand assembly where Marcus Acacius, the hero of Rome, would present his proof of conquest, Y/N L/N, the last of Greece’s nobility, captured and soon brought before the Emperor Brothers as the symbol of Rome’s undeniable triumph.

Marcus stood at the entrance of the lavish hall, his gaze focused on the grand throne of the imperial seat. The twin brothers, Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla, sat upon their thrones, their regal figures imposing in their splendor. Their eyes shifted to Marcus as he entered, the rumble of murmurs from the attendants around them quieting instantly at the sight of the victorious general. But their attention soon shifted toward the figure standing at his side.

Y/N stood tall and unwavering, her chains still hanging at her wrists, her head held high with defiance as ever. Her eyes, burning with an indignant fire, glanced across the room, meeting the Emperor’s gaze with unwavering poise. She did not flinch, not for a moment, under the weight of the attention that fell upon her. Her lavender dress, now even more torn and sullied from the journey, clung to her lithe figure. The golden spiral pendant on her hips glinted faintly, despite the dirt that had stained her skin. Even now, she is still beautiful. 

Radiantly, stubbornly beautiful.

The Emperor brothers exchanged a look, their gazes moving from Marcus to Y/N. It was Geta, older of the two, who broke the silence first, his eyes widening as he took in her appearance. He had seen many prisoners in his time, but none quite like this woman. Her beauty was undeniable, and it sent an unexpected thrill through him.

“Ah, General Acacius.” Emperor Geta said, his voice smooth, though his eyes lingered a moment too long on Y/N. “You have indeed brought us a most... captivating prize. This one…” He motioned towards the princess with a nod of his head, his tone shifting into something more indulgent, “...is truly the epitome of Greek beauty, is she not?”

Y/N’s eyes flashed with a barely contained contempt, her lips twisting into a thin smile that was anything but friendly. The chains clinked with every slight movement of her hands, but she ignored them as she met Geta’s eyes directly.

“Compliments from a man such as you mean nothing.” The princess replied coldly, her voice laced with acid. “Your words may flatter, but they do not change the fact that you are a man who needs a woman's beauty only to satisfy your own insatiable ego.”

Geta blinked, momentarily taken aback by her harshness. But he refused to let her words strike him down. He leaned forward, attempting to regain his composure.

“Such a sharp tongue.” He smirked, clearly undeterred. “I admire it, Greek. You should be honored by the attention I offer you.”

Y/N recoiled, the disgust clear in her eyes. She took a step back, a deliberate action that sent a subtle but distinct message. The chains that bound her wrists clinked loudly, marking her defiance.

“I am no toy for your amusement.” She shot back, her voice unwavering. “I will not sit idly by and be paraded as some mere decoration for you to ogle. I am a woman of Greece, a noblewoman, a princess and I will not allow you or your Roman bastards to treat me as something less.”

The room fell silent, the tension thick and palpable as her words hung in the air. Marcus, who had been standing off to the side, watching the exchange, remained unmoved. He had anticipated her defiance, expected it even, but there was something in the way she spoke that made the situation feel more personal.

Caracalla, the younger brother, shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he observed the scene. He was more outgoing than Geta, but now he was deadly serious for some reason, his face impassive, his posture rigid. There was something cold in his gaze as he appraised Y/N.

“Enough, brother.” Caracalla spoke, his voice low and firm. He turned his attention to Marcus, the weight of his authority suddenly felt throughout the room. “You’ve brought us the woman as a symbol of Greece’s fall. Let her beauty be the final tribute to their defeat. But do not forget her place.”

Geta bristled at his brother’s intervention, but he quickly quelled any sign of irritation. He turned to Y/N, who had yet to take her eyes off him, her defiance burning like an unquenchable fire.

“You are lucky to stand here.” Geta said, his tone now tinged with frustration. “You may be a prisoner, but your beauty alone might grant you some measure of respect. Do not make the mistake of forgetting where you are.”

Y/N’s lips curled in a bitter laugh, her gaze never wavering from Geta’s. “Respect?” She scoffed. “You think I would ever accept respect from the likes of you, a man who hides behind the power of an empire to get what he wants? You are nothing but a coward, wearing a crown that is built on the suffering of others.”

The words struck like a slap, and for the first time, Geta’s expression faltered. His lips parted, as though ready to retort, but no words came. He was taken aback, not by her beauty this time, but by her sheer audacity. Y/N L/N was not like any prisoner he had encountered.

Marcus stepped forward, his voice firm, interrupting the tense silence that followed Y/N’s insult. “Enough.” He commanded, his eyes narrowing as he addressed both emperors and the princess of Greece. “She may be a prisoner, but I will not tolerate her disrespect toward you, Emperor Geta.”

But Geta raised a hand, signaling Marcus to silence himself. “It is not her disrespect I care for, General.” He said slowly, his gaze still focused on Y/N. “It is her spirit that intrigues me. She may not be a toy, but she certainly is a challenge.”

Caracalla leaned forward then, his eyes narrowing with cold calculation. “Perhaps it is that very spirit that will make her valuable to us, Marcus. Not only as a symbol, but as a reminder to Greece of the cost of defiance.”

Marcus nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Y/N had defied not just the Roman soldiers who had captured her, but the very authority of the Emperors themselves. The fire within her, that unyielding strength, was both admirable and troubling. He could not deny that it intrigued him, and perhaps even unsettled him in ways he had not expected.

“We will see if she can be tamed.” Marcus said under his breath, his gaze lingering on Y/N, who stood before the Emperors with her head held high, still refusing to bow to any of them.

The crowds around them continued their celebration, oblivious to her defiance, to the fire that still burned in her heart. They cheered for Marcus Acacius, the man who had brought them victory, the man who had crushed Greece beneath Rome’s boot. But as he took his place at the center of the stage for the Emperors to reward him for his victory, his eyes flickered briefly back toward Y/N. In the midst of the grandeur and adoration, something within him stirred. She was different from the other prisoners he had taken. She wasn’t broken. She wasn’t like the others who had begged and cried for mercy. There was a strength in her—a fire—that he had not expected.

As the evening wore on and the celebrations continued, Marcus could not shake the thought of her. He had conquered Greece, but in Y/N L/N, he had found a challenge unlike any other, a challenge that could not be measured in battles or bloodshed.

For in the end, it wasn’t Greece that had fallen. It was something far more elusive. Something he would need to reckon with in the days to come.

And Y/N, even in chains, had left her mark on him.

-----

The grand marble halls of Marcus Acacius’s home were starkly different from the humble yet regal surroundings Y/N L/N had once known in Greece. Here, everything gleamed with the opulence of the Roman Empire, gilded statues of past emperors staring down from every corner, while the walls were adorned with intricate mosaics depicting Roman conquests and celebrations. The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers and the ever-present undertone of wealth.

It was within this imposing estate that Y/N found herself, though not as a guest, not as a noblewoman of Greece, but as a lowly servant—reduced to the status of a mere scullery maid.

The irony was not lost on her.

Once, she had stood proudly by the side of a general whose name echoed through the halls of Greece. She had been a woman of power, of influence. Now, her wrists were bound by the very chains she once wore as a prisoner, yet now they were metaphorical as well as literal. The chains of servitude were a constant reminder that she had fallen far from grace.

Y/N was led through the grand halls, the whispers of Roman servants and soldiers falling silent at the sight of her, the once proud and beautiful woman now relegated to the task of cleaning, scrubbing, and serving the very man who had stripped her of everything she held dear. She walked with her head held high, though the weight of it all bore down on her. Her eyes never once flinched from the ground, for she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her beaten down.

“Clean the kitchens. Prepare the meal.” The steward ordered coldly, handing her a wooden bucket and a scrubbing brush. Y/N didn’t respond, her expression unreadable, her thoughts a turbulent storm inside her mind. The very thought of serving Marcus Acacius, the man who had caused the death of her lover and conquered her homeland, was a bitter pill she could hardly swallow.

But she would not show them weakness. Not here, not in Rome.

With measured steps, she moved to the kitchens, the servants parting before her as though she were some shadow from the past, lingering just outside their world. The clang of pots and the simmer of the fires seemed distant, muffled by the thoughts clouding her mind.

As the princess of Greece set to work, scrubbing the floor with practiced precision, her thoughts wandered back to the day she had been captured. She had been clutching her husband’s lifeless body in her arms, her grief as palpable as the air she breathed. And then, the soldiers had come for her. They hadn’t allowed her the dignity of mourning. They had ripped her away from the battlefield, from her husband’s side, and dragged her to this cold, heartless city, forcing her to exist as nothing more than a trophy of war.

She had been nothing but a prize.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, heavy and deliberate. Y/N’s heart quickened for a moment, but she steeled herself, returning to her task. She would not look up.

“Still working, I see.” Marcus Acacius’s voice rang out from the entrance, smooth and commanding.

Y/N’s body tensed. She recognized his tone, the authority in his voice. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lookup, so she kept her gaze fixed on the floor as she continued to scrub.

“You know, Greek, I could have chosen any number of positions for you.” Marcus continued, his voice tinged with something unreadable, his footsteps approaching closer. “But I thought this would be the most... fitting.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat for a brief moment before she exhaled sharply through her nose, still not looking at him. “Fitting?” She repeated, her voice low but sharp, laced with disgust. “You think it fitting to reduce me, a Greek royalty, to the level of your servants? To have me crawl on the floors, cleaning after the very man who has destroyed everything I once knew?”

Marcus chuckled, a sound that did not reach his eyes. He moved to stand just behind her, watching her work. “It is nothing personal, Greek. It is simply the way of things. Rome is the victor, and the spoils of war are always claimed by those who have the strength to take them.”

Y/N paused for a moment, the brush still in her hand as her mind raced. She wanted to lash out, to throw every insult she had ever known in his face. But she knew better. She was not yet broken, not yet defeated.

Without turning to him, she replied, her voice steady, though tinged with defiance. “And I suppose you believe this will make me accept my place here. As your slave. As your property.”

Marcus did not respond at first. The silence between them stretched long, almost painfully, until Y/N felt his presence move, his hand grabbing a hold of her face as if to force her to turn and look at him.

She froze, but only for a moment.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet him, her eyes locking onto his with a piercing intensity that could cut through any pretense of control he might have. His expression was unreadable, but there was a glint in his eyes that was unmistakable, a recognition of the strength he still held over her.

“You are my property, Greek.” Marcus said, his voice quiet, yet it carried the weight of something deeper. Something more complex than he had let on. “But you are here because I choose to keep you. You will remain under my roof, in my service, and you will learn your place in Rome, as all those who come here must.”

Y/N’s pulse quickened, the words slicing through her like a dagger.

“You may have conquered my homeland, Marcus Acacius.” She said, her voice soft but firm. “But you will never conquer me. I will not bow to you. Not ever.”

For a moment, Marcus stared at her, his face unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, his steps echoing in the quiet room.

Y/N, left alone in the kitchen, let out the breath she had been holding. Her heart raced, and her fingers gripped the scrub brush so tightly that her knuckles turned white. But there was no break in her posture, no crack in the armor she had carefully crafted. She would never be a slave, not in spirit, not in heart. Not while there was breath in her body.

She would bide her time.

Rome may have won the battle, but Y/N had not yet given in. She was still the proud woman of Greece, and that, above all, was something they could never take from her.

-----

The following days blurred together, each one melding into the next like the rhythmic motion of a pendulum. Y/N L/N, now a permanent fixture in Marcus Acacius’s home, continued her duties as a maid, a servant, words that burned her tongue each time she was forced to acknowledge them. The once proud princess of Greece had been reduced to the very thing she had despised most, and yet she did not break. Her heart remained unyielding, a shield against the constant reminder of her fall from grace.

Marcus Acacius, ever the commander, never let her forget what she had lost.

He would pass her in the hallways, his eyes sharp as they raked over her form, and often, his gaze lingered just a little too long, as if he were savoring the power he wielded over her. His presence was a constant shadow over her existence, a reminder of the world she had once been a part of and the one she now lived in. He would sometimes stand by her as she worked, arms crossed over his chest, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

“Do you miss it, Greek?” He would ask, his tone tinged with something like amusement. “Your home, your people, the life you once had?”

She would not look up at him, nor would she allow her hands to tremble. She would continue to clean, to cook, to serve as though the weight of his words didn’t crush her heart. But deep inside, they did. They always did.

“I miss nothing.” She would say, her voice as cold and steady as the marble floors she scrubbed. 

“Nothing but my dignity, which you’ve stolen.”

He would laugh at her response, the sound rich and full of mirth, as though her defiance was something to be enjoyed. It was never the same with him. With every word, every glance, Marcus reminded her that she had been conquered. That she was nothing more than a prisoner of war.

Yet Y/N never let him see how much it hurt. She couldn’t. If she did, it would be the last victory he would have over her.

Her life in his home was a series of monotonous tasks: cleaning, preparing meals, ensuring the needs of his household were met. There were moments when she thought she might slip into despair, moments when the weight of it all threatened to drag her under, but she would not allow it.

Instead, she found solace in the little rebellions, the small moments where she could still maintain some semblance of her former self. She refused to let her appearance suffer. Each day, she would pull her hair into the same high ponytail, the curls at the tips still framing her face with defiance. She kept her eyes sharp, and though they were often filled with the storm of emotions she refused to acknowledge, they never betrayed her.

Her lavender dress, the fabric faded and worn, still clung to her form in the same graceful way it always had. She did not let her clothing become as tarnished as her soul had been made to feel. Even in this prison, she was still Y/N L/N, and she would not let the Romans take that from her.

As for the other servants, they treated her with a mixture of pity and fear. Some avoided making eye contact with her, while others whispered behind her back, no doubt curious about the woman who had once been a princess in Greece and now slaved away in the kitchens of the man who had brought her to this state. Yet Y/N paid them no mind. They were as much a part of the system that had enslaved her as Marcus himself.

There were times when the bitter taste of loss would surge within her, when she would remember her husband, her beloved general, his body cold in her arms, the blood of her people staining her hands, and the sight of the Roman soldiers advancing, led by Marcus Acacius, ready to tear apart everything she had known. In those moments, the anger within her would rise like a firestorm, and she would clutch the scrub brush in her hands, tightening her grip until her knuckles ached.

One day, after Marcus had casually reminded her of the “grace” he had shown in taking her as a servant rather than disposing of her like the many other prisoners of war, Y/N could no longer hold her tongue.

“I hope you are satisfied.” She spat, her voice dripping with venom. “The great Roman general who has everything, and yet still takes pleasure in tormenting those beneath him. Have you no shame, Marcus?”

He stood there, arms folded, watching her with an unreadable expression. “Shame?” He asked, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I should feel shame for winning a war? For doing what was necessary for Rome’s future?”

Y/N’s lips curled into a sneer. “You have won your war, Marcus. But you will never win what truly matters.”

He stepped closer to her, the tension between them crackling in the air. “And what is that, Greek? What could you possibly think I could still lose?”

She met his gaze with defiance, not an ounce of fear in her eyes. “You may have taken my land, my home, my husband, my people.” She said, her voice firm despite the tightness in her chest. “But you will never break me. Not like you think.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was thick with the weight of their unspoken words. And then, as if sensing that this was a battle he could not win, Marcus gave a low laugh.

“You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that. But stubbornness won’t save you, Greek. Not here.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a small bitter smile as she turned away to continue her work. “Maybe not.” She said, “But it will make it harder for you to enjoy your victory.”

Marcus didn’t respond, but the silence between them held a tension that was almost palpable. He may have conquered her body, her lands, her people but he had yet to break her spirit.

And as long as that spirit remained unbroken, Y/N L/N would continue to hold her head high, even in the face of defeat. The proud princess of Greece would not be erased, not by the man who had taken everything from her.

The battle was not over. Not yet.

-----

The air in Marcus Acacius's chamber felt heavier than usual that evening. He stood before the polished bronze mirror, adjusting his armor with careful precision. A meeting with the Emperor Brothers, Geta and Caracalla, awaited him in the Imperial Palace, and this time, the stakes felt higher than they ever had before. The whispers of Rome’s power growing ever more insatiable echoed in the back of his mind. He had been to countless meetings before, each one a seamless blend of politics and strategy, but something gnawed at him now.

Something unsettled him.

He adjusted his golden breastplate, the eagle of Rome etched onto the surface gleaming in the dim light. His soldiers, his trusted men, awaited him just beyond the door, ready to follow him to the heart of power. He took one last look in the mirror, making sure every part of his uniform was immaculate, before he turned sharply and left, his boots echoing in the corridor.

The Imperial Palace loomed ahead, its towering columns and marble statues a testament to the glory of Rome. He entered the grand hall where the generals and high-ranking soldiers stood in quiet anticipation, all waiting for the Emperor Twins to make their appearance. The atmosphere was thick with tension, a mixture of respect and trepidation filling the space.

When Geta and Caracalla finally entered, the room fell silent. The emperors were imposing figures, their presence commanding attention without the need for words. The men in the room straightened in their positions, and Marcus instinctively joined them, standing tall as he awaited their instructions.

Emperor Geta, always the more vocal of the two, stepped forward and addressed the gathering. “Today, we discuss the future of Rome.” He began, his voice carrying through the hall like the roll of thunder. “Our recent victory over Greece was a success. The fools didn’t see through our plans during our times of alliance with them. And because of that, we had our perfect opportunity to devise our revenge against them. And now, we have come out victorious thanks to our beloved General Acacius.”

Marcus, though silent, could feel the weight of the words settle in the pit of his stomach. An alliance with Greece? He had been a part of that conquest, had witnessed the fall of the Greek resistance, but something didn’t feel right upon knowing that Rome and Greece once had an alliance before he led the war against them. Why wasn’t he made aware of this?

Just as he opened his mouth to voice his concerns, Geta raised his hand, signaling for silence. His voice was quiet, almost soothing compared to his brother’s.

“The alliance was, indeed, a symbol of strength and prosperity for Rome.” Geta said, “But there were... complications we must address. It seems that Greece, despite the appearance of peace, still harbors those who wish to undermine our authority. The idea of a peaceful future with them was... flawed. So we decided what needs to be done.”

The room tensed at his words, but it was not the words themselves that caused Marcus to freeze in place. It was the shift in the air, the realization that the peace spoken of was nothing more than a deception..

Caracalla’s gaze shifted to the gathered officers, and his voice grew colder, more commanding. “Rome will never be a weak empire. We will not allow Greece to escape the consequences of their actions. We have made a pact with them, until the time for peace is over.” He smiled darkly. “We have declared war on them. Not because we must, but because we can.”

The words were like a thunderclap in Marcus's mind. He felt the ground beneath him shift, as though the earth itself had split in two. The shock that followed left him numb. Betrayal. It was not the Greeks who had broken their word, it was Rome.

“I am not sure I understand, my Emperor.” Marcus said, his voice betraying the confusion that churned within him. “We were allies with Greece. The alliance was forged to ensure peace, was it not? Surely…”

“Surely?” Caracalla interrupted, his smile twisting. “Do you not understand, Marcus? Power is not to be shared. We, Rome, cannot allow another empire to rise higher and shine brighter than ours. The Greeks were weak and blind, but they are proud, and that pride makes them dangerous.”

Marcus’s mind reeled. He had been the instrument of their destruction, the force that crushed their armies, and now he understood. It was never about peace. It was about control. The so-called alliance of peace was simply a tool to lure Greece into a false sense of security, so that they could strike. It was never about honor. It was about dominance.

“Are you telling me that all of this was a lie?” Marcus asked, the weight of the truth settling over him like a suffocating blanket. “That the alliance was nothing more than a ploy to deceive Greece into lowering their guard?”

Geta’s eyes narrowed. “It was a necessary deception.” He replied. “Your task was simple, Marcus, to win the war for Rome. The rest is beyond your concern. We finished what was started, and Rome will remain supreme.”

Marcus stood still, his chest tightening with the unbearable truth. He had been the one to end the war, the one to force Greece to its knees, and now he saw it for what it was: a grand scheme. They had never intended to honor their word. It was always a game, a twisted game where the lives of thousands were simply pawns on a board.

But in that moment, something deep within Marcus shifted. A cold, simmering fury began to rise within him, tempered by a gnawing sense of guilt. He had been used, but worse, he had participated in the destruction of a people who had done nothing to deserve this.

In the midst of the Emperors’ plotting and the conversation that followed, Marcus’s mind wandered back to Y/N. Her defiant eyes, her proud posture despite her circumstances, it was as if she knew, deep down, that the war had been a lie all along. That the Romans had never come to liberate, but to conquer. And in that, perhaps she had seen through the facade long before he had.

As the meeting drew to a close, Marcus left with a growing sense of disillusionment. The promise of Rome’s strength and prosperity felt hollow in his chest. The empire he had sworn to serve was no different than the villains he had fought against.

It was a painful realization, one that twisted the very foundation of his beliefs. The man who had fought for peace now found himself tangled in a web of lies.

And as the Emperor Twins reveled in their power, Marcus Acacius stood on the precipice of his own understanding, he was no longer certain where his loyalty lay.

-----

The days in Marcus Acacius’ villa were slow, stretching like the long shadows of a fading sun. Y/N had grown used to the monotonous rhythm of servitude, the quiet indignities, the whispered snickers of other servants, the weight of a life reduced to menial tasks. She had expected cruelty from her Roman captor, expected to be treated as nothing more than a disposable relic and reminder of the people the general had conquered.

But what she had not expected… was kindness.

It started subtly.

The harsh orders ceased. No longer was she forced to scrub floors until her fingers bled or serve the Roman general in humiliating silence. Her tasks became lighter, her burdens lessened.

Then came the offerings.

A warm cloak placed over her shoulders on a particularly cold morning. A fresh loaf of bread left on the table when he knew she hadn’t eaten. A goblet of wine pushed toward her at supper, his dark eyes watching, waiting.

Y/N ignored it all. She refused to accept his feigned kindness, refused to acknowledge whatever twisted sense of guilt had taken root in his mind.

She was no damsel in distress.

And she certainly did not need Marcus Acacius, her enemy, her captor, to start playing the role of her reluctant savior.

On the fourth day of his strange, unspoken shift in behavior, Y/N had finally had enough.

She stormed into the atrium of the villa, where Marcus stood in quiet contemplation, staring out into the courtyard. His dark hair was disheveled, his tunic unadorned, the regal formality of Rome momentarily shed. He did not turn when she approached, though he undoubtedly heard her.

Y/N crossed her arms over her chest, her lavender dress swaying as she came to a halt beside him. “You need to stop.”

Only then did Marcus shift his gaze to her. His brow furrowed slightly. “Stop what?”

“This.” She gestured between them, frustration flaring in her eyes. “The kindness. The leniency. The…” She exhaled sharply. “...the pity.”

His expression remained unreadable. “You mistake my actions for pity.”

“Oh, please.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You’ve treated me like an insignificant speck of dust ever since you dragged me to Rome. And now, suddenly, you’re giving me warm cloaks and extra food? What am I supposed to think?”

Marcus studied her for a long moment.

Finally, he spoke. “Perhaps I was wrong to treat you as nothing.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, just barely, just for a second. But she quickly masked it with another scoff. “A little late for that realization, don’t you think?”

Marcus turned to fully face her now. “I will not ask for your forgiveness, nor will I insult you again by pretending that you deserve it.” He exhaled, tilting his head slightly. “But I will not treat you as if you are less than what you are anymore.”

She hated the way his words stirred something unfamiliar in her chest, something she quickly smothered beneath her fury.

“I do not need your guilt, Marcus Acacius.” She said, voice sharp as a blade. “I do not need your atonement. I am not some tragic, delicate flower you must tend to.”

His lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smirk. “No.” He agreed. “You are not.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by his easy agreement. She had expected him to refute her, to insist upon his newfound chivalry. But no, Marcus Acacius was not a man prone to embellishment.

“I am simply attempting to make amends.” The general said.

She let out a humorless laugh. “Amends?” Her eyes gleamed with something fierce, something unbroken. “You cannot undo what has been done. You cannot undo Greece’s fall. You cannot undo…” Her voice faltered, for just a breath. “...what you took from me.”

The air between them grew heavy. Marcus did not look away.

“I know.” He murmured.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Y/N let out a sharp exhale, stepping back. “Just stop it.” She muttered, turning away from him. “I don’t need your kindness. It’s wasted on me.”

As she walked away, Marcus watched her retreating figure, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Because, despite her words…

He wasn’t so sure if he'd ever stop.

The days that followed their confrontation were strange, to say the least.

Y/N had expected Marcus Acacius to return to his usual self, stoic, commanding, the ever-dutiful general of Rome. But instead, he had become… irritatingly attentive.

He had not lessened her work, she was still a slave in his household after all but there was a shift in his demeanor, a softness in his approach that made her wary. He no longer barked orders at her like some barbarian. Instead, he asked if she was well. He offered her food from his own table instead of letting her eat with the other servants. He even, gods forbid, tried to make decent conversation.

Y/N, of course, was having none of it.

"Oh, so now you suddenly care about my well-being?" She remarked one evening, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorway of the grand dining hall.

Marcus, seated at his table, merely sighed. "I have always cared for your well-being, Y/N."

She scoffed. "Oh, yes, I can see that. How thoughtful of you to drag me from my home, chain me like an animal, and make me scrub the floors of your villa. Truly, a paragon of kindness, General."

He set down his goblet, leveling her with an exasperated stare. "I did not know the truth then."

"And now that you do, what? You think offering me grapes and wine will undo what you've done?" She sauntered closer, plucking a grape from his untouched plate and popping it into her mouth. "Hate to break it to you, General, but I am not so easily won over."

A smirk tugged at his lips. "No, I suppose not."

Y/N expected him to snap, to command her back to work. Instead, he just watched her, as if memorizing every quirk of her expression, every flicker of defiance in her eyes. It was unnerving.

And yet… she found herself playing into it.

If he was going to act the part of a repentant soldier, she would make him work for it.

The next morning, Marcus found himself on the receiving end of Y/N’s pettiness.

His prized war cloak, the one gifted to him by Emperor Caracalla himself, was now mysteriously missing. In its place, draped over his chair, was a ratty, threadbare shawl from the servants’ quarters.

"Where is my cloak?" He demanded, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Y/N, passing by with a tray of fresh fruits, barely batted an eye. "Oh, you mean that garish red thing? Looked awfully dirty, so I threw it in the trash."

Marcus narrowed his eyes. "You expect me to believe you suddenly care about the cleanliness of my wardrobe?"

She offered him a saccharine smile. "Of course, Dominus. It is my duty to serve, after all."

He exhaled sharply. "Y/N…"

But she was already walking away, humming a Greek melody under her breath.

Later that evening, as Marcus settled into his chambers, he discovered yet another one of Y/N’s little games.

His usual goblet of wine? Replaced with water.

His ceremonial sandals? Mysteriously swapped with a pair that were two sizes too small.

His bedding? Missing entirely.

Marcus sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples, as the realization dawned upon him, this was not a battle he could win with brute force.

Y/N L/N was a force unto herself, stubborn as a mule and twice as cunning. If he truly wished to atone, to earn her trust… he would have to fight a different kind of war.

A war of patience.

And gods help him, he had never fought a war this maddening.

[sukirichi]

home from war | sukuna x reader

Home from War | sukuna x reader

featuring: sukuna x reader (historical au) with small moments of megumi x reader

warnings: very mild suggestive content, mentions of manslaughter and slight yandere tendencies + a toxic sukuna + angst + not proofread :D

part two!

How does one soothe their lover who’s come from war?

You ponder about this carefully, eyes dark as you let your gaze travel from the opening door. Sukuna comes in, bare chest littered with cuts caked in mud, blood, and dirt, and you see the way the grip around his katana falters just a little bit. The room is dark – it is late at night, after all, and you had stirred awake in your accidental slumber from waiting too long for him to return home – but you see him under the darkness clearly. Way too clearly.

Those markings on his face you so dearly love don’t even seem threatening. You seriously question your sanity at this point because he is the Ryomen Sukuna; King of Curses. It’s no secret that he does as he pleases, taking someone’s life as if it was second nature to him, claiming territories, wealth, and even people as if they were his own.

You should be scared, and in a way, you are.

But not in that way.

You’re scared because his shoulders slump, those once burning red eyes fluttering close as he drops to his knees on the floor. Without wasting another second, you leap off the bed, your arms wrapping around his figure. He reeks of death, and before you know it, you wash his exhaustion away by peppering his face with the pads of your lips.

Sukuna hums, pulling you closer to him until there is no space between skin, his neck nuzzling in your face. “I’m home,” his lips brush the bare skin of your neck, his breath warm and ticklish. “I made it home to you, my love. Safely like you asked.”

Your heart clenches at his words. Immediately, you bite down your tongue and blink back the tears that threaten to fall. Safely? You want to snap back, your nails almost raking down his back. This is hardly considered “safely” when his knees wobble as you guide him inside the bath, nearly unable to keep his eyes open as you wipe away his cuts and the other remnants of war present on his body.

“I’m sorry,” his voice echoes in the confined walls. You don’t even realize the tears had fallen until his rough, calloused hands brush a tear away. He tilts your chin upwards to look him in the eye, lips trembling when those devilish eyes soften – reserved for you and only for you – and Sukuna sighs through his nose. “I wish I could stop the war, but — ”

“It’s not possible,” you finish for him, forcing a smile to help ease his worries. At this point, you’re conflicted between wanting to scold him to not leave the temple anymore and just stay with you, but you also know why Sukuna doesn’t do that.

It’s because he wants to keep you safe. As long as you were around, Sukuna would go the moon and back just to keep coming back home to you. Perhaps that was the most painful part – the fact that you knew he wouldn’t have done this if he hadn’t met you. Sukuna was the fearsome King of Curses, powerful and undefeated even after a thousand years, but he wasn’t omnipotent. Hundreds of jujutsu sorcerers have lost their lives trying to defeat them, and it took about a hundred more deaths before they backed off at the realization he couldn’t be defeated or exorcised.

Until you came.

You were Sukuna’s weakness, the chink in his armour, his Achilles heel.

The moment it was known that Sukuna kept a lover, they just kept coming. The war begun.  Soon enough, your days of rolling around in bed with him, trapped under his arms and weekends spent in whines of each other’s names disappeared.

Sukuna has a temple to defend. A lover to protect. A woman to cherish. A soul to treasure.

It was all because of you, and you know better than anyone else that he was tired. But he’d never tell you that. He would still scoop you in his arms; pull you closer by the hip so he could lay his ears on your chest, eventually falling asleep with the sensation of your fingers massaging his scalp while you hum to soothe him. The sound of your heartbeat has Sukuna exhaling rhythmically minutes later.

The notorious King of Curses, bundled up in the arms of his lover, completely relaxes in the privacy of his shared bedroom with the woman he loves most. It was as if the war didn’t happen at all. He sleeps with a small smile on his face, sleepily mumbling your name and reaching up to kiss your smooth skin every now and then.

It was perfect. It was heaven.

But that wasn’t you.

Because you are not her; you are not even human. You listen to all this on the other side of the temple. If you were anyone else, someone like her, then Sukuna’s intimate moments with his lover would be private – something that would be kept and cherished only between the two of them. But you aren’t human.

You are a curse born from people’s heartbreak and grief. You don’t even remember how you came to life; your first memory hazy of nothing but endless pain and so much anger you lost yourself. Until he came.

Ryomen Sukuna; the King of Curses – he adored you.

Finally, he met his equal. A curse equally as powerful and blinded by darkness, hatred, and bloodlust – you were one of the rare curses whose presence he enjoyed, and it didn’t take long before he invited you to his temple and offered a seat next to him.

You are Ryomen Sukuna’s right hand warrior, his greatest partner when it comes to battle. If he was powerful before, people feared you both even more when you joined powers. He didn’t go to war without you. For days on end, you and Sukuna would traverse villages and slaughter kingdoms to fill the emptiness gaping in your hearts, but he changed when he met her.

That fragile, meak, little human that loved him and changed him.

Because of her, even you are forced to join this war against jujutsu sorcerers. It’s been a long war – consisting of ten days and waning red moons. You and Sukuna barely came out unscathed this time, the Gojo clan seems to have something else under their sleeves, and your yukata had been ripped open in pieces while blood washed over your body like water.

You and Sukuna came back tired, weak, almost defeated.

You lay your back flat against the wall, teeth attacking your bottom lip while you pour potions over your cuts. At the other side of the temple, Sukuna is already fast asleep, safe in the arms of his lover. And you? You couldn’t even let out a small noise of whimper. Sukuna’s heightened senses would pick up on it, mistake that it would be his precious little woman in his sleepy daze, and you don’t want him to be further agitated.

Besides, once he realizes that it was just you, he would only go back to sleep.

Because he knew you didn’t need him, not in that way. You were the Curse born from Heartbreak, possibly the only ever person who would know pain and suffering the same way he did, but that isn’t true. Sukuna wouldn’t understand that this is your suffering – to have him within grasp but out of reach, to know that he was always with you, that he loves you just the same, but not in the way you want him to, not in the way you need him to.

To him, you are his beloved friend and partner in crime.

You are not the one who soothes him when he comes from war. You are not the one that gets to feel his harsh tongue soften at the first contact of your lips, to have the privilege of having rough hands that easily tortured others to be gentle as he dips his hands in the dips and curves of your body. You are not the one who gets to see him when he wakes up and he smiles half-lidded. You are not the one who gets to kiss his pain and wounds away, to wipe his tears from his cheeks because looking at you makes him wonder how lucky he is to have you.

Instead, you are the one he brings to war with. You are the one he trusts to keep her safe, to watch his back and guard all possible blind spots during war. You are the one who jumps in front of him when a blast of fire is on his way, and you are the one who heals his wounds in the battlefield when he grows too weak. You are the one he laughs with when you’ve both decapitated the enemy, growing only stronger with each passing day under the belief maybe both of you could rule the world someday.

But does any of it matter?

You always believed that you were okay with it, that having him trust you with his whole life, enough to have you sleeping under the same roof as him, was everything you needed. But after she came, you watched him fall in love, and you felt pathetic.

You could never have him.

You could never have what they have.

Sometimes you wonder, what if you just said it? In those nights where nothing but the moonlight illuminated both of your blood-stained faces, chests rising up and down as it both rumbled with laughter, discarded glasses of alcohol thrown on the ground – it would’ve been the perfect moment, wouldn’t it?

Though deep down, you knew the answer.

Sukuna wouldn’t love you, couldn’t love you. He wanted someone to protect, not someone to fight wars with. He wanted someone to come home to, not someone he wrecked homes with. He wanted to listen to someone’s dreams and passions – all of the things you didn’t have because you were born out of pain, living in pain, and Sukuna was the only thing that soothed you for a bit.

Your breaths came out raspy as your wounds began to close up. The stench of blood remained on your body, the red liquid drying up.

Sukuna wouldn’t want an impure woman like you. It makes sense he loved her. She was as bright as the sky while you were as dark as day, and when she laughed, she lit up the whole room. You don’t laugh, you don’t even smile. The only times you ever got to feel that sort of happiness was when you were still a fresh-born curse, a wild Sukuna more than glad to teach you of his ways.

It’s okay, you lie to yourself, crawling back to your bed while ridding yourself of your clothes. You would shower later; sleep needed to come first. Curses like you don’t really need, but you were too exhausted – inside and outside – that for once, you want to submit to healing.

As you close your eyes, you hear Sukuna stir in their room again. The sounds of faint lip-locking echo in your ears, making you slap your palms on the sides of your head, but you hear it, you hear it, you hear it, you hear it.

“How is Y/N?” she asks worriedly, her dainty, small, and innocent fingers that could never harm a fly brushing against his skin. Warm.

“She’s fine,” Sukuna rasps tiredly, “She’s a little beaten up, but she’s in a better state than I am,” you hear him kiss her on the forehead, a contended sigh leaving her lips. “She’ll be fine, my love. You know Y/N. She is fierce, brave, and courageous. This war is nothing to her.”

“I still feel bad she joined the war just so both of you could protect me.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

“She knows I love you,” Sukuna mumbles on top of her head, his hands tracing patterns on her back. Tears flowed out your eyes, your body trembling as you bit your fist, drool flowing down. You couldn’t stop the way you felt your heart torn to pieces. Really, it shouldn’t be anything new to you. You are a curse manifested from heartbreak, after all, but why did it hurt so much this time? “Y/N is a long time friend and ally of mine. She cherishes everything I cherish.”

“But still...aren’t you going to check up on her? I couldn’t even welcome her back. I haven’t seen you both in days and I...”

“Shhh,” Sukuna lulls her worries. “I’ll check up on her right now, although I don’t think she needs it. She’s a strong warrior, after all.”

“Sukuna,” her voice was laced with warning this time, but it later softens, as it always does. “Even the strongest have their weak moments, like how you are with me. Just because someone is capable of enduring the pain, doesn’t mean they won’t appreciate an act of kindness. Y/N has been loyal to you far longer than I have, but you really need to show your gratitude more to her,” she sighs, “Go check on her, my love. See if she’s doing well. If she’s fully recovered by tomorrow, I’ll head out to the market and prepare you both a lovely meal. It’s the least I could do.”

Sukuna chuckles, “My love, we don’t need to eat.”

“No matter. She likes miso soup, doesn’t she?”

By now, you’re frozen in bed. The blood and dirt and your skin have stained your sheets, and your hair is knotted in tangles from endless fighting. Maybe this is the reason why you hated yourself more than you hate her – because deep down, she isn’t really someone you could hate.

It makes sense Sukuna loves her.

Unlike you, she is kind, caring, gentle and full of love. What did you have? Pent up anger, bloodlust, temperamental tendencies and a hobby of withdrawing as a form of isolation because you couldn’t cope with the heartbreak – this is your gift. Your curse.

She is a blessing.

You hear the bed dip feet away, and whispers of, “Be safe, I’ll wait for you,” before a door slides close. Sukuna’s footsteps pad nearer in your hallway, in a place that he had his servants build just for you years ago when you proved your loyalty to him. Back then, you were over the moon when you saw him telling his people he wanted you to have your own room, but now it was like a huge slap on your face that Sukuna cared for you, but he didn’t want you close to him in the way she was.

Your room was on the other side of the temple, at the back, to be specific. While she stays with him in his own chambers, he used his magic to build her a beautiful garden filled with her favourite flowers, while you were somewhat locked away behind it all.

A bitter smile makes it way to your face. Sukuna was coming, not because he wanted to, but because she asked him to.

You want to laugh. Instead, you run out the room in such speed that the sheets fly away from your bed, and the floorboards crack under the force of your movements. When Sukuna raps his knuckles on your door, asks if he could come in (as if he needed permission for that), and you don’t answer, he takes it upon himself to intrude.

He isn’t surprised at your discarded clothes, or how your room remains dark and empty, as if you’d never been there at all. This isn’t the first time you ran away, and this would not be the first time he ran after you either.

He knows you’ll come home.

After all, it was him you kept coming back to – although he didn’t know that.

Breakfast the next day wasn’t any better. She invited you to join them, fretting over the cuts on your cheeks and dabbing at them with a wet towel. She feels like a doting mother who wouldn’t stop worrying about her child who tripped, and again, you realize why he loves her.

The food was good. Like she promised, miso soup is placed in a bowl you painted years ago, and she beams at you expectantly while Sukuna caressed her thighs under the table. Your lips tremble as you take a spoonful of it, letting the warm soup soothe your exhausted body with a sigh. Sukuna peers at you in the same curiosity, head tilted to the side ever so slightly as if waiting how you’ll react.

It’s no secret you don’t open yourself up to anyone other than him. The moment she came to live with you both, he could tell you locked yourself up in your room and even disappeared for weeks under the lie that you were parading in the districts to “look for some fun.”

Sukuna knows you better than you know yourself. He knows it’s a lie, that you’re not someone who “looks for fun” and that you probably just stayed up in the mountains watching the sunrise. He knows you’re uncomfortable with her displays of affection, of how she easily adored you or how she cared for you like you were her sister or even a friend, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

If anything, he only hopes you would treat her the same way.

You don’t finish your bowl. It’s extremely difficult to enjoy the food when Sukuna compliments her on her cooking skills and she turns beet red beside him, nervously giggling that she just wanted to make you feel better. Sukuna bends down to steal a peck from her lips, teasing her that she was his “sweet angel” who had a heart of gold.

They don’t even eat.

They’re just giggling, laughing, kissing, and you understand – you really do. It isn’t every day that Sukuna gets to indulge in the presence of his beloved. But only you are there with him. It’s either he trusts you enough to let his guard down, or you’re unimportant enough that he doesn’t care if you see him completely baby her and spoil her rotten with how he grabs her onto his lap and starts kissing her nose and then her eyelids.

Their cheerful laughter is a great contrast to the sound of your heart shattering into pieces. They don’t notice that you’ve excused yourself, heading out the room and into the back part of the house, passing the servants on the way.

Similar to how they treat Sukuna, they quiver and bow before you, making sure to keep their eyes on the floor in fear you’d slice their heads off. You fight back a sigh. You wouldn’t do that – not when they welcomed you so warmly (or rather, fearfully) and accepted you as their master. You realize that they don’t act this way around Sukuna’s lover. In fact, they light up when she’s around and talk to her freely; everyone was just comfortable in her presence.

You know you’re not her.

You could never be her.

She was a human, and you’re nothing but a lonely, heartbroken curse.

Hours pass by, and no one looks for you. You dare not enter the garden Sukuna made for her even if you also like the flowers, simply because you don’t want Sukuna to be appalled at the thought that someone like you – a Curse who’d killed people and tortured others – would also be enamoured with something as innocent as daisies.

The lake is peaceful that night. It’s painful to bathe back at the temple because the servants won’t leave you alone. They insist on washing your body for you and that you should lay back, but you refuse to be coddled. The lake is on the other side of the mountain, deep in the forest with smaller curses lurking, so no one would find you here.

The moon shines down bright on you, and for the first time since you’d gotten home, you smile.

It looks so beautiful. So big and bright, yet so haunting and peaceful with secrets you could never uncover. You stare at it as you take off your robes layer by layer, feet dipping into the cold water before submerging completely. The ripples on the lake illuminated by the moonlight makes it even more soul-stirring.

You cup the water and wash your hair, finally getting rid of the invisible stains from the war. You felt clean, refreshed – but your heart still rumbled with hatred and darkness. Hatred that you couldn’t be good enough, hatred that you’re destined to be lonely and unloved.

One of the good things about bathing at midnight is that no one gets to see your tears when it mixes in with the water, and you throw your head back in laughter with your arms extended to the sky. This is who you are – a Curse with no future and no past.

Later, you choke as a sob begins, your fist clenching above your heart. It hurt everywhere.

You wanted Sukuna – so much that you felt like you were going to go insane.

If it wasn’t for him, you’d be trapped in an endless nightmare. But he saved you, cared for you, made you his equal. So why couldn’t he love you? You’ve always been there for him. When people turned against him or plotted a rebellion, you were the one who snuck into clan houses and slit their throats, making their descendants and followers witness the consequence of disrespecting Sukuna.

When he was nearly exorcised by an overpowered jujutsu sorcerer, you summoned an army of thousand lost souls to defeat them, nearly ending up with you losing your head in the aftermath. It was always you – you were always there from him since the beginning, so why didn’t he love you?

You cupped your eyes with your palms, unable to stop the tears from coming now. Your whole body shook with sobs, turning number and number at the cold water. Nothing mattered, nothing mattered, nothing did if you couldn’t have Sukuna.

“Sukuna,” you cried out, pushing your hair back as the ripples blurred in your tear-stained view. “Sukuna, help me, please...” Put an end to my suffering, you inwardly begged. Death is a better option than watching him fall deeper and deeper for her, knowing that could never be you. He’d never look at you that way. He’d never touch you that way. He would never be your lover, and your sobs grew more desperate because you know you are his lover.

God, you loved him so much more than you hated yourself.

This sort of madness had you gasping for air. Death – death is a better option. It is a much more peaceful way to go than to suffer each waking day to have what you want be explicitly stated to be reserved for anyone else but you.

You froze when a pair of arms encircled your waist, his grip strong and vice-like. He turned you around, his large hand coming at the small of your neck to bring you down to his shoulder where you could hide your tears. Until now, he knows you better than you know yourself, and he knows it would shatter you even more if he saw you crying.

“Y/N,” Sukuna begins, and your eyes widen when you see he’s still wearing his robe. He must’ve jumped in the water. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. What’s wrong?”

Your lips turned blue from the cold. Unable to help the shiver that ran down your spine, your teeth chattered, and Sukuna pulled you closer to the heat of his skin. He sighed worriedly. “You need to tell me what’s wrong, otherwise, I can’t help you.”

“I” You falter. Your heart drums loudly in your chest. He would reject you, break your heart into pieces all over again but – so what if he did? It almost made you laugh. You’re the Curse of Heartbroken Souls. It wouldn’t make a difference if he hurt you now. Instantly, you weaken in his hold, and Sukuna’s hands grip your waist to keep you upright.

“Fuck, Y/N, what’s wrong —”

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Kiss me,” you repeat, more confidently this time. You pull away from him in the slightest bit, eyes blown wide as you peer up at his appalled ones. His hands squeeze your waist subconsciously, his sharp nails piercing through your skin until it draws blood. It makes you gasp a little, but you’re used to the pain. Right now, you want to be selfish and free yourself from this pain. “I want you to kiss me, Sukuna.”

His eyebrows pinch together. “What the fuck are you saying? I love someone else, you know I won’t —”

“Won’t do what?” You challenge, eyes burning from the intensity and ferocity of each nerve humming to life. “This isn’t who you are, Sukuna. You’re the King of Curses. Or have you already forgotten those days you would accept those female offerings and you’d fuck them until they’re out of their mind, then discard them as if they were nothing but dirty laundry? You were strong back then, majestic, but now you’re fucking weak,” You spat out. You know you’re spurning him on and pushing all his buttons, but somehow saying those words gave you great relief.

Now, it was time to see his patience snap, which shouldn’t take long since his grip had turned bruising on your hips, and he growled under his breath. “Don’t do this, Y/N.”

“You’re the one who shouldn’t do this,” you growl back, “You haven’t been the same ever since that pathetic excuse of a woman came. Don’t you remember that she left her husband and children just because she was a whore for you? Because you pleased her better than her human spouse?” You push him away with enough force that it sends him a few feet back, and Sukuna scowls. “She doesn’t love you! She only stays by your side because she was nothing but a filthy rat before and now you treat her like a queen! She’s nothing but a lowly human who —”

“Enough!”

“ —made you believe you’re someone she could love! Don’t you get it, Sukuna? We’re Curses, she’s a human! She will never understand us! You’re lying to yourself if you believe she doesn’t cry herself to sleep at the thought she’s next to a monster —”

“I said, that’s enough!” In a flash, Sukuna was in front of you, clawed hands wrapped around your neck. It would be so easy for him to break you and kill you right then and there, your feet already above ground and your exposed breasts just within his sight. Nevertheless, you only laugh cruelly at his agitation. “You know nothing,” he squeezed your neck tighter, “about what it’s like to love someone. How dare you say that she does not love me?”

“I know, because if you let me, I could love you a lot more,” you choked out, clawing at his arm, but he is unfazed by your efforts.

Sukuna lets go of you. You drop in the water as you gasp and breathe for air, but Sukuna’s wide eyes bring you back to reality. It’s that face, the one that tells you he’s been unaware this whole time, and the sudden confession drops on him like a cannonball.

Like a switch has been flipped off, you revert back to your normal self. Using your arms to shield your body, you run away from him, about to make it to the bank when his voice stops you. “Do you truly mean it? Do you love me?”

You close your eyes. “Yes. I always have.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You wouldn’t have believed me,” you pull your hair to the side, squeezing the water out. “You barely believe me now, so why believe me if I said it earlier? It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Then why were you calling for me? I heard you crying. You said you wanted me to help you.”

You whip around, tears furiously flowing down. “I’m going to the jujutsu sorcerers myself tomorrow and let them exorcise me. There’s no point to my existence, Sukuna. I’m tired of all the wars. I’m tired of fighting for someone I don’t even care about. I’m tired of loving you and watching you look at her instead of me, when I’m the one who’s always been there for you. I’m tired of —” you hiccup, embarrassed that he was now watching you break down in front of him. You were a powerful curse, dammit, you shouldn’t even be crying about this. “—I’m tired of not being the one you love.”

Sukuna stands there gaping. You don’t give him another chance to speak as you walk away, seemingly a new habit of yours now. You haven’t always been this way. Patience was never one of your strongest points, but being around Sukuna for the past years taught you a thing or two. That all shatters now that you’ve grown tired, the shame of patheticness crawling between your legs as you retrieve your robes, not bothering to dry up.

He exhales through his nose, claws balled into a fist to restrain his anger. Now he wants to be gentle with you the way he is with her?

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic – you keep chanting to yourself. You’re not there yet, but there have already been rumours that you’re the Queen of Curses, the only one who ever managed to be Sukuna’s equal. Although men feared you, they also lusted after you.

How could they not? You were a sexual prowess, and a fearsome figure in the battlefield. Men are confused whether they want to be with you, or if the mere utter of your name had them fainting. Sukuna, on the other hand? He didn’t care. He didn’t notice you. You’re nothing but a war tool to him, his friend and companion during his dark days when he grew bored and would randomly slaughter homes and enslave people.

He’s not the same anymore. The Sukuna you once knew was gone, and you turned back away from him bitterly, the blue flames licking up your skin as a symbol of anger, hatred, but most of all, humiliation.

That night, you didn’t go back to the temple.

And a small, quiet village who’d been loyal to both you and Sukuna had become the victims of your frustration.

The next day, silence echoes in the hallways of the temple. You couldn’t hear even the soft breathings or whispers of the servants. Your ears perk up once you cross the threshold, dropping your bloody katana and releasing your hair from its red tie. The temple servants must’ve already heard that their relatives died the night before – all thanks to your inability to handle your feelings.

It’s okay, you tell yourself, you’ve done this a thousand times before with Sukuna: killing people, enjoying their screams, basking in their surrender and painting the image of hope fading from their eyes into the back of your school.

You’ve done this a thousand times before with Sukuna, but this is the first time you’ve done it alone. You only ever took their lives because Sukuna asked you. Because he assured it was a way to keep gaining strength and to make a name for yourself; that being a powerful Curse was the best feeling in the world and no amount of woman or alcohol felt greater than power.

Sukuna lied.

To him, his heaven was in her arms.

And you? Utterly lost. Broken. With nowhere else to go. As you enter your room, you’re greeted by the sight of a made up bed and cleaned sheets. Even after slaughtering families, your servants still cleaned your room out of fear, and the previous blood from the other day had been wiped away with bleach.

Then, you see yourself from the floor length mirror. White yukata that might as well have been red from the amount of absorbed into the cloth draped over your curves, and your eyes lost what little light it once held. Blood drips from your fingertips and you swipe your thumb over your lip, a small gasp falling to your lips as you recall a little girl, barely five or six winters old, with the exact same lips trembling as she begs you not to kill her parents.

It’s the splitting image of you when you were younger, when you ran around cities unintentionally wreaking havoc out of confusion over your powers. You have no parents. No past. No memory. You just came into existence because of mankind’s grief, and it only made sense you carried that burden more than anyone else.

But you’re not this. You are not a killer. You didn’t enjoy it. You never enjoyed it. Even when Sukuna convinced you that you did, there was no forgetting the fact that you cried yourself to sleep when you were younger at the thought you grew more powerful because you added to the heartbreak of people.

The word heartbreak lights up a bulb in your head. That’s right...you’re the Curse of Heartbreaks – of pain, of grief, of mourning, of suffering.

If you couldn’t have what you want, then why should he? Isn’t it already written in your fate that your destiny is to carry those pain, inflict it onto others, and make them realize they’re wasting their lives believing a lie that love prevails all? That love prevails even someone as irredeemable as Sukuna?

You won’t allow it.

Without wasting another second, you dash to her room. Sukuna’s out to deal with some clan leaders for whatever ritual he wants to perform or out to get more healing potions. The girl never went anywhere else outside the temple because both jujutsu sorcerers and curses are always ready to prance, and she’s smart to not put herself in harm’s way.

But you are harm’s way.

You run so fast through the hallways that you keep bumping into corners, denting the wooden boards and the floor cracking beneath you. You don’t stop until you reach their room, swiping the doors open, and sliding on the doorframe when you see she’s still asleep.

She and Sukuna must’ve stayed up all night performing...activities. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been this weak. She’s a lively and bubbly girl, she wouldn’t have – you freeze in your spot.

Tentatively, you reach over to where she softly snored, tilting her to face you by grabbing her shoulder. She only groans in her slumber before burying herself under the covers. “Sukuna...” her brows furrow as she twitches, probably dreaming about something, and she kicks the covers off with a whine. That’s when you see it. And then you see everything.

A small – barely there – bump on her tummy is half concealed by her lace gown that reveals her skin free from scars, a sign that she’d never really been in battle. But she’s carrying his child, and even though you’re not the one pregnant, you feel bile rise up in your throat.

Your knees wobble and you fall beside their bed, your palms shaky as you place it over her belly. First, you hear a baby cry, and then, a man’s scream.

Sukuna carries his daughter’s form, the little thing bundled up safely in towels while her father coos at her. She’s so small, vulnerable and exposed to the horrors of the world, but she didn’t need to worry about that. Sukuna would protect her, and so would you.

You stand outside the room, a small smile on your face with your arms crossed on your chest. Well, you’ll be damned. You’re not a fan of children and babies in general, but you do admit the infant’s cries sound like music to your ears. It means she’s alive and healthy, and even though her existence is nearly impossible considering her father is a curse, the girl was born perfectly fine and well.

Suddenly, a dark, ominous presence looms over the room. You stand on guard, hands drawing your blade to prepare for whatever or whoever attacked you. You’re not a fan of the kid and or her mother regardless, but Sukuna is left open and vulnerable for attack in this state. He’s too busy fawning over his kid to sense any incoming assault.

However, something doesn’t feel right with this one. That dark, suffocating feeling doesn’t travel. Instead, it’s stagnant and somewhat docile, as if it has no intention to attack, but its threat still remains. It doesn’t even seem like it came from anywhere or it’s about to arrive. Rather...it’s like it was always there to begin with.

Your eyes widen at the realization.

What would happen if a curse...fathered someone else? Would it be human? Or would it be something worse?

You slam the doors open, and everything happens in slow motion. The baby’s mother reaches out to a nearly sobbing Sukuna, eager to see her child, but just as her small, grubby hands wrap around her mother’s pointer finger, it falls. She stops breathing, her arm falling limp, and Sukuna stops cooing. The baby’s cries cease, staring up at her father and extending her small arms to cup his face.

It seems he realized it too, but it was too late.

“Sukuna, don’t!”

The child giggles, her knuckles brushing against her father’s jaw, and the King of Curses lose his grip on her. You watch as they both fall, a garbled scream leaving your lips. The midwife runs to save the child before she’s crushed under Sukuna’s weight, but she too has fallen victim the moment her skin made contact with the baby’s.

No...it’s not even a child or an infant. It’s not even human.

It’s the Curse of Death.

And at her birth, the world would grow dark, darker than what you and Sukuna have already caused the world to be. Her words would sound like a fork scraping against a plate; torturous, excruciatingly painful, and enough to have you begging for death. The simple brush of skin upon skin takes away the energy, power, and life even of the most powerful beings. After all, what is stronger than Death? It was the only absolute truth in the world – which all things must come to an end.

You retract your hand from her body, sweat dripping on your hairline. That thing growing inside her body...it must not be born. Sukuna would die.

With a silent scream, you whip out the dagger and force it upon her stomach. Or at least, you would’ve, if not for the blade that had peaked out your chest and nearly poking Sukuna’s lover’s back. Blood stained the silver blade, leaking into your lap.

You drop your dagger.

“I trusted you,” Sukuna begins calmly, pulling out the sword from your body in one swift movement. He ignores the way you cough out blood, your head shaking as if to deny his words. His face remains expressionless as he wipes your blood on his thigh, dropping the potions to aid her pregnancy beside her on the bed. Sukuna crouches down to your level and pulls you by the hair until he’s close enough that you could see his two other eyes also glare at you. “Have I not made it clear she is to be untouched? Just because you’re unable to handle your petty jealousy, does not give you a goddamn right to kill what’s mine.”

“What grows in her is a monster,” you sneer, struggling against his grip. You’ve forgotten that his sword is imbued with his special curses that would immediately exorcise any weaker Curse, but because you’re on the same level as him, you die slowly, and a lot more painfully.

“That child is mine. It was created out of love.”

“It is not a child!” You argue, “It will be born as the Curse of Death, one that will kill both you and your little lover!”

“And if you’re lying?”

You grit your teeth. “I would never lie to you, Sukuna.”

His brow shots upwards, a smirk creasing his lips. “Is that so?” he shoves you until you slam against the wall. Sukuna treads to you dangerously, his tongue peeking out to swipe at his lips. You know that darkness in his eyes better than most – it’s the look he always wore when he decides to go for the kill.  “Then, since you’re always honest to me, tell me this: do you still love me?”

You don’t even think about it.

“Yes. That’s why I’m telling you to get rid of that thing before you and everyone else dies.”

“A concerned little lamb,” he hums in amusement. “That makes it clear then,” Before you could process what happens next, you take your last breath as Sukuna rips out your heart with his claws. It’s not an actual heart, but rather the core of your Curse manifestation and the gem-like object is crushed under his fists. “Queen of Curses, Curse of Heartbreak,” he drops the pieces of your heart into your lap, Sukuna growing more and more blurry in front of you. “Die the same way you came to life: with a terrible, terrible heartbreak.”

Sometimes, you can’t help but feel like you’d been an awful person in your past life. It’s not that you’d ever done anything illegal or rebellious. Your parents are quite proud of your immaculately clean school record, and your grades are even above average. The school’s faculty absolutely adores you for your preppy personality, always volunteering to help others and taking the lead when no one wants to budge.

You suppose you’re quite a role model, but what no one understands is that maybe you’re always going out of your way to be kind with someone because deep down, you have a nagging feeling you’ve once been a terrible person.

Sighing, you wrap your arms around your legs as you hug it to yourself, whacking your forehead in your knees to get rid of those impending thoughts. There’s really no reason behind it, more like an intuition that you’ve forgotten about something important.

You’re pulled out of your trance when warm, soft hands push your hair back, and a pair of even softer lips land at your shoulders. Immediately, you smile, turning your head to peer at the dark-haired beauty that shyly peeks up at you under his long lashes. He keeps peppering kisses all the way up to your neck until you laugh from being ticklish, and it doesn’t take long before Megumi has you smiling again.

He knows you better than you know yourself.

“What’s wrong?” he mumbles on your shoulder, his warm hand drawing comforting circles on your lower back. Again, the simple gesture ignites something within you, something about oddly familiar even if you don’t feel like you’ve experienced it firsthand. “You’ve been deep in thought lately.”

“Lately?”

“Hmm,” he moves up your face, pressing a long, solid kiss at your forehead. It makes you relax and sigh happily, unable to help your urge to crawl into his lap and bury yourself in his arms. “Ever since Itadori enrolled here, you’ve always looked at him...quite weirdly. Is he bothering you? You know if he does something weird, I won’t hesitate to feed him to the Divine Dogs.”

That elicits a laugh from you. Now that you think about it, you’ve been awfully quite ever since Gojo sensei came back with that overly excited kid. You don’t know why, you don’t even realize his presence affects you, but you don’t want Megumi to worry about it when you can’t understand it yourself. So you hug him closer until the scent of fresh laundry wafts your senses, and you brush his scalp tenderly.

Megumi purrs.

“It’s nothing you should worry about, I’m sure I’m just tired from exams.” Unlike Megumi, you’re not a jujutsu sorcerer. You came from a totally human family that lived a totally mundane humane life, unaware that curses exist and people actually die from it. If it wasn’t for Megumi saving you that one time in school when you unknowingly stayed behind the same night the Occult Club did and ran into some freaky monsters, you would continue living without any idea of it.

It wasn’t always easy accepting Megumi’s true identity, but you loved him more than anyone else, and so hiding in his dorms while lying to your parents you were going to sleep over a friend’s house has become somewhat a daily occurrence. You’ve even made friends with the lovely Nobara and Maki senpai who welcomes you with open arms – although maybe it’s because you never fail to bring them food from the city and some fashionable items for Nobara.

Megumi senses your hesitance to talk about it, so he drops it and enjoys the feeling of your skin on him instead, your breaths falling in the same rhythm. Tonight, he and his classmates would go out on a mission again because the idiotic Gojo-sensei was away overseas, and as always, you’d stay up late in Megumi’s room, waiting for him to come back right after he promises you you’ll come back safely.

You close your eyes and wrap yourself around him like a koala, and Megumi laughs at how small you are. He doesn’t brush you off, though. He knows you fear for his life despite the fact you trust him with his abilities, but you can’t help it. It’s only natural to worry about your loved one, after all.

For now, he’ll have to keep cuddling and kissing you for as long as he could before he leaves.

How does one soothe their lover who’s come from battles?

You scramble away from Megumi’s bed the moment you’re waken up by the sound of steady knocks. The first aid kit lays on his study desk, which you swipe with sleepy eyes as his baggy clothes crinkle in your smaller figure. It’s rare that Megumi lets you see his state during after battles, but today, tonight, he allowed you to stay even after his mission.

Your steps are nothing but hurried when you slide the door open, his name about to fall from your lips until you’re greeted by a young man with strawberry blonde hair and black marks on his face. It’s Itadori Yuuji, but at the same time, it’s not him...

His cheerfulness and airheaded self is gone, replaced with a much sinister entity residing within it. The man before you sighs, frowning in distaste at your clothes – your boyfriend’s clothes – before he invites himself in and shuts the door behind him.

Sukuna hums, pulling you closer to him until there is no space between your skin and his, his face nuzzling in your neck. “I’m home,” his lips brush the bare skin of your neck, his breath warm and ticklish. “I made it home to you, my Queen. Safely like you asked.”

“Wha-?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers so quietly you wonder if you heard it at all. “For not believing you, for not seeing you. It took me thousands of years to realize where I fucked it all up, but I know the truth now. And you were right – you were always right. I hope in this life I no longer break your heart in the same way you soothe mine.”

 - - - - - 

A/N: Sounds like a pretty confusing ending, which it is, and I was gonna leave it at that but because I don’t want anyone to go “HUH?” after reading this, I’m just gonna explain :D Sukuna eventually realized how toxic he was to the reader in her past life, how he convinced her to be a bad person with him then emotionally abandoning her the moment he found his happiness. She was the Curse of Heartbreak, and her powers remained even after she was “exorcised.” 

She broke his heart by showing him how he lost everything after her exorcism and his lover’s death (because he also saw the future that the child was the Curse of Death) and all those years of suffering eventually made him realize that the power of heartbreak was the one that destroyed him. So in the present, when the reader was reincarnated as a human girl, he finally found her and tries to make up for his mistakes because she was actually his first love, he just didn’t realize it because both of them were somewhat barbaric and psychotic. Lmk what you think, I hope you liked it!

[dragonbanexxi]

The Dragon Queen

*Not Canon Compliant!!!*

Jaehaera Targaryen x Aegon III Targaryen

Chapter 4: Jaehaera

“You should rest your grace” the gruff voice of Ser Robert Oakheart interrupting her reading.

He was right of course, the hour of owl was upon them. Not that her body cared. The want of sleep had fleeted her body earlier in the night. So instead of laying down and staring at the canopy; the girl opted to read.

“I’m afraid sleep has evaded me once more Ser Robert. Besides this novel is to good to put down.”

The Knight smiled gently at her. Ser Robert looked very handsome when smiled. When he did, Jaehaera caught flashes of the man he was in his prime. No doubt this man had turned many noble ladies heads at court.

A lot of times the girl felt guilty of the life Ser Robert was now living. Before he whisked her away from Westeros, Ser Robert was a respected Kings Guard; serving with purpose. Now in Essos he was no one. Just a protector of a strange little girl who had no where to drop dead.

The Knight didn’t seem to notice Jaehaera’s internal conflict. Thank the Seven. A selfish part of her wanted the man to be by her side forever.

“What story enraptured you tonight your grace?”

The book she was reading was a collection of legends that were all basically the same story. The legend of Azor Ahai. In this instance she was reading the iteration of the Prince who was promised from YiTi.

“I’m reading the tale of an Amethyst Empress who was betrayed and slayed by her brother; for her crown.”

Funny while reading the story she never once thought about Rhaenyra and her father. Rhaenyra and the Amethyst Empress had something common she mused.

“He was later known as the Bloodstone Emperor. The Emperor married a Tiger-woman and did vile acts of worship for a black stone. His actions displeased his Gods so greatly that they created an army of mystical beings set on cleansing the realm.”

Her finger trailing the spine of the book.

“A warrior of the name Yin Tar ended the eternal darkness by sacrificing the greatest love he’d ever known.”

Ser Robert rubbed his chin in thought. “Sounds like the story of the Prince who was Promised to me.” Jaehaera nodded in agreement.

“This book is a collection of different versions of the Azor Ahai legend.” Setting the book aside, stretching her arms up in the air Jaehaera said “Stories parents tell their children to frighten them into obedience.”

The both laugh heartily. “Your grace.” The knight sounding serious asked “You can’t seriously believe these stories are just stories now?”

Jaehaera’s visage hid her emotions. Honestly since hatching her dragons the princess didn’t know what to think.

“Why do you ask Robert?” She leans back into her chair.

The man in front of her seeming to properly plan his words. “Your grace the story of the prince who was promised, the hero was reborn amidst salt and smoke.”

His eyes never leaving hers. “A great many saw you walk into the pyre to save your eggs and a great many witnessed you walk out the pyre with three baby dragons.”

And it was true. That night the Khal Amargo and his wife the Khaleesi Barha were planning on having a warlock sacrifice Jeena on the mother of mountains. Jeena being the daughter of the Khal’s sworn enemy. The warlock had promised that by sacrificing Jeena; Khal Amargo would be undefeated and known as the Stallion Who Mounts The World.

The Green Princess could not stand back and let her friend be murdered for nothing. Jaehaera acted quickly with the help of Ser Robert and she drugged the wines of the three perpetrators. Tying them to the posts of her tent. Jaehaera began the flames and stood next to Jeena. Her friend threw her tan arms around her saviors neck sobbing thank yous of relief. The leaders of the hoard and the skinny warlock’s screams will forever be ingrained in Jaehaera’s head. The feeling of regret however never weighed heavy in heart. How many more people would the Khal have sacrificed for his own glory?

Once the flames engulfed the entirety of her tent; it was then that Jaehaera remembered her dragon eggs.

“YOUR GRACE!!!! “ was all she heard as she rushed through the roaring auburn flames to retrieve her eggs. The flames licked her skin and to her surprise, it didn’t burn.

Her dragons came into the world screeching their tiny lungs out and quickly embracing their mother.

Jaehaera hadn’t meant to hatch her eggs, having been under the impression that they had calcified. Though looking back, it seems that the Green Princess had in fact made an accidental blood sacrifice to the Mother of Mountains.

“I’d be a liar if I said haven’t imagined myself being the one to bring the dawn.” She sighs raggedly “Yet I can’t help but think that bad things happen when we begin to believe we are part of something greater than ourselves.”

Ser Robert said nothing as he stood up to serve himself and Jaehaera a cup wine. It was from the Great Moraq, a soft white wine that Jaehaera grew to love. Though she knew the older man preferred red wine himself.

“I think that if the Seven blessed you with three dragons; your meant to go forth and do great deeds your grace.”

He handed her the cup of wine.

“Even if you don’t acknowledge it, the Dothraki who decided to stay have already begun to refer to you as Khaleesi.”

That made her belly flip. She wasn’t a Khaleesi. She was never married to Khal. She’s done nothing to deserve the title.

“If I’m a Khaleesi, I must have the smallest hoard in history.” She jokes trying to calm her nerves.

Only 100 people of the hoard stayed with her. Mostly being women and children. Only 23 Dothraki men stayed. Stating that her walking through the flaming pyre unburnt made her the Great Stallion.

“At the moment I don’t care for prophecy. If these people ever tire of me they are free to leave. Until then all I want is to find a secure place to call home.”

They sat there sipping their wine at a good pace.

“We need to go to Astapor to get supplies Khaleesi.” Jaehaera glaring at his smirk. Knowing he’d start calling her Khaleesi just to tease her.

“It’s the nearest city.”

“We don’t have money to buy anything.” She grumbled.

“I guess we must raid the Dothraki way no?” Ser Robert said.

Thinking it was joke Jaehaera laughed until she saw her companion’s straight face.

“You can’t be serious…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I want to clear up that, yes Jaehaera’s time in Essos is LOOSELY based on Daenaerys. A lot will be similar but not the same. Jaehaera’s motive is to never return to Westeros while Dany’s was to take back the Seven Kingdoms. Though Jaehaera will have to return eventually. Hope that clears up something’s! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[wearetheblacklegion]

Death of a World

@fuukonomiko (can you tag the other champions?)- based on her wrath ask

Callidia was a world of the Ecclesiarchy, an entire world dedicated to the worship of the God-Emperor and veneration of his Saints. At this time of year all were preparing for the annual Festival of Saint Callidia. The patron Saint of the world, the one hundred days of festivities and celebration mirrored the one hundred days in which the saint interrogated the xenos worshipping witch who came to corrupt loyal imperial hearts. Even to this day the remnants of the witches robes were on display beneath a glass case alongside the reliquary bones of Callidia. The festival would culminate in the ritual burning of effigies, symbolizing the witch being burned at the stake for her crimes. The Arch-Cardinal himself would preside over the ceremonies for the next hundred days. As a worldwide broadcast of the Cardinal’s opening sermon was interrupted by the darkening of the skies, awe turned to horror as they realized this darkness was man made. A massive fleet had entered orbit over the capital city, one comprised of countless variations of vessels both Imperial and xenos. The Arch-Cardinal’s broadcast fizzled and stuttered our, replaced by a new one. A feminine voice issued from every speaker on the world, one so laced with anger and venom that it froze the blood in the listeners veins. “You celebrate the torture of an innocent woman, memorialize her death, venerate her murderer. My sister came here seeking peace and sanctuary and you gifted her only with pain and blood. This gift I return to you now. Revel in it savages and know that I will feed every one of your miserable souls to the lowest of my servants!” The broadcast died and the sky began to burn.

Talorax watched, amused slightly as the panicked masses rushed towards his defenses. The Iron Warrior had been meticulous, encircling the city in tight cordon of hastily dug trenches and weapon emplacements. Artillery opened up with booming thunder over the chatter of gunfire. Explosions ripped gaping holes in the mob even as they were torn apart by the massed fire. Quickly it became a charnel ground of exploded meat and viscera, forcing the survivors to choose between another suicidal rush or retreat back into the city. At his command the columns of Land Raiders and Rhinos began pushing forward, grinding corpses to meaty pulp beneath their treads. Talorax allowed himself a smile. There would not be two bricks left stacked upon each other when he was through.

Icarus impaled a screaming priest upon his blade, the power field charting flesh and bone. The man had a moment to scream before the weapon ripped up and out through his torso. Around him the forces of the goddess fought with the zeal of fanatics. To his right a warrior seized scrambling man and swung him bodily into a marble column till he burst like a forest piñata. To his left a tattoo covered cultist fell upon a scrambling pilgrim, dagger slashing and stabbing with a fury worthy of a khornate worshipper. One woman clad in the vestments of the clergy bravely rushed them with a candelabra only to be mobbed down and shredded by a chittering swarm of imps. Astartes, mortals, and daemon alike fought side by side with the wrath of their goddess fueling their limbs. This world would die, it had been commanded.

Drogan roared as he killed, daemonic strength pulsing within his flesh. His bone blades flashed out, punching through the vulnerable throat armor of a Celestian. The battle sister gurgled blood and clawed uselessly at him before he discarded her upon the floor. He heard a feral howl and saw a blur of storm gray rush past him, Hirvik leaping into the fray with chainsword screaming. Furio was not far behind, draped in newly acquired skins still bleeding, a ghastly resemblance to his long deceased gene-father. Only the maddest and most fanatical followed them, wielding archaic or warp forged weapons of terrible power. Astartes roaring battle hymns as they cut through Sororitas ranks, masses of crazed and mutated cultists going laughing to their deaths and pulling down sisters through sheer numbers, summoned daemons running amok. And through the center of it all strode the goddess in her war form. Fuuko was clad in sinuous armor of ebony and crimson, patting only for the eternally open eyes upon her chest and the fanged maw of her abdomen. Batlike wings folded tightly into her body as horns rose from her flowing mane of jet black hair. She moved with unhurried grace, an eye of calm amidst the madness, yet her very presence shook the material realm with barely restrained power. One sister broke through and rushed the goddess with a blade raised high, screaming praise to her Corpse-God. Her blow never made it as silvery steel intercepted and turned it aside. Vico was the greatest swordsman of the Vaults, unmatched and undefeated. With disarming ease his sword flickered our and took the martyr’s head clean off. None would ever get past his blade to reach his sovereign.

The Celestian Sisters fought with courage and righteous fury but it availed them none. The last one died still cursing them as Vico’s fangs tore out her throat. With the defenders slain it was only a few moments before two mortals dragged the crimson swathed obesity that was Arch-Cardinal Julianus. The man was dumped into a cowering, sobbing heap before Fuuko’s feet. There was only cold disdain in the goddess eyes. “I wonder if my sister begged the way you pitiful mortal did. Did she scream? Did she cry out for mercy? Would your kind even have listened. Scream for your Emperor little priest, scream like all the victims of your precious church.” The maw opened wide, slavering fangs stretching out in endless hunger. Julianus stared into the madness of oblivion and he screamed as it closed in on him.

For one hundred days a world burned. Their cities were reduced to rubble, their holy sites ruined and the earth salted. Pilgrims and clergy alike were hunted and slaughtered in an orgy of death and blood, none allowed to survive. When her earth was finally spent the forces of the Vault returned to orbit and virus bombed the world to barren rock. When the Imperial fleet did finally arrive all they would find was a planet-sized tombstone, a monument to the wrath of the divine.

[katycatking-blog]

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2BGhgZekwCM)

CONTENTS

Achilles: Early Life

Achilles: The Trojan War

Achilles: The Illiad

Achilles: The Fate of Achilles

The warrior Achilles is one of the great heroes of Greek mythology. According to legend, Achilles was extraordinarily strong, courageous and loyal, but he had one vulnerability–his “Achilles heel.” Homer’s epic poem The Iliad tells the story of his adventures during the last year of the Trojan War.

Achilles: Early Life

Like most mythological heroes, Achilles had a complicated family tree. His father was Peleus, the mortal king of the Myrmidons–a people who, according to legend, were extraordinarily fearless and skilled soldiers. His mother was Thetis, a Nereid.

Did you know? Today, we use the phrase “Achilles heel” to describe a powerful person’s fatal weakness.

According to myths and stories composed long after the Iliad, Thetis was extraordinarily concerned about her baby son’s mortality. She did everything she could to make him immortal: She burned him over a fire every night, then dressed his wounds with ambrosial ointment; and she dunked him into the River Styx, whose waters were said to confer the invulnerability of the gods. However, she gripped him tightly by the foot as she dipped him into the river–so tightly that the water never touched his heel. As a result, Achilles was invulnerable everywhere but there.

When he was 9 years old, a seer predicted that Achilles would die heroically in battle against the Trojans. When she heard about this, Thetis disguised him as a girl and sent him to live on the Aegean island of Skyros. To be a great warrior was Achilles’ fate, however, and he soon left Skyros and joined the Greek army. In a last-ditch effort to save her son’s life, Thetis asked the divine blacksmith Hephaestus to make a sword and shield that would keep him safe. The armor that Hephaestus produced for Achilles did not make him immortal, but it was distinctive enough to be recognized by friend and foe alike.

When Homer wrote the Iliad in about 720 BCE, however, readers and listeners would not have known any of this. They only knew that Achilles was a great hero, that he had superhuman strength and courage and that he was supremely handsome. Homer painted a more nuanced picture: In addition to these qualities, his Achilles was vengeful and quick to anger and could be petulant when he did not get his way. He was also deeply loyal and would sacrifice anything for his friends and family.

Achilles: The Trojan War

According to legend, the Trojan War began when the god-king Zeus decided to reduce Earth’s mortal population by arranging a war between the Greeks (Homer calls them the Achaeans) and the Trojans. He did this by meddling in their political and emotional affairs. At Achilles’ parents’ wedding banquet, Zeus invited the prince of Troy, a young man named Paris, to judge a beauty contest between the goddesses Hera, Athena and Aphrodite. Each of the goddesses offered Paris a bribe in exchange for his vote. Aphrodite’s was the most alluring: She promised to give the young prince the most beautiful wife in the world. Unfortunately, the wife in question–Helen, the daughter of Zeus–was already married to someone else: Menelaus, the king of Sparta. At Aphrodite’s urging, Paris went to Sparta, won Helen’s heart and took her (along with all of Menelaus’ money) back to Troy.

Menelaus vowed revenge. He assembled an army of Greece’s greatest warriors, including Achilles and his Myrmidons, and set off to conquer Troy and get his wife back. In Homer’s telling, this war lasted for 10 bloody years.

Achilles: The Illiad

When the Iliad begins, the Trojan War has been going on for nine years. Achilles, the poem’s protagonist, has led one battle after another. He has met with great success–in fact, he is undefeated in battle–but the war itself has reached a stalemate.

Homer’s story focuses on a different conflict, however: the internecine quarrel between his hero and Agamemnon, the leader of the Achaean armies and Menelaus’ brother. In a battle that took place before the poem begins, Agamemnon had taken as a concubine a young Trojan woman named Chryseis. Chryseis’ father, a priest of the god Apollo, tried to buy his daughter’s freedom, but Agamemnon mocked his entreaties and refused to release the girl.

Enraged, Apollo punished the Greek armies by sending a plague to kill the soldiers one by one. As his ranks thinned, Agamemnon finally agreed to allow Chryseis to return to her father. However, he demanded a replacement concubine in exchange: Achilles’ wife, the Trojan princess Breseis.

Achilles did as his commander asked and relinquished his bride. Then, he announced that he would no longer fight on Agamemnon’s behalf. He gathered his belongings, including the armor Hephaestus had made, and refused to come out of his tent.

With the Greeks’ greatest warrior off the battlefield, the tide began to turn in favor of the Trojans. The Greeks lost one battle after another. Eventually, Achilles’ best friend, the soldier Patroclus, was able to wrangle a compromise: Achilles would not fight, but he would let Patroclus use his powerful armor as a disguise. That way, the Trojans would think that Achilles had returned to battle and would retreat in fear.

The plan was working until Apollo, still seething about Agamemnon’s treatment of Chryseis and her father, intervened on the Trojans’ behalf. He helped the Trojan prince Hector to find and kill Patroclus.

Furious, Achilles vowed to take revenge. He chased Hector back to Troy, slaughtering Trojans all the way. When they got to the city walls, Hector tried to reason with his pursuer, but Achilles was not interested. He stabbed Hector in the throat, killing him.

Hector had begged for an honorable burial in Troy, but Achilles was determined to humiliate his enemy even in death. He dragged Hector’s body behind his chariot all the way back to the Achaean camp and tossed it on the garbage heap. However, in the poem’s last section Achilles finally relents: He returns Hector’s body to his father for a proper burial.

Achilles: The Fate of Achilles

In his Iliad, Homer does not explain what happened to Achilles. According to later legends (and bits and pieces of Homer’s own Odyssey), the warrior returned to Troy after Hector’s funeral to exact further revenge for Patroclus’ death. However, the still-vengeful Apollo told Hector’s brother Paris that Achilles was coming. Paris, who was not a brave warrior, ambushed Achilles as he entered Troy. He shot his unsuspecting enemy with an arrow, which Apollo guided to the one place he knew Achilles was vulnerable: his heel, where his mother’s hand had kept the waters of the Styx from touching his skin. Achilles died on the spot, still undefeated in battle.

Citation Information

Article Title

Achilles

Author

History.com Editors

Website Name

HISTORY

URL

https://www.history.com/topics/ancient-history/achilles

Access Date

16 August 2019

Publisher

A&E Television Networks

Last Updated

June 7, 2019

Original Published Date

March 21, 2011

BY

HISTORY.COM EDITORS

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[diioonysus]

what are the top ten most interesting people in history to you?

10. Catherine de’ Medici: said to be one of the most powerful woman in Europe

9. Charles V: the heir to three of Europe’s leading dynasties and his domains ranged for 4 million square miles

8. Richard lll of England: last king of York, and a mystery of whether he murdered his two nephews has never been solved

7. Henry VII of England: the first of the Tutors

6. Roman Emperor Tiberius: said to be one of the greatest Roman generals, but was known to be a dark ruler

5. Caligula: Tiberius’ heir, who was INSANE

4. Alexander The Great: one of the world’s most successful military commanders: undefeated in battle

3. Marco Polo: the first person to document their travels to Asia, and the Mongol leader refused to allow him to leave

2. Thutmose III: conquered 350 cities and was a military genius, and considered the greatest Egyptian warrior pharaohs that transformed Egypt into an international powerhouse 

1. Leonidas the legendary King of Sparta: who sacrificed himself and his 300 men to protect Greece from an invading Persian empire, famous words when asked by the persians to give up their weapons: “come and get them!” when seeing that they were surrounded; he commanded the remaining greeks to return and defend the city, 300 Spartans and 700 Thespians and himself stayed behind to protect the city and were killed in a trap.

[dailybollywoodqueens]

what films would you rec for a bollywood begginer?

Oh gosh. There are so many good ones, but let me see.

Here are some films I would consider watching. 

Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge - When Raj and Simran first met on an inter-rail holiday in Europe, it wasn’t exactly love at first sight.

Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara - Three friends decide to turn their fantasy vacation into reality after one of their number becomes engaged.

Jab We Met - A depressed wealthy businessman finds his life changing after he meets a spunky and care-free young woman. 

Swades - A successful Indian scientist returns to an Indian village to take his nanny to America with him and in the process rediscovers his roots.

Dil Chanta Hai - Three inseparable childhood friends are just out of college. Nothing comes between them - until they each fall in love, and their wildly different approaches to relationships creates tension. 

Lagaan: Once Upon  Time in  India - The people of a small village in Victorian India stake their future on a game of cricket against their ruthless British rulers.

Highway - Right before her wedding, a young woman finds herself abducted and held for ransom. As the initial days pass, she begins to develop a strange bond with her kidnapper.

Kahaani - A pregnant woman’s search for her missing husband takes her from London to Kolkata, but everyone she questions denies having ever met him.

Kai Po Che -Three friends growing up in India at the turn of the millennium set out to open a training academy to produce the country’s next cricket stars. 

The Lunchbox - A mistaken delivery in Mumbai’s famously efficient lunchbox delivery system connects a young housewife to an older man in the dusk of his life as they build a fantasy world together through notes in the lunchbox. 

English Vinglish - A quiet, sweet tempered housewife endures small slights from her well-educated husband and daughter everyday because of her inability to speak and understand English. 

Lootera - An aristocrat’s daughter falls in love with a visiting archaeologist, but he holds a secret that could drive them apart.

Fitoor - Modern adaptation of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations; a poor but talented boy falls in love with a girl from an affluent family.

Queen - A Delhi girl from a traditional family sets out on a solo honeymoon after her marriage gets canceled.

Rustom - In 1959, a decorated naval officer is accused of murdering his wife’s lover. 

Dangal - Former wrestler Mahavir Singh Phogat and his two wrestler daughters struggle towards glory at the Commonwealth Games in the face of societal oppression.

Pink - When three young women are implicated in a crime, a retired lawyer steps forward to help them clear their names. (Warning: rape/assault)

Hindi Medium - A couple from Chandni Chowk aspire to give their daughter the best education and thus be a part of and accepted by the elite of Delhi.

Trapped - A man gets stuck in an empty high rise without food, water or electricity.

Badrinath Ki Dulhania - Badrinath Bansal from Jhansi and Vaidehi Trivedi from Kota belong to small towns but have diametrically opposite opinions on everything. This leads to a clash of ideologies, despite both of them recognizing the goodness in each other. (Although I would caution watching due to sensitive topics discussed in the movie).

Dear Zindagi - Kaira is a budding cinematographer in search of a perfect life. Her encounter with Jug, an unconventional thinker, helps her gain a new perspective on life. She discovers that happiness is all about finding comfort in life’s imperfections.

Raees -Criticizing the prohibition of alcohol in Gujarat, this film unfolds the story of a clever bootlegger, whose business is challenged by a tough cop.

Lipstick Under My Burqa - Set in the crowded lanes of small town India, a burkha-clad college girl struggles with issues of cultural identity and her aspirations to be a pop singer. A young two-timing beautician, seeks to escape the claustrophobia of her small town. An oppressed housewife and mother of three, lives the alternate life of an enterprising saleswoman. And a 55 year old widow rediscovers her sexuality through a phone romance. Trapped in their worlds, they claim their desires through secret acts of rebellion.

Neerja - The story of the courageous Neerja Bhanot, who sacrificed her life while protecting the lives of 359 passengers on the Pan Am flight 73 in 1986. The flight was hijacked by a terrorist organization.

Namastey London - A man takes his thoroughly-British daughter to his home country, India. There, he arranges her marriage to someone she considers a fool. The daughter attempts to outwit them, but the groom quietly and patiently hatches his own plan.

Kapoor and Sons - A story revolving around a dysfunctional family of 2 brothers who visit their family and discover that their parents marriage is on the verge of collapse,the family is undergoing a financial crunch and much more as the drama unfolds.

Taare Zameen Paar - An eight-year-old boy is thought to be a lazy trouble-maker until the new art teacher has the patience and compassion to discover the real problem behind his struggles in school.

Piku - A quirky comedy about the relationship between a daughter and her aging father, whose eccentricities drive everyone crazy.

Barfi! - A charming deaf-mute prankster’s  bittersweet relationship with two women, one is autistic, turns his life upside-down. 

Omkara - A politically-minded enforcer’s misguided trust in his lieutenant leads him to suspect his wife of infidelity in this adaptation of Shakespeare’s ‘Othello’.

Wake Up SId - Sid Mehra (Ranbir Kapoor) is a young man living in Mumbai who benefits from the indulgence of his parents. After graduating from university, he makes a stab at working in his father’s business, but lasts only a week. He then meets Aisha (Konkona Sen Sharma), an aspiring writer from Calcutta. Sid helps her get settled in the city and then wants to take things further – but Aisha isn’t interested because of Sid’s slacker personality. Will her rejection serve as a wake-up call for Sid?

Jodhaa Akbar - Epic romance, set in 16th-century India, about the love story between Jalaluddin Mohammad Akbar, the Mughal Emperor of Hindustan, and Rajput princess Jodhaa. In order to extend his empire, Akbar agrees to a marriage of alliance to young and fiery Jodhaa but soon realizes he has to defend his choice of bride as his courtiers voice their displeasure at the idea of their Muslim Emperor marrying a Hindu.

Devdas - After his wealthy family prohibits him from marrying the woman he is in love with, Devdas Mukherjee’s life spirals further and further out of control as he takes up alcohol and a life of vice to numb the pain.

Bajirao Mastani - In 16th century India, undefeated warrior Bajirao was bestowed with the title of Prime Minister, and became the greatest weapon of his Empire. Bajirao recieves a rider with an urgent request to save a fort under siege by the Moguls, Bajirao’s greatest opponents. He refuses initially, but is mesmerized by the rider, a beautiful Rajput princess who rode for days to seek him out. Despite Bajirao’s best efforts, he cannot deny his love for Princess Mastani. She pursued him to Pune, where Bajirao’s family promptly sent her away. Bajirao faced great opposition from his family, his people, and his priests. Every attempt is made to separate them, but they always find their way to each other, finally paying the ultimate price in the name of love.

Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gham - Rahul, the adoptive son of business magnate Yash Raichand, feels eternal gratitude to his father for rescuing him from a life of poverty. Yet, when Yash forbids his love of poor Anjali, Rahul marries her and moves to London with new wife and sister-in-law, Pooja, breaking the heart of his mother. Ten years later, Rahul’s younger brother comes to London intent on brokering peace between father and son.

Dil Se - The clash between love and ideology is portrayed in this love story between a radio executive and a beautiful revolutionary

Damini - The theme revolves around the character Damini who represents truth and innocence. After her marriage in renowned wealthy family, Damini happens to see a cruel act done by her brother-in-law. She wants the victim to get justice, but the family including her husband oppose her, which leads her to leave the house. Soon she is helped by a drunkard, an ex-advocate, who helps her in all respect to reach to her aim and therefore justice.

Mrityudand: The Death Sentence - Mrityudand is a film commentary on the social and the gender injustice. A woman (Madhuri Dixit), her sister-in-law (Shabana Azmi) a laborer (Om Puri) and others unite to stand up against a hard-nosed businessman.

Sadma (stars Sridevi) - One night, Sadma is in a car accident, which leaves her with amnesia. She runs away from the hospital but ends up in a brothel, where she meets a friendly schoolteacher.

Rangeela - A middle class young woman, who dreams of Bollywood fame, is caught in a love triangle between her childhood friend and a famous actor.

Ek Hasina The - A woman falls for a charming and mysterious businessman. The whirlwind romance turns sour when she is framed for his underworld crimes. Now, finally out of prison she is ready for sweet revenge.

Anand - The story of a terminally ill man who wishes to live life to the full before the inevitable occurs, as told by his best friend.

Mere Brother Ki Dulhan - A quirky rom-com where Kush finds the ideal Indian bride Dimple for his brother Luv and a series of comical and unpredictable events follow.

I know that the question is asking for Bollywood films, but I need to go ahead and include two of Indian Cinema’s post popular films ever released. 

Bahubali - In ancient India, an adventurous and daring man becomes involved in a decade’s old feud between two warring people.

Bahubali 2 - When Shiva, the son of Bahubali, learns about his heritage, he begins to look for answers. His story is juxtaposed with past events that unfolded in the Mahishmati Kingdom.

Not Bollywood films, but these are recommended by our followers:

Ok Kamani (Similar to Ok Jaanu) - Two young lovers are compatible in every way - they even agree that marriage is futile. However, their emotions are not so easily managed, especially when they witness the unconditional love of the older couple with whom they live.

Alaipayuthey - A computer expert and a crusading doctor marry in secret, then deal with death and trauma.

If you ever need more recommendations. Just shoot a message at our inbox. And I will update the list as they come.

- Sonia

[livebyfaithhopelove]

DEAR BROTHERS AND SISTERS,

HE WAS AND HE IS AND HE WILL

I died every day, many times in many ways. I surrendered myself not for victory but because I can no longer stand. I can’t fight no more. I can’t find the light.

I walked the valley with no directions. Yes, I can see but I don’t know where to go. I called, I asked, I shout, I cried. Yet no one answered.

Where are you?

The one whom I trusted.

The one whom I loved.

The one whom I served.

The one whom I prayed to.

The one who called me HIS.

The one who poured out grace on me.

I shouted.

I cried.

The hopeful self, is in desperate need.

Help me.

 Darkness became me. But I’m still hopeful. I still have the hope. That one day, I will be found. That out of this world, he will still listen, he still cares.

Everyone was there for me but I felt empty.

Everyone was hugging me, but it just passes through me.

I know what’s wrong.

I know there is something that I need.

 What do you think is the answer?

 I was blinded.

I found hope

Happiness

Joy

Evrything that makes me feel lifted up.

I found it.

But it was different.

It only last for a day.

I think it is from the world’s.

But I loved it too.

I do.

But why it was like this?

Why do I still feel like I’m alone

After a day of happiness

At the end of a day

Why am I alone?

 I summoned you again.

The Almighty.

“where am I now?”

I asked.

The wind whispers at me.

The dark clouds felt me.

They cried too.

I was in shock

Because for again, my tears run from my eyes

This is incredible.

It’s been a long time since I cried

Since these tears showed up.

I felt you.

 I am all alone now.

Are you still there?

Can you still hear me out?

I had a lot of questions.

But all of it was answered.

YOU DID.

 It was my fault.

I turned back.

It was me who did it first.

When I get tired

I left you

That’s when I started to feel nothing

Because you were my everything.

And leaving you

Is making myself into nothing

I know.

And it hurts

But you were hurt too

I was too dumb

I left you. You didn’t

I was in miserable

In agony

In pain

In brokenness

It was my fault

Because I stopped loving you

But you didn’t.

 Cats and dogs were fighting that day

As so my tears fall

They were like a storm

Very likely to me

That destroyed me in a way

Devastated me

Yet created a new me

 I said earlier

That I’ve found out the answer

Yes I did

It is He.

It was Him

Who I left behind

Whom I served

whom I trusted.

whom I loved.

whom I served.

whom I prayed to.

who called me HIS.

who poured out grace on me.

GOD.

He was

He is

He will

And will always be

LOVE

He is Love.

 I left him

Because I no longer love him

And it made me nothing

Because He truly was everything

Leaving Him

Is not the best choice

Because it left in despair

And I was in a mess

 LOVE

He taught me this

Because he was this

He was love

Love that will never fail

Love that will never leave

He is the face of every goodness

Just

Peace

The one that I’ve been looking for

The one that brings me peace

He had it

And will always have it.

 Finally

I was able to survive

For once again

He did embrace me

Through the wind

Through the storm

Through the sun rays

Through the sky

Through his people

Through His ways

 Amazing he was

Amazing he will always be

 He forgave

He accepted again

He loves

He heals

He makes way

He fixes

He provides

He is the hope

He is the rock

He will stand

And will always will

 LOVE

That he is

True love

That gives meaning to the world

 This is the answer

He is the answer.

 He saves me.

Not the world

Not my friends

Not the church were I am attending to

Not my parents

Not my advisers

Not the priests or my churchmates

They were His ways

And I am grateful for them

 God has His ways

He did it on me

When I tend to forget

He never did stop loving

So I can never forget

How much he love me

My everything

 Too weird for other people

But this is the truth

That sets me free

That let me lives

 From a lost sheep

He found me

Beautiful, was it?

His spirit

Gave me life

From death

I was raised

And  I want to share it to the world

That he, will lift you again

Just like what he untiringly did

With some unworthy like me

With a scarred person like me

With a mud like me

 The trembling child in me

He wipes it

He comforted

He touches

 God thank you.

For saving me

From the mess that I’ve become.

 May your people

Be touched

Be saved

Be complete

In YOU

 Because only in you

Will us be SAVED.

 Declaring in His mighty Name.

In Jesus name

That From NOTHING

you will find everything NOW

Because HE will FULFILL THE EMPTINESS

HE will pave  the way

HE will do it again and again

 Feel His presence

Accept His love

His grace

His gift

It is Him

And he will save you

LOVE

LOVE

LOVE

Is GOD

GOD HIMSELF IS LOVE

And it is the only thing that never change

That makes sense

That will always be true.

 Be ready

For he will change you

In our heart

In our lives

Let Him control us

Let Him enter

Let us pray

Let us accept Him

Let us be Filled

 After reading this.

Can you pray with me?

 Lord Jesus Christ. You deserve all the praises

You are the Most High and we humbly ask for your forgiveness.

Help us find ourselves again, in your grace, in you love, in your arms.

We thank you so much for everything. Words are not enough yet we truly thank you.

Lord teach us to love like how you love us. It is only you who can do that for you yourself is LOVE that will never ever fade.

 Lord we are sincerely calling out for you. Help us, to make you as our savior and Lord.

We make you and accept you as the driver of our lives, as our Lord God, as our savior, the author of our my hope, my story and my life

Take control, my Father.

Live in me. Let me live in your purpose. Take me out from the world’s love and let me live in your LOVE.

I surrender now. Not in my coward being, but for your GREATEST NAME.

In Jesus name, AMEN.

 For victory that JESUS WON,

Let us not be afraid.

We are UNDEFEATED.

OVERCOMER

Let us live like what Christ did.

And let’s say to the world,

THIS IS LOVE, THIS IS TRUE LIVING.

MANIFEST HIS LOVE.

LET US BE THE SALT AND LOVE.

He has won it all.

Now let us continue HIS MISSION.

 Come’n, brothers and sisters.

Let us start the journey!

  Very truly yours,

HIS WOMAN, HIS SERVANT, HIS WARRIOR Sofaith