#tiny king of the drums

[aquareegia]

(idk if all of these have been shared already, but these are thumbnails from Brandon Toews' insta)

[blanchetteminxia]

the stadium roared. the crowd was a cacophony of cheers, jeers, and the rhythmic thumping of drums. sae itoshi, ever the consummate professional, remained focused. his. senses. were. fine-tuned.

he could hear the precise click of his cleats on the manicured grass, the whistle of the wind as the ball soared through the air, the synchronized chants of the ultras. what he did not expect to hear was you.

you were supposed to be the epitome of meekness. shy. reserved. the kind of girl who spoke in whispers and blushed at a strong breeze. you were, in his estimation, a calming presence in his otherwise chaotic world. a quiet harbor in the storm of his existence.

and then he heard it.

it started subtly enough. a slightly louder cheer than usual. he almost dismissed it as the general excitement of the game. but then it escalated.

"SAE! DO YOU SEE THIS?!"

Sae's head snapped up, his eyes scanning the crowd. Was that...? No, it couldn't be.

"YOUR PASSING IS DIVINE INTERVENTION!"

his eyebrow twitched. he was starting to recognize the... timbre.

"THAT’S THE FATHER OF MY UNBORN CHILDREN!"

okay, there was no mistaking it now. that was your voice.

sae's gaze landed on your section of the stands. you were... transformed. gone was the quiet, demure girl he was courting. in her place was a woman possessed.

you were standing, jumping, waving your arms with the ferocity of a conductor leading a heavy metal orchestra. your face was flushed, your eyes blazing with an intensity he'd never seen before. and you were... screaming.

sae's mind, usually a well-organized database of football strategies and opponent weaknesses, short-circuited. he saw you sandwiched between two equally... enthusiastic women. one was holding up a sign that read "SAE, OUR CHILDREN MISS YOU," and the other was yelling something about the structural integrity of her lower extremities.

and you were right there with them, a tiny, ferocious general in this army of passionate (and slightly unhinged) fans.

he watched, dumbfounded, as you launched into a detailed critique of the opposing team's defense, your voice surprisingly loud and carrying across the stadium with alarming clarity.

"WHO ARE THESE EXTRAS AND WHY ARE THEY BLOCKING MY GLORIOUS KING!"

sae stumbled, nearly losing possession of the ball. his teammates stared at him, concern etched on their faces. the opposing team looked equally bewildered, their concentration broken by the sheer... force of your cheering.

for the rest of the game, sae was... distracted. he kept glancing at you, his mind struggling to reconcile the image of the quiet girl he knew with the banshee-like creature in the stands. he made several uncharacteristic mistakes, his passes going astray, his tackles mistimed.

the opposing team scored. their captain pointed in your general direction and gave you a thumbs up. sae wanted to disappear.

by the time the final whistle blew, sae was a broken man. he trudged off the field, the cheers of the crowd fading into a distant buzz. he spotted you waiting for him near the players' tunnel, your face glowing with triumph.

"hey,…”  he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "what... what was that?"

you beamed at him, your usual shyness returning as quickly as it had vanished. "oh, sae! did you see me? i was really getting into it! those girls were amazing! i think i made some new friends!"

sae stared at you, his brain refusing to process the words. he opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a strangled, "yeah.. that was… new”

you tilted your head, confused. "oh yea.. when you're on the field, i just... i get a little passionate."

a little passionate.

sae replayed the events of the last ninety minutes in his head. the screaming, the yelling, the detailed anatomical commentary from your fellow fans...

somehow, he finds this new side of you amusing. so much so that now, four years later, he finds himself smiling as he hears your screams from the bleachers.

he has never felt so lucky to have such a devoted cheerleader.

[synity]

Us, Under One Moon

(Lee Jihoon x FemReader)

*Slice-of-Life, Domestic Fluff, Girl Dad Woozi, Found-Family Warmth*

Lee Jihoon didn’t know he could cry that fast.

He hadn’t cried when he debuted. Not when he won his first award. Not even when he broke down from overwork behind the locked doors of a studio. But the second his daughter arrived into the world eight pounds of perfection, lungs strong, fists tiny his composure shattered like poorly tightened drum strings.

He stood beside Y/N, his wife, her forehead dewed with sweat, exhaustion painting shadows beneath her eyes, and yet, still glowing. Her hand gripped his weakly, but it was her eyes that anchored him eyes that silently said, This is ours.

And so he looked at his daughter. Her name would be Areum meaning beautiful, fitting for someone born with the moonlight resting on her skin and a soul that made the sterile hospital room feel like home.

Seoul, 6:04 a.m. Sunlight seeped through the gauzy curtains and stretched across the king‑size bed like warm honey. Somewhere outside, a sparrow chirped an over‑enthusiastic scale almost as if auditioning for SEVENTEEN. Inside, the master bedroom of the Lee household was quiet… until a five‑year‑old whirlwind padded in on sock‑clad feet.

“Appa…” The whisper was soft but determined. Tiny palms pressed against Lee Jihoon’s cheeks, squishing them together so his lips puckered like a goldfish. “Wake up, you promised heart pancakes.”

Jihoon’s eyes cracked open; the night’s leftover exhaustion evaporated at the sight of his daughter’s bed‑head curls. “Morning already?” he croaked. His voice a producer’s prized instrument sounded more like crumpled sheet music.

From the other side of the bed, Y/N shifted, a sleepy smile curving her lips. “Your turn, superstar. My stage call isn’t until eight.” She reached out and brushed a stray curl from Areum’s forehead. “Mommy will taste‑test later.”

Areum’s face lit up, cheeks dimpling. “Appa, pancakes. With strawberry sprinkles. And chocolate eyes so they can see us eat them.”

Jihoon surrendered, sitting up in a tangle of blankets. His daughter squealed triumphantly and launched herself into his arms. The oversize T‑shirt he wore as pajamas sported a faded Going Seventeen logo; Areum fiddled with the hem as he scooped her close.

“How about a grand entrée?” he suggested, carrying her princess‑style toward the kitchen. “Heart‑shaped pancakes, blueberry smile, chocolate‑chip freckles, and a syrup moat.”

“Don’t forget the whipped‑cream mountain,” Areum added. “Mount Whipmore!”

Behind them, Y/N laughed into her pillow. “Remind me to trademark that.”

The Lee kitchen was equal parts homey and high‑tech: an espresso machine that hissed like a cymbal, a refrigerator plastered with preschool art, and a magnetic whiteboard where Woozi’s to‑do list battled stickers of cartoon tigers.

Areum wiggled onto her step stool painted lavender with silver stars, courtesy of Uncle Hoshi and donned a child‑sized apron. Jihoon tied the strings and grabbed the mixing bowl.

“Flour,” he announced, sliding the container over. “Half a cup careful.”

A puff of white dust clouded the air as Areum over‑enthusiastically dumped the flour. “Oops.”

“Creative expression,” Jihoon said, scooping the excess back in. “Next: milk, eggs, vanilla.”

As they whisked, Jihoon hummed a simple melody four bars looping like sunlight on parquet flooring. Areum matched pitch, her tiny voice threading through his bass notes.

Y/N appeared in the doorway, phone camera rolling. “Your morning duet is going to break Twitter,” she teased.

“Exclusive pre‑release,” Jihoon joked, flipping the first pancake with a practiced wrist. It landed perfectly; Areum clapped like it was a magic trick.

They decorated: strawberry‑slice hearts, chocolate‑chip eyes, whipped‑cream mountains so tall they threatened avalanche. Areum drizzled syrup until rivers formed around each cake. Jihoon pretended to launch tiny gummy‑bear boats down the syrup streams; Areum’s giggles filled the kitchen like cymbal crashes.

They plated three masterpieces. Jihoon carried the tray back to the bedroom where Y/N sat cross‑legged, laptop open, reviewing fabric swatches for SEVENTEEN’s next concept. She closed it at once, face lighting up at the spectacle.

“Mount Whipmore in all its glory,” Jihoon proclaimed.

The family tucked in. Syrup stuck to Areum’s chin; Y/N dabbed it away with a napkin. Jihoon cut bite‑sized pieces for them both before eating his own.

Between mouthfuls, Areum launched rapid‑fire questions: “Appa, why is a piano called a piano? Umma, can we visit the Han River today? Does whipped cream melt in space?”

Jihoon fielded each inquiry with professor‑level seriousness, eyes twinkling. Y/N chimed in dramatizing every answer.

By the end, pancakes were gone, plates licked clean, laughter echoing off the walls. Jihoon pressed a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple, another to Areum’s syrupy cheek.

“Best breakfast concert I’ve ever headlined,” he declared.

Areum threw her arms around his neck. "tomorrow again?”

“Every day, Moonie my life’s favorite encore.”

And as the family shuffled toward the living room Jihoon to the piano, Areum to her crayon kingdom, Y/N trailing with her sketchbook the sparrow’s song outside seemed to harmonize, as if the whole neighborhood had tuned in for the next movement of the Morning Symphony.

Jihoon’s studio had evolved with the seasons of his life. What was once a solitary space for instruments and stress was now a shared sanctuary.

There was a low corner table with chunky crayons and pink post-it notes, some scribbled with Areum’s critiques:

"Appa, this one made me sleepy, good sleepy"

"More sparkle sounds please."

Y/N had claimed a shelf near the window for her brushes and fabric samples. She’d design mock outfits for comebacks right next to her daughter’s Lego cities.

Sometimes, while Jihoon layered chords, Y/N would be painting the concept poster for a new Seventeen unit. Areum, meanwhile, orchestrated her stuffed animals into a chorus line.

“Appa, make the teddy bear sing!”

“You’re the composer, Moon. You show me.”

She’d tap random keys until a melody emerged, laughing when Jihoon would nod and say, “We have a hit.”

Every Sunday was sacred.

Matching outfits hand-sewn by Y/N. They wore pastels or neutrals depending on Moonie’s mood. Today, lilac hoodies with tiny crescent moons stitched over the heart.

They picnicked near Han River. Jihoon’s old guitar in tow, their portable speaker playing soft ballads, Areum racing between trees with a disposable camera. Y/N sprawled on the mat sketching them both.

After eating, Jihoon sang. His guitar gentle, voice lower than stage level, private.

Areum twirled beside him, feet bare in the grass. Y/N harmonized with soft hums.

A security guard walked by, recognized them, but simply tipped his hat and walked on. Even idols deserved to be Appa, Umma, and Moon.

They stayed until the sun kissed the skyline and Areum yawned against Y/N’s lap.

Woozi could produce a ten-layer synth harmony but braiding hair? That took dedication.

He’d practiced with a doll Y/N bought him until he got it right.

Now, every school morning he braided Areum’s hair into twin plaits. She sat on the bathroom stool, chattering about her day ahead.

“Appa, we have to bring a family photo. Which one should I use?”

“Let’s take a new one,” he said. “Today. Just us three.”

That night, after brushing her teeth and jumping under her space-themed blanket, Areum held out a book.

“This one, Appa. The one where the bear finds home.”

Jihoon read with one arm around her, the other hand in Y/N’s. He gave every character a different voice. When Areum finally drifted off, he didn’t move.

“She’s growing so fast,” he whispered.

Y/N kissed his shoulder. “She’ll always need her Appa, no matter how tall she gets.”

On tour, Jihoon missed them like oxygen.

Time zones couldn’t stop them, though.

Every day, Y/N and Areum sent voice notes. Jihoon responded with lullabies recorded backstage. He wore a charm bracelet with three beads A, Y, and J.

After his solo stage, the staff handed him an envelope. Inside: a crayon drawing of him on stage, a crowd of hearts, and a stick-figure Areum holding a mic beside him.

“So I can sing next time too.”

He cried in the dressing room. Again.

Ten years old.

Y/N decorated the house with moon motifs. Jihoon wrote a song just for her, layered with lullaby melodies and harmonies in the background. They recorded it secretly for weeks.

They premiered it at her birthday party in the living room. Lights dimmed, projector on.

Areum’s eyes filled with tears by the second verse.

“Appa, Umma... this is my favorite song. Forever.”

He held her tightly.

Y/N rested her head on his shoulder.

And the music played on.

Now 16, Areum was taller. Her hair now dyed a soft rose gold. She danced like her uncles, wrote music like her Appa, and had her Umma’s eye for detail.

One evening, Jihoon passed her studio room and paused.

She was recording.

The melody was familiar. The same one he wrote years ago.

“Appa,” she called softly. “Come sing with me?”

He entered, heart full, and sat beside her. She passed him a mic.

And just like that, the lullaby became a duet.

Areum, Jihoon, and Y/N still orbiting, still in harmony.

Under one moon.

Forever.

[kanyerealdaughter]

— ★ MHA MEN IN THE MOTHERLAND

characters - bakugo , deku , todoroki , kirishima , denki , sero , tenya , shinso , monoma , hawks , dabi , shigaraki , aizawa, all might , endeavor. | all around the world event! |

—————————————————————————

KATSUKI BAKUGO - walks like the land is testing him, and he welcomes the challenge. sun beating down, dust in his sandles, and still he moves like fire doesn’t fear heat. but the way he watches you? that’s the softest part of the whole damn trip.

safari reaction - mutters “ tch.” at the first elephant. but doesn’t look away. lions gets a grin from him. “ they know they’re kings. i respect that.”

secretly takes a photo of you with the giraffes. keeps it in his phone forever.

food experience - grumbles at first. then devours everything. “ spicy. i like it.” compliments the chef with a firm nod.

ends up cooking one dish himself. “ don’t say shit, but this stew’s better than what we make at home.”

cultural experience - he joins a drum circle. plays so hard the locals cheer. kids cling to him, call him random nickanme besides him telling them his name millions of times.

he pulls you aside that night. “ thanks for bringin’ me. i needed this.”

—————————————————————————

IZUKU ‘DEKU’ MIDORIYA - touches everything like it might vanish. gentle, grateful, glowing. he’s a student again here, wide-eyed and full of wonder. and when he looks at you under the stars? he swears he’s the luckiest man alive.

safari reaction - takes detailed notes. names every bird. asks a hundred questions. cries quietly when he sees a baby elephant. “ it’s so pure.”

you wipe his tears for him. he whispers, “ i’ll never forget this.”

food experience - tries very bite with reverence. “ the spices… they tell a story.” he says you look at him and his whole face is red. he jots down recipes to try back home with you. helps clean up and thanks everyone personally.

cultural experience - joins a dance with awkward energy. kids absolutely love him. gets a painted symbol on his forehead from a village elder. later tells you. “ this place… it feels like hope.”

—————————————————————————

SHOTO TODOROKI - walks like the land cools for him, the sun touches but doesn’t burn. he doesn’t say much, but his eyes drink in everything. africa strips him down to the boy he once was curious, cautious, and quietly in awe of the world… and of you.

safari reaction - stares at a cheetah for too long. “ they move like fire.” holds your hand tighter when the hyenas laugh. doesn’t say why. the sunset was so beautiful,

“ my mother would love this view.” he murmurs.

food experience - eats thoughtfully. sensitive to spice. drinks lots of milk. asks for the meanings behind dishes. thanks the cooks sincerely.

shares every bite with you. “ i want you to taste what i taste.”

cultural experience - watches children play soccer. joins in quietly. wins, then lets them win. a local braids a thread into his hair, he leaves it there. that night he says. “ i feel different here… freer.”

—————————————————————————

EIJRO KIRISHIMA - moves like the world is made for joy. every step in the red earth is a celebration. he laughs loud, hugs hard, and makes everyone feel like family. with you? he’s a volcano of warmth.

safari reaction - gasps at hippos at how big they are. climbs a lookout rock with you on his back.

“ for the view, babe!”

records when an elephant splashes in a river.

food experience - dives into everything soon he’s gonna be on the toilet praying he didn’t. “ THIS is flavor, bro!” cheers for the cook. asks to learn one dish himself. brings you the best bites like a proud caveman.

cultural experience - dances until his knees give out. kids copy all his moves. joins a woodworking session. craves a tiny lion for you.

tells you. “ this place made me stronger. in the best way.”

—————————————————————————

DENKI KAMINARI - lands like it’s spring break, but quickly tunes into the rhythm of the land. he cracks jokes, but his wonder is real. and the way he clings to your arm at sunset? he’s never been more grounded.

safari reaction - screams when a baboon jumps out. pretends it didn’t scare him. tries to get a selfie with every animal. ends up with mostly blurry shots. almost falls out of the jeep, but he still manages a perfect one of you smiling.

“ this one’s going on my wall.”

food experience - loves the grilled meats. spices hit him like lightning, he cries. “ i’m suffering, but i love it.” accidentally volunteers to help and ends up peeling over 50 onions.

cultural experience - plays tag with local kids until he collapses. tries drumming, fails still gets applause. he pulls you aside grinning and says. “ this? this is living.”

—————————————————————————

SERO HANTA - walks like the breeze carries him light, laughing, and adaptable. he greets strangers like old friends, slips into rhythm like he belongs, and somehow always ends up with kids hanging off his arms. with you, he’s even brighter.

safari reaction - dangles off the jeep for better views. “ check that giraffe’s neck!” gets chased briefly by a curious baby zebra. laughs the whole time.

“ this is wild, babe. literally.”

food experience - tries street food without hesitation. loves the grilled plantains. accidentally bites into a chili pepper, cries with pride.

“ worth it.” he wheezes, sweating.

cultural experience - gets roped into helping paint a mural at a community center. leaves his handprint in the corner. he joins a weaving circle and actually gets good at it.

“ this isn’t just cool, it’s humbling,” he says, eyes soft. “ i feel lucky.”

—————————————————————————

TENYA IIDA - walks like he’s trying to be the best guest possible. polite, respectful, deeply observant. but when he sees how alive the land is, how untamed, he lets go. just a bit. and you see the man beneath the rules.

safari reaction - names each animal like a textbook. his eyes lit up once he saw a black panther. pulls you into a shaded spot, lets himself breathe.

food experience - first asks if everything is clean.. like everything before learning proper etiquette. eats slowly, respectfully. writes a thank-you note in the local dialect. sneaks you extra fruit under the table.

cultural experience - watches a dance before joining. perfects the rhythm after three tries. kids imitate his serious posture, he laughs for once. he tells you seriously at night. “ i’m glad i came… with you.”

—————————————————————————

HITOSHI SHINSO - blends into the shade like he’s always belonged there hoodie up, hands in pockets, voice low. but when he speaks, people listen. not because he commands it, but because he respects the silence that came before.

safari reaction - watches the predators move in near silence. doesn’t flinch when a hyena comes close to the jeep. quietly murmurs. “ it’s peaceful, in a primal way.”

food experience - tries everything once, always polite. compliments the chef with sincerity.

“ it’s different.” he says, “ but its good.”

cultural experience - observes before acting. kids braid his hair while he listens to elders tell stories. leaves a handmade bracelet on a statue as thanks. “ you learn more when you’re not trying to be the loudest.”

—————————————————————————

NEITO MONOMA - walks like he’s filming a personal documentary, overdramatic, hand gestures sharp, words theatrical. but there’s sincerity in his awe, and when he quiets down, you catch him actually moved.

safari reaction - gasps at every new animal like it’s a magical creature.

“ behold! nature’s royalty, the cheetah!” trips once running from a bug. plays it off like performance art.

food experience - narrates each bite like a gourmet judge. “ the spice! the soul! the seasoning!” actually helps with dishes, humming joyfully.

cultural experience - joins in traditional dance. does the most. somehow nails it. practices greetings in the local language until perfect.

says with misty eyes. “ they treated me like i belonged.”

—————————————————————————

KEIGO ‘HAWKS’ TAKAMI - glides through space like he was born for it wide skies, wild laughter, sharp eyes on everything. he’s charming without trying, but it’s the still moments your hand in his, your laugh echoing, that make him stay quiet.

safari reaction - stands on the jeep roof with wings spread wide. “ feels like freedom.” dives to stop a hat from flying away, returns it to a kid with a wink.

watches a hawk in flight, eyes soft. “ cousin.” he jokes.

food experience - he eats quickly, noisily, happily. loves the grilled meats. flirts with the cook and gets extra servings.

“ they really cook with love here.” he grins.

cultural experience - dances with kids barefoot, feathers catching the sun. he also flying kites with the children. later whispers to you. “ i don’t want to leave.”

—————————————————————————

TOUYA ‘DABI’ TODOROKI - moves like heat mirage, real and unreal all at once. eyes half-lidded, voice dragging, but nothing escapes his notice. he doesn’t talk much to others, but he lets you lean into him like he’s solid ground.

safari reaction - stares at vultures circling above. “ guess we’re not so different.” chuckles watching a lion laze in the sun. “ that’s the life.” hold your hand tighter than usual. says nothing about it.

food experience - pokes at unfamiliar dishes but ends up liking them. like the fire-cooked stuff best. gives his food to a kid without being asked.

cultural experience - sits by the fire long after everyone else sleeps. let elders paint a symbol on his arm, doesn’t flinch.

—————————————————————————

SHIGARAKI TOMURA - doesn’t fit in, and he doesn’t try to. fingers twitch, eyes wary, always on edge. but when no one recoils, when kids smile up at him instead of running, you see something break quietly behind his scowl.

safari reaction - doesn’t like how open the plains are. “ too exposed.” but stops cold at a black panther slinking through the grass. “…beautiful.” touches a tree bark gently. he doesn’t destroy it.

food experience - eats reluctantly at first. “ it’s weird.” but takes seconds of roasted meat. quietly admits. “ tastes real.” lets you wipe his mouth clean like he’s a kid again.

cultural experience - watches kids dance with a blank stare. a local grandma calls him “ haunted but good.” he almost smiles.

“ they don’t know me..” he says later. “And they still… liked me.”

—————————————————————————

AIZAWA SHOUTA - steps like the wind might carry him off soft, careful, always watching. he’s not here to be seen, but somehow ends up respected by everyone without trying. the kids call him “sensei” before he even speaks. perhaps he just gives off the vibe.

safari reaction - lies back and watches birds with binoculars for hours. names constellations in the sky while you rest against him. “ everything here works in balance,” he murmurs. “ no need for flash.”

food experience - eats what’s given. no complaints. quiet thank yous. makes tea with locals and shares stories in exchange. “ simple is best,” he tells you, content.

cultural experience - fixes a broken wheel with kids in a dusty village. teaches a few stretches to an elder who has back pain.

“ good people.” he says. “ you can feel it in their hands.”

—————————————————————————

TOSHINORI ‘ALL MIGHT’ YAGI - carries sunshine like a second skin. his smile is softer, his voice humbler, but out here, among the people and the stories, he becomes something not larger-than-life, just purely human.

safari reaction - marvels like a child at the elephants. “ incredible strength… but so gentle.” helps lift kids into the jeep one by one. they cheer.

“ this.” he tells you, eyes bright, “ is what peace feels like.”

food experience - praises every dish. asks for seconds and thirds. mearns how to roast maize from an elder and does it wrong. laughs at himself.

“ it’s the company that makes it delicious,” he says.

cultural experience - joins in a storytelling circle, voice rich and warm. gets asked to bless a new community garden, takes it seriously. also becomes the neighborhood playing and helping with the kids.

“ this is heroism too.” he says. “ lifting lives without fists.”

—————————————————————————

ENJI ‘ENDEAVOR’ TODOROKI - walks like fire held in check rigid, intense, commanding. but in this place, where no one knows his name or shame, he lets himself breathe. and somehow, he’s quieter when holding your hand in the sun.

safari reaction - watches lions in silence. “ hm they lead through presence, not volume.” kids are somewhat scared of him first, until he helps one up from a fall. holds your waist in the front keel, steady even as the road shakes.

food experience - grills meat over fire with practiced hands. adds his own twist. accepts praise awkwardly. “ it’s… edible.” but you catch him smiling at the compliments.

cultural experience - works side by side with village builders. doesn’t say much just lifts, hammers, helps. a child draws flames on his hand with markers. he leaves it on all day.

he becomes the neighborhood father for the rest of the trip. “ they don’t care who i was.” he mutters. “ just who i am here.”

𖣂 KANYEREALDAUGHTER SPEAKS - i don’t watch mha like thatttt soo yeah..

words - 2.1k

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copyright ©️. ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ . «

[reissancesstuff]

hi, do you write aus? can I request bonten!izana with a pregnant reader during an ultrasound?

A/N: hi babes, sorry for being inactive lately i've been sooooo busy plus i feel so unmotivated to write anything:< anyway this is one of the requests that is rotting in my inbox lol. i hope you enjoy it, anon!

“Little Heartbeats”

Bonten!Izana x pregnant!reader

“You’re nervous.”

You glance over at Izana, who’s slouched in the too-small chair beside the examination table. His usual suit jacket draped across the back of the chair. But his eyes — sharp and pale — are watching you like a hawk.

You exhale. “A little. First ultrasound, you know?”

His hand finds yours. “It’ll be fine.”

That’s Izana-speak for I’m nervous too but won’t admit it. He’s still got that edge to him — Bonten’s leader, blood on his hands, chaos in his bones — but when it comes to you, everything softens. His thumb brushes the back of your hand in slow, absent-minded circles.

The doctor walks in with a smile and greets you both, making small talk as she sets up the machine. “We’re going to do a quick check today. We’ll listen for the heartbeat.”

Izana’s grip tightens slightly, and he scoots his chair closer.

You lie back and pull your shirt up, exposing your belly. The gel is cold — you shiver — and Izana mutters something about needing to install better heating in this place, as if he owns the clinic.

Then the probe touches your skin.

Static at first. A low hum. Then—

ba-bump. ba-bump. ba-bump.

Your breath catches. The sound is faint but steady, like a tiny drum inside you.

Izana goes still.

“That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” the doctor says warmly.

You look over at him — and the expression on his face nearly makes you cry.

He’s wide-eyed. No smirk, no arrogance, no aloofness. Just… awe.

“That’s them?” he murmurs.

You nod. “That’s our baby.”

He swallows. Slowly. Then leans in, hand still clutching yours. “You’re sure they’re okay?”

“Perfectly healthy,” the doctor confirms.

Izana doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares at the screen, at the blurry shape nestled safely inside you.

And then, quietly — softer than you’ve ever heard him — he whispers:

“…I didn’t think I’d get this far.”

Your heart twists. You squeeze his fingers, and he finally looks at you.

“You did,” you say. “We did.”

He leans forward and kisses your knuckles. “Guess I’ve got a reason to stop dying for things.”

You smile. “Now you live for them instead.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, brushing a thumb along your belly like he can already protect the tiny life inside. The terrifying Bonten executive who once ruled with fear now looks at you like you hung the stars — and at the screen like it holds his future.

“You’re gonna be spoiled, you know that?” he murmurs to your stomach. “I’ll make sure of it.”

And for once, the king of destruction sounds like a man who finally found something he wants to protect.

[kaynanarie]

Eyes of Gold (Part 17)

(A WukongxReader story inspired by Beauty and the Beast and Lutung Kasarung.) (First) (Prev) (Next)

            Pain pounded through your head like a war drum, pulling you from a groggy sleep. You groaned and felt for the source, wincing when your clumsy fingers found a tender bump at your temple. Opening your eyes only added to the ache, the dim light jabbing through your skull like sharp daggers. Your body felt heavy and uncoordinated as you cautiously sat up and steadied your senses.

            The first thing you noticed was the heat; muggy air pressing in close, clinging to your robes and skin like a damp, heavy blanket. With it came the lingering, acrid scent of smoke and soot. Once you could squint your eyes open, the space around you slowly came into focus. It was less of a room and more of a cell with rough stone walls and a solid metal door without a handle. Even your ‘bed’ was little more than a carved slab of rock covered by a threadbare blanket.

            Nothing about it felt familiar or welcoming; a far cry from the Fruit and Flower Mountain you had come to call home. As you struggled to remember where you were or how you got there, bits and pieces stitched themselves together like wisps of mist from your hazy memory.

            Spending time with Shihou only to be interrupted by the villagers’ plea for aid. Sun Wukong shattering the frozen lake and his surprising resemblance to your peach friend. Jumping through the waterfall and finally kissing Shihou. His rejection and reveal of the Monkey King’s intentions. The heartbreak and betrayal that drove you from the safety of the palace. Your sister’s deal with the Bull Demon King and your unwilling role to play in it. The last thing you could remember was being captured and knocked unconscious. A gentle brush where you had been struck did little to sooth the ache in both your head and your heart.

            Given the stone walls and fortified door, it was obvious you had been handed over to the son of the bull. But, without a handle to even try, you had no idea what to expect or what to do next.

            A, small, secret part of you hoped your peach friend would somehow know you needed help; that Shihou would find you, save you, protect you like he always promised. Maybe the Monkey King himself would be inclined to mount a rescue given his inexplicable claim over you. But with the harsh words and heartbreak left in the wake of your sudden disappearance, expecting aid from either monkey was little more than wishful thinking.

            Through the heavy gloom surrounding you, a beam of light illuminated the far wall in a soft, golden glow. Swaying to your feet, you shuffled across the room until you reached a window to the outside. Thick, iron bars were embedded in the surrounding stone, blocking any escape attempts. Not that it made much of a difference; the hole was no bigger than your face, only a wispy breeze and ray of sunshine able to squeeze through. A small patch of sky was barely visible with puffy clouds and a lone hawk drifting along the blue. You couldn’t help but envy its freedom.

            Time passed slowly, only marked by the dizzying circles of the sharp-eyed bird on the hunt. You had nearly dozed off again when a metal clang startled you and triggered your headache back to full force. The heavy door swung open and two demons crowded into the tiny room. Both were tall with red skin, yellow eyes, and jagged teeth. They wore matching armor and carried identical spears; clearly guards of whatever demon held you captive.

            “His Highness has summoned you,” one of them growled. Before you could answer, much less protest, each arm was grabbed and you were hauled up and out of your cell.

            The rest of the dungeon was eerily similar, the same hot air and gray stone lining the torchlit halls. Your head swam and your feet stumbled under you but the bruising grips on your arms forced you to keep pace with the guards’ steadfast march. The more turns you were dragged down, the more dread tightened your chest and turned your stomach.

            You knew you were a prisoner of a demon prince but beyond that, everything was an unnerving mystery. Where you were and how far were you from home? Would the bull king’s son be kind or cruel? With the endless tunnels of solid stone, what were the odds of escaping? And would you even survive an audience with your unexpected betrothed?

            As the endless gray and flickering flames blurred together in your muddled mind, the sudden splash of red at the end of the tunnel was jarring to see. The guards stopped just before the curtain and announced in a booming voice, “We’ve brought the human, your Highness!”

            A moment passed before someone answered, younger but with unwavering authority. “You may enter.”

            The heavy fabric was held aside and you were shoved into the next room. More stone greeted you, this time arching high and wide into an enormous cavern. Even with the open space, the intense heat and smoky scent was nearly suffocating. Crimson banners and support pillars reached from floor to ceiling, circling around a raised dais. As you were marched closer, an ornate throne came into view along with the figure seated on it.

            He looked like a youth; no longer a child but not yet a man. Dark hair and fair skin contrasted elegantly against the red silks of his robes. Embroidered dragons and phoenixes decorated his armored kilt, both extravagant and battle ready all at once. He lounged on the throne, bare feet kicked up and chin leaning against his fist. The other hand idly twirled a gleaming lance with practiced ease.

            The guards stomped to a halt and forced you to kneel before the prince. Despite his human-like appearance, he radiated the dangerous aura of a powerful demon.

            “Finally awake, I see,” the young man spoke, barely glancing your way with bored disinterest. “About time. I was beginning to wonder if you’d save us the trouble and not wake at all.”

            “Where am I?” you blurted out before you could think better of it. “How long have I been here?”

            “The Flaming Mountains. You’ve been asleep since I brought you here nearly two days ago.” The judgmental stare he pinned you with sent a shudder down your spine. “I must say, as dingy as your little village was, I wasn’t expected my chosen betrothed to be handed over in such a disheveled state.”

            You fidgeted a bit under his scrutiny, acutely aware of your crumpled robe and unkempt appearance. Shoving your nerves aside, you redirected the conversation to answer your own question. “So, you must be son of the Bull Demon King, then?”

            “Correct; seems you’re not completely dim…for a human, anyways.” He stood from his throne, shoulders squared and chin raised high and proud. “I am Red Boy, son of the Bull Demon King and Rakshasi the Princess Iron Fan.”

            His lance was leveled down at you, the sharp edge pressing just under your chin. Ice washed through your veins, breath froze in your lungs, and your heart raced with panic but you dared not move.

            “You will address me as ‘Lord’ or ‘Prince’ if you wish to keep your tongue. We may be betrothed but it does not make us equals. I’m not keen on an arranged marriage, especially to a human. It is only out of respect for my father that I agreed to this political match. If you wish to keep your village safe from harm, I suggest you stay agreeable as well.”

            Once the weapon was withdrawn, the tight squeeze in your chest relaxed enough to finally breathe. The threat was clear but beyond that, his words gave you an idea and the tiniest shred of hope to act on.

            “Apologies, Lord Red Boy, but I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” you forced the words out, shaky but determined. “You see, the Bull Demon King is not the protector of my village.”

            A curved brow arched up in surprise. “That’s a bold claim, human,” he sneered, eyes flashing in warning. “Explain yourself.”

            “Your father made the deal with my sister not realizing the village was already under the protection of Sun Wukong–”

            “THAT DAMN MONKEY!?” While Red Boy’s enraged shout was startling, the blaze of fire that spewed from his mouth was even more so. He took a deep breath to compose himself, puffs of black smoke still seeping between his gritted teeth when he addressed you again. “You presume to know the business of my father and the Monkey King?”

            “I–I’ve been staying as a royal guest of Sun Wukong,” you stuttered out. “I was there when the kings… agreed that the village would stay under the Monkey King’s patronage.”

            Red Boy’s sharp smile held no amusement. “You’re suggesting my father lost his claim?”

            “I just know Sun Wukong has continued to protect the village while Bull Demon King moved on with his soldiers,” you answered carefully.

            The prince sat back on his throne, fingers steepled and face pinched in thought. “I don’t believe you,” he finally said, dark eyes glowing like heated coal. “Why would the Monkey King hand over his supposed ‘Royal Guest’ for a deal that’s no longer in accord?”

            “He didn’t.” You shook your head, on hand soothing over your injured temple. “My sister has wished for my absence from the village for a while. She arranged for my abduction without Sun Wukong’s knowledge.”

            Red Boy still seemed unconvinced, staring you down with something akin to pity. “And this isn’t just you trying to weasel your way out of the marriage agreement?”

            “Would you rather go through with the wedding and find out it wasn’t necessary?” you countered boldly.

            He pondered your words, head nodding slowly in agreement. “You make an excellent point. Perhaps I will send word to my father to corroborate your story.” Red Boy gestured to one of his servant. Immediately, a scroll was unfurled and the demon began writing out a message. “If you’re telling the truth as the monkey’s ‘Royal Guest’, the deal will be off and your fate will be decided from there. But if you’re lying…” The tip of his lance glowed before igniting, fire dancing hot and threatening along the blade. “I will personally show you how unforgiving the flames of this mountain can be.”

            At the snap of the prince’s fingers, the demon guards grabbed your arms and hauled you back to your feet. “In the meantime, you will continue to be my guest until word returns on your claims.”

            Red Boy turned away in a clear dismissal and you were dragged out of the throne room before you could plead your case further.

            The march back to the dungeon was just as disorienting. Before you knew it, you were returned to your stone cell, iron door closed and locked behind you. A gourd of water and stale bread had been left for a meal but you had no appetite.

            All the hope had been drained out of you, every threat and ominous promise weighing heavy on your mind. Red Boy, while maybe not as powerful as the Monkey King, was still dangerous and had no qualms about harming humans, you included. Even if Bull Demon King did confirm your story, there was no guarantee of your release or safety.

            Weary and disheartened, you bypassed the bed in favor of huddling against window. The hawk was still circling and the setting sun colored the clouds in shades of pink and purple. It was a small comfort but you clung to it, enjoying your glimpse to the outside. Even as the distant light faded over the horizon and the sky darkened to night, your only wish was to live long enough to see the sun again.

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~🍑 Peach Friends 🍑~

@joyfulllittlething @iluxurycruisedthatship @drspecialhell @moondrop39-dovewing70 @happycarp @chibifox88 @rutabaga-menace @resident-cryptid @reynboe-sage @taffycandyqt @alicee-carter @epochal-oracle @unnisumi @borealis33 @aerkame

(If you would like to join the tag list, let me know!)

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Finally done! Apologies for the delay, I've had computer problems for the past month and my laptop finally gave up the ghost this past weekend. I'm using my old, slow one until my new one arrives. In the meantime, Red Boy! 🔥

Huge thanks to @blackknight-kai and @drspecialhell for helping me so much with this chapter, love you guys! 💖

You can also find this story on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60643669

[reneeslvt]

How Stupid.

A Regina George x Masc!Reader fic

Summary: Reader and Regina are oddly drawn to eachother on the night of the Spring Fling, leading to some events that might change their lives

Warnings: Vomiting/Nausea, Mild Language, Implied Emotional Distress, Complicated/Emotionally Charged Interactions, Questionable Power Dynamics, Toxic Behaviour, Unresolved Romantic Tension

1.6k words

(Notes: kind of nervous, this is my first ever fic I’ve posted! if you read this, thank you so much! I hope you love this as much as I do.)

======================================

The Spring Fling was the highlight of the year for most students at your school. Not because of the dance itself or the snack table, everyone obsessed over the crowning of Spring Fling king and queen. Months before, nominees are announced then a few weeks later voting opens and the school turns into a hostile environment.. Cool, right?

You had never really cared for the Spring Fling that much anyways, you found the lights were too bright and it smelt of body odor, cologne, and hairspray. But when your stupid garage band was asked by the music teacher, Ms. Daniels, to play at the dance, suddenly you had a reason to care—a tiny, annoying reason wrapped in the promise of a fifteen minute set and a free pizza from the teachers lounge.

So there you were, clammy hands gripping your drumsticks ever so tightly. Backstage with your band mates, in the middle of a conversation that you weren’t included in. As the drummer you were a little more secluded from the rest of the band, you played more to the back of the stage since you needed the room to fit all of the parts to it. After all, you chose the drums because you liked being alone. So you didn’t mind being secluded from the conversation.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the loud feedback of the microphone. Tap tap tap you heard, most likely from one of the teachers.

Ms. Daniel’s cleared her throat, pulling a small piece of paper out of her back pocket. “Tonight we have a treat for you, please welcome North Shores very own.. Pure Valley!” She exclaimed, overly excited for no reason. Only a few cheers came from the audience, you were sure it was sarcasm.

You then walked out with the rest of your band, sitting behind your drum kit. The lead singer, Claudia, began to ramble on about what you were performing and why. The band proceeded to play their rendition of “Come As You Are” by Nirvana and “Scar Tissue” by Red Hot Chili Peppers.

As you were playing your drums you caught eye of Regina in the crowd, donning her famous “I don’t care” look as her friends Gretchen and Karen stood beside her, their dresses lavender, while Regina’s was a shiny dress and greenish-blue. You didn’t understand why they let her rip them apart, after all you didn’t understand many things about Regina George. Like why everyone was scared of her, or why she never let anyone else sit at her lunch table, or why she was just so rude all of the time.

Distraction caught up and you hit the snare drum on accident. You internally face palmed yourself for letting someone you hated so much distract you and take up space in your head! She must’ve noticed because she seemed to have chuckled to herself while looking at you. Shit, of course she’s getting a kick out of this. She’s always loved to aggravate people.

After what seemed like an eternity, your set finally wrapped up. You walked off the stage dripping sweat from the intense, bright, headache inducing stage lights. Thankfully there were face cloths backstage. In all honesty you played great, but you couldn’t stop thinking about how stupid you were to let Regina distract you.

Anger boiled within you, so you chose to excuse yourself to the teachers lounge for something to eat.

You entered the empty school hallway, your echoing footsteps only further triggering your headache. All you could focus on was your inner turmoil and how hungry you were. When you turned the corner you were met with an open door to the teachers lounge.

You spotted some food on a table. A Pizza Hut box with a huge grease stain on the top. You opened the box, taking a slice of the cheese pizza inside. It was cold, and had a weird texture going down your throat. You helped yourself to a water bottle from the staff fridge to help wash it down. After you finished your pizza, you sat down in a fold up chair.

A little bit after you finished that piece of pizza, you felt something brewing in you stomach. Then, you felt nauseous. Jesus Christ.. it was getting bad now. Were you going to.. oh no!

You sprinted through the hallways while holding back your puke and trying to find the nearest bathroom. Once you found one, you pounced into the nearest stall and..

Once you finished throwing up, you felt more coming right as you heard the door open. Letting it come up uncontrollably, panting softly afterward. You then turned around to see Regina. Great timing.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” She asked. Although she seemed genuinely concerned for you, she looked amused at the situation. “Like oh my god dude.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Yeah.. I just ate something bad.” A groan escaped your lips. Rustling came from Regina, then she handed you a Gravol. You swallowed the pill without water. “Thanks.” You sighed.

She leaned on the frame of the stall, her arms crossed. She looked insanely bored, just leave you thought, but she was here for a reason.

“I didn’t know you played the drums.” Her voice startled you, your head continuing to pound.

You sighed, putting your head in your hands. “Yeah, it’s just a side hobby type-thing.” Shrugging, you couldn’t care for a conversation, your main focus was getting home.

A moment of silence passed between you two, the only sound was the sound of your breathing.

Regina’s eyes scanned you slowly, like she was trying to figure something out. “You don’t really seem like the band type,” she said, her voice lighter this time, almost teasing.

You cracked a weak smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“No, I mean—” she paused, clearly trying to choose her words. “You’re just… quiet. I didn’t expect you to be up there, doing that.”

You shrugged, slumping back against the stall wall. “It’s easier when you’re behind something. Nobody really looks at the drummer anyway.”

She tilted her head. “I did.”

You looked up at her. She was still wearing that unreadable expression—half boredom, half something else. Curiosity, maybe.

“You don’t actually seem that sick,” she added, squinting a little. “Is this like, performance anxiety? Or do you just really hate school dances?”

You scoffed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Can it not be both?”

Regina smiled faintly, then pulled a mini bottle of hand sanitizer from her clutch and handed it to you. Of course she had hand sanitizer. “You’re kind of weird,” she said matter-of-factly.

She squeezed some into your hands, with you rubbing them together. You gave her a tired look. “And you’re kind of still here.”

She didn’t respond right away, just leaned further into the doorframe, playing with one of her rings. The mood had shifted—it wasn’t exactly friendly, but it wasn’t sharp either.

Then, finally, she asked, “Do you need a ride home?”

You shrugged, “Sure.. that’d be great.” Getting up and walking out with her to her car in the parking lot.

Once you were outside, you immediately spotted her Orange Jeep. She unlocked the doors, the car beeping twice, echoing through the foggy environment. You climbed into the passenger seat, leaning your head against the window, the coolness helping your head.

Regina hopped in a few seconds after you, turning the ignition on and the car coming alive. The soft hum of the engine was sleep-inducing, but it felt wrong to fall asleep in her car—so your forced your eyes open.

She looked over at you, chuckling to herself, you looked over at her. “What’s so funny?” You asked tiredly. “You look like shit, like actual dogshit that was stepped on and—“

“Okay, I get it.” You cut her off, as she pulled out of the parking lot. Regina had a problem with insults, she didn’t know when to stop.

She sighed, “Sorry.”

“What did you say?” You leaned closer to her, “Did I just hear Regina George say sorry? And it was a very sincere apology.”

Regina laughed, “Don’t get used to it, okay?”

======================================

You were had already fell asleep when she pulled up to your house, and you didn’t know how long you had been stopped there until she woke you up.

She shook you gently, “(Y/N), (Y/N), wake up.”

Rubbing your eyes, you groaned and stretched. “We’re already here?”

“Yeah, get up dude.” She asked, sounding slightly annoyed with you already. Your presence might’ve been draining enough for her that she unbuckled your seatbelt for you.

Her car doors unlocked. You grabbed the door handle, but her hand placed on yours stopped you from opening the door. You looked up at Regina, her eyes boring into yours.

“Wait-“ She said, basically pleading.

She leaned in slightly to you.. what is happening? You thought, internally panicking.

Your faces got closer, and you couldn’t stop yourself wanting to feel what her lips felt like.

But why? You absolutely despised Regina! Why were you in her car? Why were you having a normal conversation? Why do you want to kiss her!

It was going to happen, but the sound of a car passing infront of you startled Regina and made her hesitate.

“I think you should go now.” Regina remarked, looking a bit disgusted. Maybe with herself? But how could you know, she never opens up.

You swallowed, nodding in agreement with her. “Yeah, I agree.” You conceded, stepping out of the car. Running up to your door with tears welling in your eyes. While you heard Regina’s car speeding off.

How stupid.

======================================

Part 2?

[subcultureblues]

In The Same Boat

G | Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson + Robin Buckley/Chrissy Cunningham | TW: Period Typical Homophobia | Tags : pre-season 3

My take on “what if Eddie was caught loitering around Scoops A’Hoy trying to sneak a peak, by one Chrissy Cunningham… only to realize she was here for the same reason he was. And that maybe the Freak And The Cheerleader aren’t so different after all.”

———

Eddie drummed his fingertips on the table. Lifted his hand and looked at it with vague distain… Eugh. Sticky. He was sat in the StarCourt Food Court. And has been for kind of a while. His big pretzel and slushie long gone.

He checked his watch slyly. Ok, it’s been like 3 minutes.

He stretched his arms out over the back of the bench and very, oh so casually angled his head back towards Scoops A’Hoy.

He’s just… people watching ok?

Eddie raised an eyebrow as he checked out the sweet, sweet thighs on display as Steve Harrington wiped down one of the tables in the store.

Person watching.

Look, it’s… it’s not… Ok, Eddie doesn’t have any good excuse for this. He’s really only camped out here like this a few times. But summer started recently and StarCourt opened just in time for school to let out. Obviously he had to come check out this effigy to American corporate prosperity for himself. If only to bask in the air conditioning.

But those shorts man. Those shorts…

And now he’s bending down to pick up a napkin? That’s the real money shot. Eddie tilted his head back slightly. Should be on the cover of PlayGirl is where that should be.

Alright that’s long enough. He turned back to look down at the surface of the table. Next time he’s gonna bring a book. Or like a magazine.

Not that there’s gonna be a next time but - Alright, fine! Now that Harrington’s graduated, Eddie no longer has the luxury of leering on him in gym. And Harrington looks good in shorts. Really good. That’s not Eddie’s fault, is it?

God. The guys would laugh their dicks off if they knew he was here, creeping on the King. Eddie’s been telling them since freaking sophomore year, ‘No!, I do not have a crush on Steve stupid Harrington. That would be ridiculous!’

And you wanna know what they always tell Eddie?

‘What? Dude, what are you on about - no one even mentioned Harrington?’

Ok. Slight crush. Tiny crush. Literally barely even registers on the rictor scale of attraction.

Yeeeeeah….. They’d piss themselves laughing if they found out he’d fallen so far.

Eddie just thinks he’s hot. Is that a crime?

Well, ok, it’s not anymore in the state of Indiana.

And if it was - then he’s a criminal in desperate need of rehabilitation.

Ok, it’s probably been long enough. He looked back over the short lind of foliage towards Scoops and Steve’s behind the counter chatting with his co-worker. She looks super familiar. Like, so familiar. Eddie can’t place it but she definitely went to school with them.

God, that stupid asshole is so pretty when he laughs. Like an angel. A stupid asshole angel that Eddie wants to lick ice cream off of.

And looking away now.

He casually scanned the food court, because honestly not trying to look like a stalker when you absolutely are is teeth grindingly boring.

Wait a minute…. The family of four at the table booth in front of him is leaving. And in the booth directly behind them is… Chrissy? Chrissy Cunningham.

She’s got her head turned and she’s gazing through Scoop’s window too. And Eddie has a feeling it’s not ice cream she’s yearning for. Not with that delicate blush…

Ah. He thinks. Must be the ol’ Harrington charm.

Chrissy turned away and her eyes went wide when she saw Eddie looking. He gave her a small nod, they do vaguely know each other after all. They’ve shared a few classes. School talent show and everything.

Annnnnd she immediately whipped her head down, averting her eyes.

Eddie frowned. Figures.

He slunk a little lower in his seat and resumed drumming on the table. He was so focused on not looking at Chrissy he didn’t notice she was standing right next to him until she cleared her throat.

Eddie startled, swearing.

Chrissy Cunningham was now standing at the head of the table, looking down at him. She gave a shy little wave.

“I - hi.”

“Uh. Hi.” He said dubiously.

“Sorry, you caught me off guard there earlier. I didn’t mean to be rude.” Crazy thing is, she really sounds like she means it. Her voice is soft and shy and kind. And she’s nervously fiddling with her hands.

“No, no. I get it.”

“Get uh - ?” She scrunched up her brow, not following.

“Come on. I’m The Freak, yeah? No worries.” He shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

Chrissy frowned.

“I - That’s not what I was…”

“Hey, it’s cool. It’s cool, I get it.”

Chrissy only frowns all the harder.

“I think it’s messed up,” she said, quietly. “The way the guys at school talk to you.”

“You mean your boyfriend?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. He’s not trying to be confrontational, it’s just kind of a habit.

“Oh. Me and Jason broke up.”

“Oh.” Eddie said, the corner of his mouth turning down slightly, but not that apologetic. “I’m sorry.” He said anyways.

“Don’t be.” Chrissy said, “I - uh. I broke up with him.”

“Well, then con-gra-dulations for dropping that basketball case.”

Chrissy giggled a little.

“It’s uh, you’re… “

“Eddie.”

“Right. I’m Chriss-“

“-sy Cunningham.” He finished for her again. He gave her a neutral smile. “I know.”

He doesn’t live under a rock.

She smiled back brightly.

Then went ahead and sat down in the seat across from him. Which certainly has him raising an eyebrow.

“Soooo…” he’s not really sure what to talk about, now that she’s not walking away and forgetting he exists. “Uh. Why’d you break up with him?”

Chrissy shrugged, drawing her finger tip on the table.

���Guess I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Realizing stuff about myself. And realizing I didn’t really like the person Jason was. How he and all my other friends treat people who are different. It’s not - it’s not right.”

“Is that what you’re doing here all alone?” Eddie raised an eyebrow. Usually Chrissy’s surrounded by Jason and his back up singers or at least the other girls from the cheerleading squad.

“Yeah…” She said sadly. Then she shook out her ponytail and straightened her shoulders. She put on a smile. “And I’ve been uh - I’ve been trying to make new friends…”

“Ah.” Eddie smiled back, relaxing into his seat.

“What about you? You have all your friends from the club.”

“Hellfire.”

Chrissy nodded though not out of recognition.

Eddie shook his head, waving a hand. “Off busy today.”

“It’s the third time I’ve seen you sitting, right here, all by yourself.” She said, tilting her head.

“Oh, uh, I…”. Eddie blushes. Then his eyes narrow. “Wait, third time you’ve… What were you doing hanging around the food court, huh?”

Chrissy opened her mouth but didn’t say anything at all.

“Realized some stuff about yourself, huh?” He said crossing his arms, nodding at Scoops.

And now Chrissy’s blushing. Eddie grinned ruefully. Couldn’t exactly blame the girl.

“Yeah. You know, I’ve heard no one can resist that Harrington charm…”

Chrissy made a face, corners of her mouth downturned. She looked away. “Uh. Yeah. I… yeah.” She said, nodding anyways.

“Happens to the best of us.” Eddie shrugged. He would know.

“Well, what about you?” Chrissy said, changing the subject.

“What about me what?” Eddie shrugged, maybe purposefully obtuse.

“Every time I’m here I’ve seen you staring too.” She nodded at Scoops too. She looked at Eddie, biting her lip and raising her eyebrows like she’s got him now.

“Well - I… like to keep up to date on their specials.”

“From behind a row of plants.”

Eddie gave a confident nod.

“No… No, I think we’re both in the same banana boat sunday.” She giggled, very gently teasing.

“What.” Eddie sat up, shoulders tensing maybe a little defensively.

“Come on, it’s just a crush.”

“I don’t… “ Eddie shook his head. Looked away clearing his throat. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She’s pretty…” Chrissy said. Eddie glanced up and Chrissy had her chin in her hand and was staring through the window. Watching the two sailors man their posts against a wave of incoming customers.

“Oh. I, uh - yeah.” Whew. “She is.”

Chrissy had this far, away look on her face. But Eddie was kind of busy wiping the sweat off his neck from that one. He looked down at the floor, raising his eyebrows in a moment of relief.

“I’ve only talked to her a few times…” Chrissy said. Eddie turned back watch her mouth twist up. “She seems really cool. We were all three of us in band together last year.”

Where they? Shit. Eddie doesn’t remember. Band was always right after lunch period and he was running those scales ludicrously, no - impressively high.

“Right. Yup.”

“I used to play flute. The clarinet section was right next to us. Is band where you two met?”

“Me and…“ Shit, shit what was her name shit.

“Robin?” Chrissy said, squinting.

“Right! Yes, me and Robin! Yeah, I totally saw her in band.”

Chrissy pressed her mouth together and tilted her head.

“Super pretty.” He nodded unrelentingly. “And cool.”

“Well. You’ve got good taste…”

“Can’t say the same about you.” Eddie said, maybe a lot self deprecatingly. Chrissy gave him a questioning look.

“I mean, if you broke up with Jason cause you think he’s a dick… Harrington’s not much better.” He sat back against the bench pressing his feet flat to the floor. He crossed his arms again.

Chrissy looked up and squinted, as if trying to recall something.

“I - I dunno. He always seemed… fine. Kind of quiet. Jason only joined the team last year but I remember… I remember him and the rest of the guys used to give Steve a lot of trouble too.”

“Really?”

Chrissy pressed her lips together. “I think it had something to do with Billy Hargrove?”

Eddie nodded understandingly. Yeah, he’d also heard tell that the King had been dethroned. Though, he was far too much an outsider to be privy to the high court’s tittering.

“He’s not a lot like his reputation makes him out to be.” She shrugged a shoulder. Eddie looked back towards Scoops. Towards the beautiful man with his beautiful hair. Eddie kind of preferred to think of his as some meat-headed jock he could jerk off to to forget about him. It’s easier, if he’s unattainable because Eddie thinks he’s insufferable. Rather than because, ya know, Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson would never have a chance in hell.

“I dunno. I never talked to him much.” She finished thoughtfully.

“Well…” Because Eddie was thinking now. Oh this could be good. No way was he going into His Majesty’s territory without backup (alone, looking like a loser). And no fucking way Eddie’d bring his friends. (They’d take one look at Steve’s outfit and so would start the teasing that Eddie probably thinks it only makes him hotter - and the worse part is they’d be right).

But. He had company now. It’s a win-win really!

“You feeling peckish?”

[aquareegia]

[arijackz]

PICK A CARD: Your Soul's Signature Scent

✧ “Odors have a power of persuasion stronger than that of words, appearances, emotions, or will. The persuasive power of an odor cannot be fended off, it enters into us like breath into our lungs, it fills us up, imbues us totally. There is no remedy for it.” - Patrick Süskind

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. This is a gender-neutral reading, change any pronouns to apply to you. Also, I'm a rambler and I love going off track. One pile got a mini wattpad story. CHEERS!

p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4

✴︎ Pile One ✴︎ (King of Pentacles, 3oP, Knight of Swords, 9oS, 1, Ascension, Worthy,)

Not to be weird but I’d sniff you like rich frat boy coke.

It's hard to describe scents so… walk with me.

You have had a long, stressful day and the world is pissing you off. You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place so after work, you open Google Maps in hopes of temporary solace with cheap liquor and bar food. You find one of those dingy sports bars with shitty beer, sticky tables, and drunk grown men yelling at a tiny wall-mounted television.

Not exactly your cup of tea, but as the French say… C’est la vie!

You practically had to beat half of the bar off with a stick, just to find a seat. Drunk old guys + A Pretty Pile One = Sloppy, slurred marriage proposals(?) You couldn’t tell, but “I wanna bring you home to my mama” sounds close enough.

You pay them no mind. You have one goal. Get fucked up. Don’t throw up.

Okay, maybe two goals.

You finally find a stool and raise a finger to signal the bartender.  

“Hey, bartender! BAR-”

“I see you. Don’t call to me.” 

A nervous drop in your stomach almost tips you off your stool. You feel them before you see them. Every bottle clink they make reverberates to that pit in your stomach. You only hear the bartender’s movements among a crowd of bustling people: their shoes stick and unstick to the floor, their fake chuckles at guests’ jokes, every time their hand slides across the bar to collect bills.

Maybe it’s delusion but you’re convinced you hear the steady drum of their heartbeat. 

You finally get a good look at the bartender. In a sea of hostile people drowning themselves to forget their sorrows, you see the calmest, most fearless person in the room. Squared shoulders, back straight, head held high, and the smoothest walk you’ve ever seen; they almost glide.

You watch in complete admiration as they de-escalate a fight, sanitize bar taps, count money, and make a drink all in one go. You haven’t spoken more than two full words to this person but something about their presence makes you want to kneel.

The bartender finally makes their way to you and their eyes lock with yours. Your neck begins to sweat so you quickly dart your head away. A deep, velvety chuckle comes from the pits of their stomach, “Don’t show me you're nervous, I usually charge the Bambis more.”

“Bambis?”

“You’re shivering like a scared little deer, aren't you?”

You have no words so you focus on twisting your hands under the tables. 

They find you cute. With another chuckle they lean in closer to you, “I’ll tell you what, how about I make you a drink to calm you a little, yeah?”

“Uhm, I’ll take a-” Before you could even tell them what you want, their back is to you making a concoction.

Forty-five seconds later, a glass of honey bourbon with an orange slice and a vanilla bean stick slides in your direction. Along with a… cigar?

“I doubt you can handle this, but I want to see you sweat.”

Hands shaky, you press the glass to your lips as the bartender guides you, “Take it slow. Let it sit. Savor it.”

You came in here looking for cheap booze and a deep sense of impending regret, but here you are drinking $400 bourbon you can’t afford and hanging off of every syllable this person says to you.

After a slow sip and a burn behind the ears, you ask, “How do you do that?”

They raise their brow.

“Ya know… command like that.”

They whip a towel over their shoulder, “Once you realize how scared and hurt everyone actually is, worthiness feels less unattainable.”

BAHAHAHA THAT ENDING WAS SO CORNY (and kinda ominous??) BUT THIS IS GETTING LONG AND THIS AINT WATTPAD.

In summary, your soul has a very effortlessly commanding signature. Even if you aren’t aware, your energy dominates every space it enters. You might have people who seem to dislike you for no reason, this is why. BUT YES, a sweet bourbon with a hint of citrus and something smoked on the side is 100% your signature. Also… Petrichor. Your soul scent is the sweetened waft of smoked wood beneath grit and the smell of wet Earth after a storm. 

"Can You Taste The Spice On My Lips?"

✴︎ Pile Two ✴︎ (9oP, 10oP, King of Wands, Lust)

✴︎ BAEEEE, don’t fucking play with me. Your soul just told me to take my shoes off in your million-dollar mansion. You told me to stop acting like a fucking hooligan???

There is a richness to you down to your very core. I’m getting Pushya, the most auspicious nakshatra representing wealth, prosperity, and milk (divine nourishment). But there is also a spiciness here.

SPICED CHAI MILK TEA. That is the scent that jumps out to me. The hominess of full-bodied, sweet cinnamon. The spicy warmth of red chai. Maybe even a little nutty, Spanish almond if you’re feeling crazy.

There is also a gradual build-up here. All earth signs, but primarily Taurus. There is this steady, sensual accumulation of your energy. You cannot be rushed, you savor moments and allow yourself to rest in all the sensations you experience in the present. If you don’t do this, your soul is calling you to do this. Slow down. Chew slower, shower longer, and take time out of your morning to listen to the birds sing. 

The leisurely flow of the universe is inviting you to join its dance. You are safe. You are provided for. The universe is your sugar daddy. Your guides want you to know that what you want, wants you; you just need to slow down.

I sense that your energy is aphrodisiacal. Your sacral chakra is one of your dominant chakras (could be healthy or a leak but it is prominent) and when people enter your presence their chakra gets activated too. People get creative and fiery near you. If their sacral chakra is blocked, this may be repressed and they can hold resentment for the free-flowing energy you have which they feel they lack. 

Abundance. Abundance. Abundance. Abundance. That word is used a lot in this community and you may be tired of hearing it but that's too damn bad! You’re very fucking abundant.

If this puzzles you because you look around and don't see whatever you picture as abundance, it's because it's sitting within you waiting for you to actualize it. You have the skills, the intellect, and everything else under the sun needed to grab your dreams by the balls. I cannot stress this enough.

Go outside, journal, continue your affirmations, and remove yourself from anything lying to you and saying you cannot do this. It is a fucking lie. You have everything it takes to do what the world says is impossible. Shut the world’s opinion out and turn inwardly for your answers, because you have them.  

Ambrosia. Liquid gold. It flows through you. You are the gift. The universe’s greatest gift to you is you. You have the ability to spin anything into gold. 

I have some doomscrollers, spirallers, and people-pleasers in this pile. You may struggle with excess anxiety, digestive issues, acid reflux, and ulcers. Outside influences have tricked you into believing you are a pebble when you’re actually a diamond. 

Baby, you have to cut them off. By “them” I mean all negative energies that cause your mind to get stuck in a loop of self-hate. That includes social media, bad habits, fake relationships. Your solitude will heal you. Your peace of mind will heal you. Once you shut up the naysayers, you’ll finally hear the music that has been drowned out in your body and soul.

I know this is a lot but it is worth the effort. Your potential is worth the effort. A healthy state of mind is worth the effort. You are worth the effort. 

Sidenote: The star and temperance came out while I was cleaning up. BABY YOU A STAR IN THE MF MAKING!

"The great merit of gold is precisely that it is scarce”

✴︎ Pile Three ✴︎ (The World, 6oW, 2oW)

🎵Nowadays, I be duckin' them cameras

And they hype that I'm up on them banners

Callin' my phone, but they know I don't answer (why?)

In the hood, I'm like Princess Diana (grrah) 🎵

✴︎ THE PEOPLE 'S PRINCESS (or prince… orrrr the #1 baddest barnacle in the seven seas, whatever fits).

3, “The creative child” and 6, “The Caretaker” came out. 3 is the number of self-expression and creativity. 6 is the most harmonious number centered around nurturing your community. In the world, you’re the center of attention. In the 6 of Wands, you’re the one decked out in Dolce and Gabanna, playing Robin Hood and giving to the people. In the 2 of wands, you quite literally have the world in your palm.

Your soul’s footprint is destined to be seen and recognized. Baby, you are meant to be loved by the world at large. 

Maybe you have aspirations of becoming an artist, actress, or influencer. If you have dreams of being in the public eye, I am telling you your desires are not coincidental. You are meant for these dreams so do not be afraid to actualize them. The stars are expecting you, your home is in the spotlight.

Everyone incarnates on Earth with a role and purpose, you are meant to have a large platform because what you have to say matters and will elevate our collective consciousness. You have the gift of being able to garner great attention. People like to see you, talk to you, see what you’re wearing, know about your life, and everything else in between. People are like moths to a flame with you, you’re an entertainer to your very core.

You have a youthful, creative, and colorful soul. 

I am getting strong floral scents mixed with a crisp, clean linen smell. Gardenia, Ylnag Ylnag, Cherry Blossom, and Honey Suckle. I just know the bees be tearing your nectary ass up.

You know how Ariana Grande’s perfume line is always sold out? It’s kind of like that. “Oh, Pile Three is wearing this perfume? PUT IT IN THE CART. NEOW.”

Strong Venusian energy. Libra, Taurus, Pisces, 2nd house (especially for my singers), 7th house, Bharani, Purva Phalguni and Purvashada.

People find you very attractive. Yes, physically so, but the true embodiment of beauty stems from the soul. And you are utterly gorgeous. I am getting snow white; the animals flock to her, the sky clears for her, the seas part for her, and the forest protects her.

I am not trying to be redundant but this Earth does not play about you😭. That doesn’t mean you haven’t experienced hardship but trust, you will get the love you crave, tenfold. 

I get the sense that love has felt very conditional in your life and once the metaphorical “love pie” was cut and served, you were served last and there was never enough for you.

I am going to hold your hand as I say this,

Feel this pain. Process this pain fully. Cry all your tears, scream your sorrows out in the open, and let the winds carry it away. Let these feelings of being unloved leave your body because there is no space for them anymore. Eternal love is flowing in to fill those empty cavities. You are so loved. I am so sorry the environment around you has blocked this energy but please know that justice will be served and the love you are karmically owed is growing within you and you will be seen in this lifetime.

COME BACK TO THIS WHEN YOU’RE FAMOUS AND DON’T FORGET ME.

You better not go Hollywood on me 🫵

The Cosmos' Countess

✴︎ Pile Four ✴︎ (The Hanged Man, Knight of Wands, 5 of Swords)

✴︎ Random, but have you heard stories of those cool warrior monks? Who devotes themselves to their practice but when it’s time for battle they whoop ass?? That’s so you, boo.

You’re all peace, love, and light but you don’t fucking play about protecting your peace of mind. I sense that you live an alternative lifestyle. With the hanged man, you see life differently from the average person, and don’t waste your time with the world’s bullshit. 

You’re not on Twitter arguing about Drake’s tummy tuck (BAHAHA I HAD TO), you know shit like this doesn’t add to your life in any way. You focus your energy on activities and discussions that add to your self-evolution. You have made lots of sacrifices in life to progress forward and the universe sees your hard work and is proud of you. Hell, even I’m proud of you. 

You and the Universe like this 🤞. Here’s an affirmation that already rings true but is good to practice anyway, “I surrender to the natural flow of all existence.”

A lot of you study esoteric divinity practices. Tarot, scrying, rune-casting, psychometry, etc. We also have some healers. This may ruffle some feathers. Maybe your family or friend circle doesn’t understand your interests and may push against it but quite frankly… you don’t give a fuck. 

As you shouldn’t.

Your self-resolutions are impressive. You may feel nervous at times but your faith in yourself makes you fearless. You’ve done your studying. You’ve done your healing. You're ready to take the world by storm, and nothing is knocking you off your horse. You are the first to ride into battle and will be the last standing. I don’t know if you’re aware but you thrive in conflict, your soul spirit is akin to Martian energy and loves a good fight, to be honest. 

Your power is in your belief that everything will work out in your favor. “I have the power of God and anime on my side.” 

If you’re not quite at this level yet and you don’t see yourself as this peaceful warrior, you got the “soothe”, “present”, and “friendship” cards. It’s your nerves, baby. It has nothing to do with you as a person. You are smart enough. You are capable. You have everything you need to ride into this new life. 

The entire collective is being asked to slow down. The hustle in society right now does not allow our nervous systems to regulate themselves so everyone is miserable and drained. Remove yourself from this hustle and ground yourself in the present. You have to soothe yourself and lower your cortisol levels. Baby yourself, you deserve it.

Look up techniques to regulate your parasympathetic nervous on YouTube.

Anyway, your soul caught me off guard, you're that sexy mf fr. Ummm back to scent..

YES, okay so please don’t take this the wrong way because I am obsessed with what I'm getting. Hear me out, I used to take kickboxing classes for a few years and that particular gym’s scent was my favorite fucking scent. 

It sounds weird but it smelled like pent-up stress relief: sweat, blood, and Clorox. 

Of course, I’m not saying you smell like this, but this is how I perceive the scent your soul carries.

Your soul’s scent is victory. Particularly, through a bloody means. Your soul understands the purification in blood. Extremely Martian. You’re chill but you’re really fucking intense dude. I like you.

Oooo and also, hang out with friends!! Genuine contact can help relax your body.

Mmmkaye bye!

The Blood You Spill Is The Blood of Kings

[huicitawrites]

Diaries of the Priestess of The Malevolent Shrine

Yandere! Heian Sukuna x Fem! Reader tags: @a-tiny-teez @kazusan7yanderekun @eleventhdoctorsangel @sircatchungus warnings: yandere, “slow burn”, violence, death and torture, slavery

Diary Entry #?, The Harvest Festival

all entries

-It has been two years since you've become his priestess.

You sit on your knees, head bowed, the scarlet hakama folded perfectly beneath you, your pristine white kosode a mockery of the purity expected of a priestess.

What a joke, you think bitterly.

The being in front of you is far from holy—he is the devil incarnate, Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses.

Hesitantly, you peel one eye open.

His huge, muscular form sits without a care for modesty, one knee raised, the other placed open, his four arms slouching around his body. His four bloodshot eyes hold no emotion, and his two-sided face remains blank. The harvest festival, so sacred to the people, means nothing to him. All that mattered was that he would be revered.

They would pray to him, treat him as a god, and with that thought, his ego was fed. His lips twisted into a smug smile.

You felt dirty despite your clean robes. After all, being his priestess meant serving his blasphemy.

His grin caught your attention, and your eyes were drawn to his face. But when his gaze locked with yours, you quickly looked away.

You heard a deep chuckle rumble through his broad chest.

You despised making eye contact with him. You couldn’t bear those crimson, bloodshot eyes. They were seared into your memory, a scar etched into your soul on that day.

The day your clan was massacred. In your weakness, you surrendered to his mercy and betrayed the legacy of your parents. You became his ‘priestess.’

A fancy title for a slave, nothing more—a pawn in the hands of the King of Curses who sought to be a god. A God of Chaos, a God of Suffering, a God of Carnage.

The drums began, a slow, steady thud that echoed through the temple halls, shaking you from your thoughts. The festival was starting. You remained kneeling beside Sukuna, just behind his massive form, your hands folded neatly in front of you. The beat of the drums reverberated in your chest, growing louder with each passing moment, as the priests below began their solemn procession.

They moved in tandem, their steps perfectly synchronized with the rhythm, white robes swaying like ghostly apparitions. Incense wafted into the air, thick and cloying, its sweet scent filling the temple as it curled upward to the dark rafters. You felt trapped beneath the weight of it all: the suffocating smoke, the oppressive atmosphere, and the sheer force of Sukuna’s cursed energy beside you.

The chanting began, a deep, guttural sound that filled the courtyard. Ancient words, meant to honor the gods, now twisted in purpose, directed at the devil sitting next to you. The villagers and priests alike believed this to be a sacred festival, a prayer for a prosperous harvest, but you knew the truth.

This was no prayer to the gods. This was a celebration of him, Ryomen Sukuna, so that he may be more willing to spare their lives. The villagers and priests would leave tonight, grateful just to have survived the day under his gaze.

You glanced at Sukuna again, careful not to meet his eyes this time. His expression was as indifferent as ever, his four eyes half-lidded in boredom. One arm rested lazily on his knee, while the others hung loosely by his sides. Uraume stood by his right side, ever faithful, the perfect servant.

The villagers knelt outside the temple, their foreheads pressed into the dirt, offering their fear and devotion in the only way they knew. None of them dared look up, too terrified of the consequences. Sukuna’s smirk grew, feeding off their terror, and you could feel the faint pulse of satisfaction that radiated from him. This festival—this display of submission—was nothing more than fuel for his inflated ego.

The chanting grew louder, the rhythm of the drums quickening, as the priests raised their hands in supplication. Before Sukuna, they laid baskets of rice, fruit, and incense.

You stood there, silent and still, your head slightly bowed in mock reverence.

But as the chanting reached a fevered pitch and the drumbeats pounded in your ears, you felt a shift in the air. The festival was only just beginning, and for some reason, your gut was screaming at you, warning you to not lower your guard.

Then, a figure emerged from the crowd. It was a half-naked woman—her kimono slipping from her shoulders and wide open. Her wild eyes locked onto Sukuna the moment she saw him, and something changed in her expression—a manic grin spread across her face, unrestrained and desperate.

“Yorozu-sama, wait!!” you heard a young voice plead.

But as you turned your face to comprehend just what in the heavens was going on, a venomous voice whispered in your ear, "Out of the way, bitch."

“From now on, I will be the one to stand by his side!” Yorozu’s voice rang out, high-pitched and gleeful.

And then it happened—a swift, brutal kick struck you in the side, sending you flying off the wooden altar. You gasped as the air was forced from your lungs, landing hard on the floor below. The gravel dug into your body as the world around you spun and blurred.

You winced, barely able to lift your head, blinking a few times as your vision recovered.

The sight of Sukuna made your stomach twist. He hadn’t moved, but his expression had changed—the casual indifference wiped away, replaced by a deep, disgusted frown. His eyes burned with fury, a heat that seethed and promised destruction.

Uraume stepped forward quickly. “How dare you,” they snarled, standing between Yorozu and their master. Their voice was cold and sharp, the tension palpable. They wouldn’t allow such disrespect to stand.

Yorozu, however, ignored Uraume entirely. She didn’t even look at them, her eyes only for Sukuna, her fixation unwavering. She was completely enamored, her entire focus on him and no one else. Uraume’s presence meant no threat to her.

You groaned and coughed, your chest heaving with each breath. The pain was sharp, but you could feel a servant’s hands on you, lifting you gently, trying to help you sit upright. You leaned into their support, struggling to regain control over your breathing.

The servant whispered in your ear, their hands delicate and soft as they tried to calm you. “Forgive my lady's actions, please, stay still. You’re hurt.”

Yet your focus—no, all eyes—were on the woman standing in front of Sukuna, her half-naked form still and eerily focused. Yorozu, crazed and delirious with adoration, stood as if she had discovered something divine.

"Sukuna…!" the mad woman praised, her voice shaking with reverence. "You are magnificent! Seeing you in the flesh—" Yorozu took a step closer, eyes bright with infatuation. Her words of praise drowned in the background noise of hushed whispers as you felt the gentle hands from before pat your shoulders.

You turned to the servant holding you, and your eyes widened in fear. It was a boy, surely no more than ten. Your eyes jumped from the child to Yorozu and then to Sukuna. Back and forth, you repeated this pattern.

“You look… lonely. I can feel it. Allow me to be the one to cure your loneliness! Let us turn this world into a cursed chaos—

Amidst her blabbering, the realization befell you, and as the boy tried to lift you up, your hands twisted the fabric of his yukata.

"Run. Flee at once!"

"Miss, you need to calm down! I need to take you to the healers—"

-a world fit for the King of Curses! A world where—”

“Shut up.”

Sukuna’s deep voice cut through Yorozu's words with finality, cold and disdain. Before she could react, Sukuna moved.

With barely a flick of his wrist, he unleashed his cursed technique, faster than a heartbeat. An invisible slash of cursed energy sliced through the air, clean and precise. Yorozu’s words choked into a sharp gasp, her eyes still lovesick and lidded as her body crumpled to the ground, lifeless in an instant.

The priests and villagers cowered, their terrified murmurs drowned out by the overwhelming pressure of Sukuna’s presence. Blood splattered the gravel floor beneath her, pooling around her as if her life had never mattered. Silence hung heavy once more.

Your breath hitched as you tried to stand up and move the shocked child away. The pain in your chest flared up again, making you struggle against your coughs. But before you could get away with the child in hand, a shadow loomed over both of you.

In one swift motion, you felt yourself being lifted off the ground, strong hands wrapping around you, pulling you up effortlessly. Your body was pressed against Sukuna’s massive form, his cursed energy suffocating as it crackled in the air.

You heard a thud behind you and turned your head sharply to assess the child's well-being.

Yet two of his arms held you firmly, immobilizing you. One hand gripped your waist, the other snatched your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Look at me,” he commanded. His crimson eyes inspecting every detail of your face. “Are you hurt?” he asked calmly.

Your heart raced, panic flaring as the blood from Yorozu pooled around the gravel. “The boy—please, he’s just—”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed and his grip tightened, “Pay attention to me,” he said, his voice a dangerous command “Answer me—are you hurt?”

The words barely escaped your lips. “I—I’m fine, my Lord,” you stammered, feeling utterly vulnerable within his caging arms.

Satisfied for the moment, Sukuna turned his attention back to the villagers, who now knelt in terror, prayers spilling from their lips, frantic and desperate. His voice dripped with dark amusement, the very embodiment of menace. “Quite the rude hosts, don’t you think?” he remarked, his eyes gleaming with malice. “They seem to have forgotten their place.”

As he raised his spear, glimmering ominously in the dim light, the air turned thick with tension. You could feel it before it happened—a wave of pure, unfiltered chaos. Carnage ensued.

Screams erupted as Sukuna cut through flesh and bone, a whirlwind of death and destruction. The villagers, once fervent in their prayers, now fled in terror, but there was nowhere to hide from the King of Curses. They fell around you, bodies littering the ground like discarded offerings.

Pinned in his grip, your eyes were shut but you were forced to withstand the sounds of the massacre. Sukuna’s eyes gleamed with a primal excitement, the thrill of slaughter igniting a fire within him that was terrifying. Each swipe of his weapon, each agonized scream, only served to fuel his insatiable bloodlust.

“Such chaos… it’s intoxicating,” he mused, his voice laced with a dark satisfaction that sent chills down your spine.

As the last echoes of terror faded into silence, Sukuna’s gaze turned back to you, his grip still firm around your waist. His eyes darkened, holding a predatory intensity that made your heart race.

With a twisted smirk curling his lips, he leaned closer, the scent of blood and incense clinging to him. “Consider this a reminder,” he murmured, voice low and chilling, the warmth of his breath grazing your skin.

"Uraume", he called out and the cursed-ice user made no haste to come close and kneel, "Let's go."

"Yes, Sukuna-sama"

And so, as he carried you away and Uraume left in tow, your eyes desperately secanned for any hint of survivors, but you only found a torn piece of that poor, innocent boy's yukata on the pools of blood.

[ceyanabbiolo]

CONTRACT // C.S [02]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: Slight yelling. That's it.

wc: 1650

Chapter 2: The Meeting

The dining room felt too damn formal. Tall ceilings, heavy chandeliers, a table long enough for a corporate takeover. I sat at one end, drumming my fingers against the polished wood, trying not to show how tense I felt. Across from me, Thomas Devereaux lounged in his chair like a king on a throne, sipping whiskey like this was just another part of the plan. Beside him sat his wife — Elena Devereaux — her hands folded tightly in her lap, her mouth a thin, uneasy line.

It had been a week since he laid it all out: Marry his daughter, save the company. Simple. Brutal.

“She’ll be down in a moment,” Thomas said, checking his watch with a practiced flick. Elena didn’t speak, but I caught the small glance she sent her husband — worried, tight with guilt.

I just nodded stiffly, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt. Every second that passed, the weight in my chest pressed harder. I hated waiting. Especially for something like this.

Footsteps echoed from the grand staircase — light and hesitant. I looked up. And there she was.

Aurora Devereaux.

She didn’t storm in, didn’t smile. She moved carefully, like she was walking into a battlefield she didn’t even sign up for. She wore a simple sage-brown maxi dress that skimmed over her small, delicate frame. She couldn’t have been more than 5'1 — tiny compared to the towering height of everything around her. Her hair was a glossy, rich red, tumbling in soft waves down her back, catching the light like a flame. Her eyes, wide, deep brown doe-eyes — scanned the room anxiously, landing on me and freezing like a deer caught in headlights. Her mouth, with its naturally plush lips, was pressed into a tight, uncertain line.

Soft. Fragile. Stunning. Everything about her made something uncomfortable twist inside me.

"Christopher," Thomas said smoothly, standing. "This is my daughter, Aurora."

Aurora hesitated at the bottom step, hands twisting nervously in front of her. She didn’t look like someone about to make a deal. She looked like someone trying to survive one.

I stood too, out of some buried sense of decency. "Hi," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

Thomas gestured for her to sit, and like a soldier taking orders, she moved to the chair beside him — carefully, quietly — as far from me as she could without being rude. Elena offered her daughter a small, reassuring smile, but it was tight with helplessness.

I sat back down, forcing my face to stay blank. This was already a disaster.

Thomas, of course, filled the silence, rattling off my achievements like he was pitching a client. Aurora nodded where expected, her gaze fixed on her hands or her untouched plate. When Thomas mentioned she was in her final year of university for fashion design, she gave the smallest smile — and even that looked painful, like it cost her something.

"That's impressive," I said, surprising both her and myself.

She glanced up at me quickly, startled. "Thanks," she whispered.

Thomas barely noticed. He launched straight into logistics — dates, merger contracts, expectations. Aurora’s posture got tighter and tighter, her fingers picking at the fabric of her dress until her knuckles turned white. Her mother placed a hand lightly on her back in comfort, but Aurora barely seemed to register it.

The food turned cold on the plates. Nobody actually ate.

Finally, Thomas stood, brushing his hands together with fake finality. "I’ll leave you two to talk," he said, practically glowing with self-satisfaction. Elena gave Aurora's shoulder a soft squeeze before rising as well, offering me a look — apologetic — before following her husband. The heavy doors clicked shut behind them.

Silence.

Aurora sat frozen, her hands tangled tightly in the folds of her dress.

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms loosely. "I didn't want this either," I said flatly.

Her eyes widened, searching my face for something—anything. Hope. Mercy. A way out.

"I gave your father an ultimatum," I added, voice low. "I told him I wasn't agreeing to anything unless you did."

She blinked, stunned. "But... he never asked me."

A humorless laugh escaped me as I rubbed a hand over my jaw. "Yeah. Figures."

Aurora shrank back slightly, the soft curve of her shoulders curling inward.

"I'm not going to force you into anything," I said after a beat, my tone cold but not cruel. "You can say no. Walk away. I don't want a hostage for a wife."

Her lips parted, a flash of disbelief crossing her face. "You’re serious?" she asked, her voice shaking.

I nodded once. "Dead serious."

The silence thickened again, only broken by the faint clatter of plates being cleared in the far distance.

"I... I don't even know you," she said, almost pleading.

I shrugged, the motion sharp and bitter. "Same goes both ways, ma."

Her cheeks flushed a pale pink, and for a second, anger flickered behind her eyes. Better than fear.

"Then why agree to this at all?" she asked, voice almost rising.

I met her gaze head-on, steady. "Because sometimes life hands you two shitty choices, and you pick the one that leaves the least damage."

Aurora inhaled sharply, nails digging into her palms. She looked seconds away from breaking.

I sighed, leaning forward. "Look," I said, my voice low, "I know this isn't fair to you. It's not fair to either of us. But if you choose to go through with it..." I paused. "I'll do my best not to make it worse."

Her eyes shimmered, but she blinked them away, fierce and stubborn. "You don't have to pretend to be nice," she said tightly. "I’m not expecting anything from you."

That hit harder than it should have.

I sat back slowly. "Good," I said finally, my voice cool. "Because I’m not good at pretending."

The warning hung between us.

Aurora swallowed hard. "I need time," she whispered.

"Take it," I said, pushing back from the table. "I’m not going to chase you, Aurora. Decide what you want."

Without another word, I turned and left the room, the heavy doors clicking closed behind me.

AURORA

I sat frozen in my chair, staring at the door Christopher had just walked through. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.

My mom’s hands were suddenly on mine, gentle but trembling. "Baby," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

I shook my head, blinking hard against the tears burning my eyes. "Why, Mom?" My voice cracked. "Why would he do this to me?"

Her mouth twisted painfully, and I watched helplessly as tears shimmered in her own eyes. "Your father… he’s under a lot of pressure, Aurora," she said quietly. "He thought—he thought this would protect everything. Protect you too."

"I don’t care about the company!" I cried, the words ripping out of me, broken and loud. I didn’t want to protect anything except the life I thought I was going to have — the future that was crumbling around me.

"I know," she whispered, pulling me into her arms. I let myself collapse into her, sobbing into her shoulder like I was five years old again. She stroked my hair, whispering soft, helpless words. "You don't have to say yes," she murmured against my ear. "If you don’t want this… You don’t have to."

But I knew it wasn’t that simple. I could feel the weight of it — the expectation, the invisible chains tightening around me.

"I—I need to talk to Dad," I choked out, pulling away. Mom tried to stop me, but I was already on my feet, heart racing wildly. I couldn't leave it like this. I had to try.

I stormed down the hall, my bare feet thudding softly against the marble floors. I found him in his study — my father — sitting behind his massive oak desk like he had every right to rule my life.

He looked up when I burst in, frowning. "Aurora," he said sharply. "Knock next time—"

"Dad," I interrupted, voice shaking. "You have to cancel this."

He stood slowly, his jaw tightening. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

I moved closer, hands clenched at my sides. "I don’t want to marry him!" I said, my voice rising. "Christopher — he even told me I had a choice. He said I could say no!"

My father’s face darkened instantly. "You think you have a choice?" he barked, stepping out from behind the desk. "This isn't about what you want, Aurora. This is about the survival of everything I’ve built — everything our family stands for!"

"I didn’t ask for any of it!" I cried, my voice breaking. Tears blurred my vision, but I refused to look away.

"You wouldn’t have anything without me!" he snapped, anger flashing across his features. "You think you’d be finishing school, living in comfort, following your little fashion dreams if it weren’t for what I built?"

I flinched like he had slapped me. "That’s not fair," I whispered.

"Life isn’t fair," he bit out. His hands slammed down on the desk, the sound echoing through the room. "You will marry Christopher Sturniolo. You will protect this family. End of discussion."

I stood there, shaking, tears streaming down my face. My throat closed up so tight I could barely breathe.

"You’re choosing a business deal over your own daughter," I whispered, voice hollow.

His mouth twisted into something cold.  "I’m choosing survival."

I stumbled back, feeling like the ground under me was cracking open. Without another word, I turned and fled the study, my heart breaking with every step.

I didn't care about the company. I didn't care about survival.

I just wanted my life back.

And somehow, it felt like it had been stolen from me in a single night.

So, I agreed.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS HERE!

[a/n: bro…i’m nervous. Tumblr is such is interesting place. but everyone on here talented asf] — lots of love ceyana

[suku-enthusiasts]

Chapter Thirteen || city travels - s. ryomen

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (on going)

❝ in the lands of gods and monsters, she was an angel, living with the King of Curses- 

Sukuna Ryomen Itadori was a man of many things, but before he became the cursed monster, he was a kind husband, who was sarcastic, always loving in his words, and loves his wife dearly. After a day of work, he returns home early, to find his wife brutally murdered in the home he built for the two of them. Sukun

a was unaware of the power he held, but when it unleashed, he became something his wife never thought she could imagine. 10 years pass, as Sukuna visits his wife's grave, the same spot he buried her all those years ago, something was different, something touching his face as he awoke, could this be real?❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

Word count ; 5.9k

main masterlist | series masterlist

You stood in the nursery, your fingers brushing over Aiyumi’s soft pink curls as she cooed in her crib, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit. Her tiny eyes blinked up at you with curiosity, unaware of the ache growing in your chest. Just four days. Only four days.

Behind you, Sukuna leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching with a complicated softness in his eyes. “She’ll be just fine,” he said calmly, though even his voice had a rare, gentle edge. “Uraume is practically her second parent, your mother could scale mountains in her sleep, and your father—well, I trust he won’t let anyone within five feet of her.” You sighed, pressing a final kiss to Aiyumi’s forehead before tucking the blanket closer to her round cheeks. “I know... I just haven’t spent a single night away from her since she was born.” He crossed the room in two strides, his towering form wrapping around you from behind, his four strong arms sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips brushed your neck, lingering there as he murmured, “You deserve this. We both do. Aiyumi is our world... but I miss my wife.”

Your stomach fluttered. You hadn’t heard him speak like that in weeks. His voice was raw and low, heavy with sincerity. “She’ll be safe?” you asked one more time, your voice quieter now. “With my life,” he answered, and that was the last word you needed.

The carriage ride to the city was long but comfortable, passing through dense forest and rolling fields that eventually opened into the beginnings of the capital Sukuna had conquered years ago. And yet, unlike the brutal imagery his reign once inspired, the city thrived under his rule—bustling with colorful stalls, laughter, the scents of grilled meat, rice, and sugared citrus rising into the air.

“Doesn’t look like the empire of a monster, does it?” he teased from beside you, his top arms resting behind his head while the bottom two reached lazily out the open window. You gave him a small, amused smile, still clutching your wrap. “It doesn’t. It’s... alive.”

“Because of you,” he said, eyes trained ahead. “You softened me. I still want to burn half the world most days, but now I think about how annoyed you'd be.” You laughed, the tension finally slipping from your shoulders.

The house Sukuna owned in the city was nestled above the shops, with a wide balcony overlooking the lantern-lit streets below. Inside, it was more modern—polished wood floors, silk curtains, and soft bedding that contrasted with his usual cold fortress of stone. He hadn't just claimed a house. He had made a home—for you.

That first evening, he took your hand and led you through the heart of the market. You tried mochi balls filled with syrupy jam, laughed when a musician pulled Sukuna into a drum circle—where the King of Curses proceeded to shock everyone by keeping perfect rhythm. You bought handmade earrings and tried on embroidered shawls, and for the first time in months, you felt like you again. Not just a mother, not just a queen. A woman. A wife.

Sukuna never stopped touching you. His pink hair glowed in the golden city light, his clawed fingers brushing the small of your back, his smirk widening every time he caught a merchant blushing under his glare. “They can’t have you,” he muttered as one man offered you a free scarf, “but let them try.” You rolled your eyes. “Are you jealous?��

“I’d skin them.” You snorted. “There’s the man I married.”

That night, you lay tangled together on the silken sheets of the city home, your head on his chest, his fingers stroking your back. “Thank you for dragging me here,” you whispered. “You never needed dragging,” he replied. “You just needed reminding.” You looked up at him. “Of what?”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against your forehead. “That you are still more than a mother. You’re mine. My wife. My partner. And tonight, I’ll make you remember that too.” His voice was velvet and heat—and the flicker in his eyes promised more to come.

The city buzzed outside, glowing in gold and crimson lantern light, music still pulsing from the streets. But up here, in the quiet, candlelit sanctuary of the city house Sukuna had built, it was just you and him.

The silk sheets were cool against your bare skin as you laid back, your hair spilling like ink across the pillow. The air was heavy, thick with wine and something far sweeter—anticipation. Sukuna hovered over you, one knee pressed into the bed, his eyes dark and dilated as he took in every inch of you. “You’ve been tempting me all night,” he rasped, voice low and rough as gravel. “Dancing, smiling, letting men talk to you like I wouldn’t slice their tongues out if they even breathed wrong.”

You gave him a coy smile, running your fingers up his chest—warm, hard muscle under scarred, tattooed skin. “I didn’t do anything but be myself. Is that a crime now, my Lord?” He growled under his breath and leaned down, brushing his lips along your jaw. “You’re my wife,” he murmured against your skin, “and tonight, I’m going to remind you exactly what that means.”

Four hands roamed you—strong, calloused palms mapping the softness of your thighs, the dip of your waist, the full curve of your breasts. You arched into his touch, sighing as his lips found your collarbone, nipping lightly, sucking until you felt the heat pool in your belly. And then—then—you felt something different. His lower mouth, the one that split open along his stomach, parted with a low hiss of breath, and the long, wet tongue slipped out, gliding across your stomach like heated silk. You gasped. “Sukuna—”

His regular mouth curved in a wicked grin. “You said you wanted to feel something different.” The tongue from his stomach slid lower, slower, tasting your skin, dragging across the insides of your thighs until your legs trembled. Your body tensed with every teasing flick, every breathless pause. And then he devoured you. The moment the tongue found your most sensitive place, you cried out, your hands flying to grip the sheets. Sukuna didn’t stop. His tongue flattened against your clit, then circled it, flicking and stroking, never losing rhythm. Your thighs shook around his waist, your hips bucked into the air.

“S-Sukuna—oh gods—” you whimpered, head thrown back, vision blurring. “You taste like heaven,” he rumbled. His regular mouth spoke as the tongue from his stomach never stopped moving, never stopped feasting. He slid two fingers inside you with one hand, curling them just right, while another hand held your thigh wide open, and another massaged your breast, pinching the stiffened peak until you were writhing. Your body clenched around him. “I-I’m—gonna—!”

“Good,” he growled. “Come on my tongue. Soak me, wife.” You shattered.

Back arching, toes curling, you cried out his name as your orgasm ripped through you like lightning. Sukuna didn’t stop until you were begging, panting, shivering with sensitivity.

But he wasn’t done.

As you tried to come down, dazed and trembling, you felt the heavy weight of him shift above you. His claws gripped your hips, dragging your spent body toward the edge of the bed. “Now I’m going to fuck you,” he said simply, voice thick and low with hunger. “And you’re going to take every inch.”

You felt him press against your soaked, twitching core—his bottom cock already thick and pulsing, and behind it, the second one hard and waiting. Your breath caught in your throat as he pushed in slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by inch until you were gasping into his mouth. “Fuck—yes—” you whimpered. His head dropped to your shoulder. “Say it again.”

“Yes. Yes, Suku—please.” He snapped his hips into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, the headboard thudding the wall. Your moans filled the room, blending with his low groans and the wet slap of skin on skin.

You held onto him like an anchor, your nails dragging down his back. He fucked you deep, slow at first, then rougher, until you were crying into his neck. And when he shifted your legs over his shoulders and pushed deeper—grazing the spots that made you scream—your second orgasm came so fast it stole your breath. You trembled in his arms, a sob caught in your throat as he followed you over the edge, filling you, groaning your name like a prayer.

Later, tangled together in the sheets, your legs draped over his thigh, you kissed the soft skin at his throat. “You really missed me,” you whispered.

He smirked, his voice low. “You have no idea.”

On the Second Day

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the city house, golden and soft as it warmed the sheets tangled around your legs. Sukuna lied beside you, still half-asleep, arms sprawled, one of his bottom hands cupping your thigh, the other draped over your waist protectively. You blinked slowly, body humming from the night before, still feeling the delicious ache of being loved so thoroughly.

You wriggled out of bed quietly, slipping on one of his oversized silk shirts—far too long on you, brushing your thighs. The cool marble of the kitchen floor met your bare feet as you gathered ingredients for breakfast, humming a soft tune under your breath. You were just flipping a piece of sizzling meat when two large arms wrapped around your waist, a lazy kiss pressed to your shoulder.

“Did you really think you could sneak out without waking me?” Sukuna’s voice was gravelly with sleep, his chest warm against your back.

“You were drooling into the pillow,” you teased, smiling as you leaned your head back against him. “I was dreaming about you,” he murmured, his bottom arms looping around your belly while one of the top ones reached for a grape from the counter. “Careful,” you warned, turning slightly with the spatula in hand. “I might turn the flame on you.”

“I am fire, darling.” You turned to face him, laughter bubbling up as he spun you suddenly, dipping you back as though you were in a ballroom instead of the kitchen. “Sukuna!”

“Dance with me, woman.” He grinned, canines sharp, but eyes soft.

And so you did—right there in the kitchen, swaying barefoot in silk shirts and boxers. He led you slowly, surprisingly light on his feet despite his hulking form, humming under his breath as you laughed, your cheeks flushed with joy. “I adore you,” he whispered suddenly, his lips brushing your temple. Your heart squeezed. “I know. I adore you too, Emperor.”

The streets were alive with the midday sun—festive, bustling, filled with scent and song. Stalls of merchants overflowed with silk fabrics, rare teas, lacquered jewelry, and spices from across the lands. Musicians played shamisen and flute on the corners, and the sound of drums echoed softly through the alleys. When Sukuna stepped into the plaza, tall and terrifyingly handsome in his formal robes—black with crimson embroidery, a thick gold sash at his waist—the energy shifted. Silence, then awe.

“Praise the Emperor,” voices whispered reverently. Then louder. “Praise the Emperor!”

People bowed where they stood. Children peeked from behind their parents, while older villagers dropped to their knees. Merchants offered their finest wares: hand-carved fans, precious stones, candied plums, silk scarves. You, dressed in soft lavender and gold, walked beside him with your hand in his, your cheeks blooming with warmth as more and more people greeted you. “Is that her? The Empress?”

“She’s beautiful—gods, look at her.”

“She brought him peace, they say.”

“She birthed the child of the Emperor... she must be sacred.”

Sukuna never stopped walking, but he slowed just enough to lean toward you, his voice low. “You look so divine, I should take you back right now.”

“You’d leave all this?” You smirked, squeezing his hand. “For me?”

“I’d leave everything for you.” The words melted your heart.

By nightfall, he took you to a grand hall at the center of the district—an ancient theatre now reclaimed and transformed. Lanterns hung high, reflecting off the velvet red curtains and lacquered wood floors. You gasped softly as you stepped inside. “You brought me to the theatre?” you whispered, emotion curling in your throat. He nodded once. “You mentioned it once... in passing. Years ago, you said you always wanted to go to a play.”

The show was beautiful—an old love story retold through dance, shadow, and song. Sukuna didn’t take his eyes off you once. Every gasp, every laugh, every tear—he drank it all in.

And when it ended, the audience rose to their feet. Sukuna pulled you into his arms right there, in front of everyone, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then to your lips. It wasn’t a king’s kiss. It was a man’s kiss—grateful, tender, and entirely yours. “Let’s go home, my Empress,” he said softly.

The carriage wheels crunched softly over the gravel path as the house finally came into view—tucked beneath the tall trees, with flowering vines curling along its wooden beams and smoke curling gently from the chimney. A breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding finally escaped your lungs. You smiled. Home.

Sukuna’s massive hand rested against your thigh as he peered out the window beside you. “Three days was more than enough,” he muttered.

“You said four,” you teased softly, eyes glancing up at him. “I didn’t account for how much I’d miss the scent of this place,” he said, barely above a grumble. “The city stinks of perfume and overcooked fish.” You chuckled and leaned your head against his shoulder. “Or how much you'd miss your daughter?” he said with a smile that could have been missed with a blink of an eye.

As the carriage slowed to a stop, you climbed down with Sukuna’s help, your feet hitting the earth like they belonged there. The front door was open, letting the spring breeze in. You could already smell cinnamon and sugar in the air. Inside, your father sat on a quilted rug in the middle of the living room, legs crossed, gently jiggling a rattle above Aiyumi’s head. The baby squealed in delight, her tiny fingers reaching up to grab it, kicking her chubby legs. She was in a soft cream onesie, cheeks flushed with warmth and joy.

Your mother’s laughter drifted from the kitchen, along with the rich, sweet scent of a baking pie. She was wearing her apron, her sleeves rolled, humming to herself as she opened the oven door to check on the crust. You stepped into the doorway quietly, your hand still in Sukuna’s, and your father looked up, his brows lifting in surprise. “Well, look who it is,” he said with a grin. “Back already?” Aiyumi squealed again at the sound of your voice and flailed her little arms, her rattle hitting the floor.

“Didn’t want to be away another night,” you said warmly, kneeling down to pick her up. She buried her face into your shoulder instantly, as if she had been waiting for you. Sukuna leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head and then one to yours, holding both of you close. Your father stretched with a playful groan and raised a brow at Sukuna. “So, tell me. Did you two actually enjoy the city and see anything beyond the bedsheets—or did you do your martial duties the entire trip?”

“Dad!” you gasped, cheeks warming immediately. Your mother snorted from the kitchen. “He’s not wrong. You two were glowing like fireflies when you left.”

Sukuna smirked as he straightened up, folding all four of his arms over his chest. “We saw the theatre, dined on the rooftops, walked through the market,” he said plainly, then added with a sharp, pointed grin, “but I’ll admit—my favorite view was in the bed.”

“Disgusting,” your father muttered, grabbing a throw pillow from the couch and tossing it at Sukuna, who easily caught it midair and threw it back harder. “Don’t break the windows,” your mother warned, though she was smiling as she pulled the pie from the oven.

You carried Aiyumi into the kitchen, planting kisses on her soft cheeks as she babbled. She was getting so big, already sitting up on her own and gripping your hair with impressive strength. Sukuna followed, watching you the whole way—his eyes calm now, soft. This was his peace. His world. And as the scent of cinnamon pie filled the home, and your parents teased one another in the kitchen, and your daughter pressed her forehead to yours… it was hard not to feel like this quiet corner of the world was more precious than any throne. “Welcome home,” your father said sincerely, offering you a plate. “Hope you’re hungry.” Sukuna raised a brow. “I’m always hungry.” You looked over your shoulder and smiled knowingly. “Don’t start.” He smirked. “Just saying. The view is nice again.”

The moon was full and quiet, casting a soft silver glow through the windows of your bedroom. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the oil Sukuna had lit for you hours ago. Aiyumi was already asleep in her crib, swaddled in her little blanket, the tiniest snores escaping her nose. You could hear the faint creaks of the house settling and the crackling of the fire still going strong in the hearth. The comfort of home wrapped around you like a warm quilt. You lay in bed, one leg thrown lazily over Sukuna’s massive thigh, your cheek resting on the stretch of his chest where one of his arms coiled around your back. His other hands were busy — one stroking slow, lazy circles on your lower back, the other gently combing through your hair.

“Feels like we never left,” you murmured sleepily. “Hn,” he grunted softly. “Only this place makes me breathe right.” You smiled against his skin.

He was quiet for a long time, the kind of quiet you’d learned over the years meant he was thinking, not distant. His fingers didn’t stop moving, didn’t slow. Then, without changing his tone, he asked—

“…Would you want another?” Your eyes blinked open. “Another…?” He looked down at you, only slightly — his eyes were warm, almost shy in their intensity. “Child,” he said. “Would you want another?”

You felt your heart slow, then flutter. The question caught you off guard not because you hadn’t thought about it, but because hearing it from him—Ryomen Sukuna, warlord, king of curses, emperor, and now your devoted husband—made something swell deep in your chest. “Is that what you want?” you asked gently, lifting your chin to meet his gaze fully. He was quiet again, then answered honestly. “I do.”

You reached for his face, cupping his jaw with one hand, your thumb brushing beneath one of his lower eyes. “You really want more sticky little hands tugging at your hair? More sleepless nights?”

“I don’t sleep anyway.” You laughed softly, but it wasn’t teasing. It was full of that love you could never quite put into words. “You’ve changed.”

He cocked a brow. “You think wanting to fill this house with more of you is change?” You felt a blush creep up your cheeks. “You weren’t always so sentimental, my lord.” He leaned down, brushing his lips to your temple. “You’re right. I was worse. I would have demanded it. Taken it. But now…” He kissed your forehead next. “I ask.” And then your nose. “I wait.” And finally, your lips. “Because you are more powerful than any king.” You hummed, smile melting against his mouth.

“I think…” you whispered as his hands pulled you closer, “...one day, yes. I’d love to see you holding a tiny version of yourself again. But right now, I just want to hold this life. Our life. Her.” His eyes softened, and he nodded. “No rush,” he said. “But I’ll be ready. Whenever you are.” You nestled into his chest again, breathing in the heat and scent of him, your fingers draped over his abdomen, close to the old cursed mouth that now only ever spoke want for you. Aiyumi stirred lightly in her crib, as if sensing the peace that filled the room. “I’ll take care of all of you,” he murmured suddenly, barely audible. “Forever.” You kissed his chest. “I know, Suku. And I’ll take care of you, too.”

The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains of your father’s little cottage, casting long golden beams across the wooden floor. It should’ve been a peaceful, ordinary day — birds chirping in the trees just outside the window, the smell of lavender and baked bread faint in the air. But inside the room, the quiet was different. It was heavy.

You stood at the foot of your father’s bed, your hands gripping the ends of your sleeves tightly as you watched him lie still. His face, once so animated and full of teasing grins, now looked tired. His eyes were softer, clouded with exhaustion, though they still found you when you stepped closer.

He had gone from lively — taking morning walks, picking fresh herbs, tinkering in the garden — to weak, coughing in the night, barely able to sit up without help. You had noticed it slowly at first. Then, all at once, it was undeniable. Sukuna had sensed it, too. Without a word, he summoned the royal physician. The diagnosis had been whispered like a curse: an aggressive form of cancer. Deep in the organs. Untreatable. The physician spoke it with reverence and apology. There was no cure, no potion or spell to reverse what had already begun to take its toll.

Unless...

Sukuna stood beside the bed, arms folded but not in his usual dominating way. His shoulders were relaxed, eyes shadowed but focused. The fire of his power simmered beneath his skin — quiet, for once. “There is... another way,” he said, voice low. “I could turn you. Into a cursed human. It would extend your life. Eradicate the sickness. You’d still be you.” Your father chuckled softly, his fingers loosely curled over your mother’s hand. She sat on the bed beside him, clutching his palm with both of hers, trying — and failing — to keep her tears from falling. Her head was bowed slightly, as if ashamed to cry. You had never seen her like this. Not even when she apologized for the pain she’d once caused. Not even when she learned she was going to be a grandmother.

“Son,” your father said quietly, looking up at Sukuna, “I appreciate the offer. I do. But I’ve lived a damn fine life. A long one. Longer than most get.”

You swallowed thickly, blinking fast as tears burned the back of your eyes. “But—” your voice cracked. Your father looked at you, smiling warmly through his pallor. “Don’t you go crying on me now, sweet girl. I’m still here. And I’ll be here as long as I can. Just… let me go peacefully when the time comes.” Sukuna didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to argue. He stood still as stone, but his eyes flickered down to your mother, who had her forehead pressed against the back of your father’s hand, silent tears spilling down her cheeks.

And then, quietly — softly, for once — Sukuna said, “You’ve done a good job. With her. With your life.” Your father snorted, hoarse but amused. “Now that’s a rare thing, coming from your grumpy ass.” Even Sukuna let out a faint exhale — not quite a laugh, but close. “I swear,” your father went on, turning his head with a slow smile, “if I die and come back just to haunt you, I’m stealing all your damn kimonos.”

“Old man,” Sukuna muttered, shaking his head. “Even half-dead, you’re still running your mouth.”

“That’s how you know I’m not gone yet.” Despite the pain, despite the fear swelling in your chest, that made you smile. You climbed gently onto the bed, curling up beside your father, resting your head on his shoulder as your mother held his other hand. Sukuna remained close — arms behind his back, gaze on the man who had never once feared him, even when he could’ve. You had never loved your family more. And you had never feared losing them more than now.

The grave was fresh — the soil still dark, the edges uneven from the recent layering of earth. A wooden post marked the spot, temporary until the stonemason finished carving the headstone Sukuna had commissioned. Around the grave stood the people who loved him most, all dressed in soft hues of cream, beige, and muted gray — clothing chosen by you, not for mourning, but for warmth. He had always hated black.

You stood between your mother and Sukuna, your hand cradling your baby girl against your chest, her head tucked just beneath your chin. At seven months old, Aiyumi didn’t know the weight of the day — she cooed and made soft little sounds against your skin, kicking her small legs contently in her wrap. Her soft pink hair caught the sunlight, a ribbon tied neatly above her brow.

Your mother stood stiffly at your side, her hand shaking slightly as she clutched a white flower — one of his favorites from the garden he used to tend. Her lips were tight, but her eyes… her eyes were flooded with unshed tears, red at the corners. She hadn't cried much in front of anyone since the death. But here, at his resting place, her walls began to crumble.

Uraume stepped forward with ceremonial grace, dressed in pale robes that moved gently with the breeze. In one hand, they held a sprig of sacred herbs and a long, woven strip of cloth — symbols of peace, legacy, and eternal return. “We gather today not to mourn the end,” Uraume said, voice steady, solemn, yet comforting, “but to celebrate the wholeness of a life lived in full.”

Everyone went quiet. Even the wind seemed to hush, the breeze softer, weaving through the tall grass and rustling the leaves of the nearby trees.

“His was a soul that moved without fear,” Uraume continued, “that chose love in the face of hardship, laughter in the face of loss, and protection for those dearest to him. He was a father, a husband, a man who did not rule — but guided.” You felt a tear fall down your cheek. You didn’t even try to wipe it. Sukuna stood beside you, unmoving, arms folded. His expression was unreadable, but he had dressed in his ceremonial robes: deep crimson with golden thread lining the sleeves — the finest garb of a king, worn not out of ego, but out of respect. He hadn’t spoken much in the days leading up to the burial. He’d simply handled everything — the grave, the ceremony, the food to be delivered to the guests waiting back at the house. All of it. Quietly.

“I believe,” Uraume said gently, “that when a man passes with love in his heart, the energy of that love does not die. It moves through time. Through the ones he leaves behind. His daughter. His granddaughter. And in the breath of the wind that brushes your skin, there he is.” As if on cue, a soft breeze blew across the field. Your mother finally dropped the flower. It landed gently atop the grave. She whispered something under her breath — a goodbye too private to share. Then you stepped forward, holding Aiyumi, her warm body tucked into yours. “Say goodbye to Grandpa,” you whispered. She cooed and reached one tiny hand toward the sky. You smiled through your tears.

Behind you, Sukuna stepped forward and stood silently. He didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. But he bowed his head slightly — a gesture that, coming from him, meant everything. And when the wind blew again, stronger this time, it seemed to wrap around you like an embrace.

The cottage was quiet that night. The usual warm hum of conversation, the scent of simmering herbs, or Aiyumi’s happy babbling — all of it felt distant, muffled by the weight of the day. The fire crackled in the hearth, low and steady, casting orange light over the wooden walls. You had just finished nursing Aiyumi. She lay in her cradle beside your shared bed, fast asleep, one tiny hand curled up by her cheek, her breaths soft and even. 

You’d stood there for a while just watching her, your palm pressed lightly to your chest. Sukuna hadn’t said a word since returning from the burial site. Not in the carriage. Not during the meal Uraume left for the two of you. He stood by the window now, in loose pants and nothing else, his muscular form bathed in the moonlight pouring through the curtains. Arms folded across his chest, his jaw was tight, and his expression unreadable.

You walked toward him slowly, still in your soft cotton nightgown. “You’ve been quiet,” you said gently, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m always quiet,” he muttered.

“Not with me.”

He turned his head then, looking at you with one of those long, searching stares. The ones he always used when he was trying not to say something that might shatter the mood. His eyes flicked down to your feet, then to the cradle where your daughter slept. “You haven’t let yourself feel it yet,” you said, stepping closer. “Have you?”

“I don’t have time to grieve,” he said sharply. “Not like you. Not like them.” You lifted your hand and placed it on his chest. “That’s not true.”

“I’m not built for sorrow.” You smiled, a soft, sad smile. “You’re built for more than you think.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “He was annoying. He teased me constantly. Never stopped calling me names, even when I had four arms and the title of Emperor.”

“And you loved him.” Sukuna didn’t speak.

You leaned your head against his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I know you did.” His hands, large and trembling slightly, finally lifted to rest against your back. He held you there, breathing deep, his fingers slipping into your hair. “I didn’t want him to die,” he finally said. The voice was raw. Quiet. “I could’ve saved him.” You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your hand cupping his cheek. “You offered to. He said no. That was his choice. He wanted to go as a man. Not as a curse.” He looked away, jaw flexing. “I didn’t like watching you cry.”

“I didn’t like watching my mother cry,” you whispered. “But I’m glad I did. It meant she loved him.” Silence wrapped around you both for a moment. Then his hands lifted higher, cradling your face between them. “You two have the same eyes,” he murmured. “You cry the same way. Quiet… like it’s some kind of secret.”

“And you grieve like a storm trapped in a bottle.”

That made him chuckle, faintly, just once. You tiptoed and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. “Let me carry some of this for you,” you said against his lips. “We’ve carried everything else together, haven’t we?” He kissed you again — slower this time, lingering — and then pulled you into his arms, all four of them wrapped tightly around your body like he needed to hold everything close just to keep from falling apart. That night, you slept tangled in each other, your hand over his heart, his curled protectively over your growing daughter’s cradle. And for once, Sukuna slept deeply — no nightmares, no interruptions — just the weight of love and memory holding him still.

The next morning dawned softly, the sky painted in gentle pinks and pale golds. Birds sang in the distance, and a breeze rustled the trees surrounding the home Sukuna had built for you. Peace had settled over the property, but the ache of loss still lingered like morning dew. Inside the main cottage, Sukuna cradled Aiyumi with surprising gentleness for such a large man. She gurgled and swatted at his lower arms, tiny fists curling with fascination. He held her up in front of him, his usual scowl softened into something... fond.

“You little menace,” he muttered, watching her try to grab one of his earrings. “You got your mother’s hands. Always reaching for trouble.” She squealed and kicked, and he sighed with a grunt, holding her against his chest. “You’re lucky I like you.” You had smiled watching from the doorway for a moment, your heart full. Then you slipped into your shoes and draped a shawl over your shoulders. “I’m going to see Mom,” you called to Sukuna. “She’s probably already brewed the tea.”

“She’d better not be making you lift anything,” he grumbled without turning, still completely enraptured with your daughter. “Tell her I’ll come over later to help with those heavy planters.”

You smirked. “Yes, yes, mighty Emperor and professional pot-mover.” He snorted. “Go.”

You crossed the back garden, the grass dewy beneath your steps. Your mother’s cottage was already warm with life — the faint scent of chamomile and bread wafted through the open windows. You knocked gently on the doorframe. “Come in,” she called, her voice gentle but tired. You stepped inside, greeted by the cozy scent of the room, and the soft sound of porcelain clinking. She was at the little round table near the window, two steaming cups already set out. “I figured you’d come by,” she said, smiling faintly. “Something about the air this morning told me.” You sat down beside her. The tea was warm between your palms, the aroma calming. “Sleep okay?” you asked softly. She nodded. “As well as I could without his snoring.” There was a pause, then she laughed — a quiet, genuine thing. “I used to hate that snoring. Drove me mad. I’d elbow him in the ribs in the middle of the night and he’d just grumble and roll over like nothing happened. Now…” Her voice caught in her throat, and she looked down into her cup. “Now I’d give anything to hear it again.” 

You reached over and gently took her hand. She squeezed back, eyes brimming. “We were ridiculous, you know,” she said, chuckling again, though tears glistened in her eyes. “Always arguing in our younger years. Always going at each other. And yet... somehow the older we got, the better we got at loving each other. And the sex,” she added with a sly look, “was better than when we were young. Slower. But richer. More... connected.”

You snorted into your tea, laughing through your nose. “Mom!” She just shrugged, wiping under her eyes with the side of her hand. “What? It’s true. I think we finally learned how to stop fighting and start listening. That made all the difference.” You were quiet a moment, then gently said, “He really loved you. Right up to the very end.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And I loved him. Even when I didn’t know how to show it. Especially then.” She stared out the window toward the garden. “I miss him standing next to me while I watered the plants. He always over-watered. He said the flowers liked a good soaking.”

She smiled through a wave of tears. You leaned your head on her shoulder, and she rested hers atop yours. “I’m really glad you’re here,” you murmured. “I’m glad I am too,” she whispered, stroking your hair. “I just wish he still was.” The two of you sat like that for a long while, drinking tea in the quiet cottage, with the wind brushing gently against the windows — and the spirit of a man neither of you would ever stop loving settling softly over you like sunlight.

next

[sikyulioness]

Heyyyyy, I love your stories. ❤❤❤❤

The first and second ones make my heart ache 🥺🥺.

Anyway, can you write a Jinwoo x reader where the reader is a cat that Jinwoo picked up and raised, then suddenly one day the cat turns into a human???

HOPE YOU HAVE A NICE DAY!!✨

✨Of course here you go I hope you like it✨

My Master, My Love

A Solo Leveling Jinwoo x Reader Story

---

It had started with a storm.

The rain had been relentless that night, drumming against the pavement as a lone figure hurried through the streets. Sung Jinwoo, now hailed as the world's strongest Hunter, barely flinched at the downpour. What was a little rain compared to the dungeons he had conquered?

But then, something made him pause.

A faint, pitiful sound—a meow.

He turned toward a dimly lit alleyway, where a tiny, shivering cat huddled against the wall, drenched and weak. His brows furrowed. The rational part of him told him to move on. He wasn’t exactly a pet person. He had a sister to take care of and a life filled with battles.

Yet, before he even realized it, he was crouching down, reaching out to the trembling creature.

“Hey there,” he murmured.

Golden eyes peered up at him, filled with a strange intelligence that made his chest tighten. Without thinking further, he picked you up, cradling your tiny form against his warm jacket. You didn't resist—too weak to protest, or maybe... maybe you had already decided to trust him.

That night, you became part of Sung Jinwoo’s world.

---

At first, you were simply a stray he had taken in, a small, quiet companion in his vast, powerful life. Jinwoo wasn’t particularly experienced with pets, but he learned. He learned that you preferred fish over chicken, that you liked perching on his shoulder even when he was working, and that you had an uncanny ability to sense his moods.

When he came home from exhausting raids, covered in wounds and blood, you would curl up beside him, purring softly as if trying to heal him in your own way. And maybe, in a way, you did.

“(Y/N),” he sighed one night, watching as you batted at the pages of a book he was trying to read. “You’re spoiled, you know that?”

You just blinked at him, tail flicking as if to say, And whose fault is that?

Jinwoo chuckled, scratching behind your ears. “Yeah, yeah… mine.”

He never regretted picking you up that night.

---

Then, one day, everything changed.

Jinwoo had gone out for a quick errand, leaving you lounging on his bed. It was an ordinary day—until an unbearable heat spread through your body. You tried to move, but a sharp pain wracked your limbs. It felt like something inside you was shifting, breaking apart and reforming.

And then—

Silence.

When Jinwoo returned home, he immediately sensed something was off. His senses, honed from countless battles, went on high alert. There was someone in his apartment.

A faint rustling came from his bedroom.

His shadows coiled, ready to strike, as he slowly pushed open the door—only to freeze.

There, sitting on his bed, wrapped in his blanket, was a girl.

A very, very familiar girl.

Golden eyes. Soft (H/C) hair. A slight tilt of the head that reminded him so much of—

“(Y/N)?” The name left his lips before he could stop himself.

The girl blinked, then smiled.

“Welcome home, Jinwoo.”

And just like that, his world flipped upside down.

---

Jinwoo wasn’t an easy man to shock. He had faced monsters, kings, and literal gods. But seeing his tiny, fluffy cat turn into a breathtakingly beautiful woman? Yeah, that did the trick.

For the first few hours, he could barely function. His mind kept replaying the absurdity of it. You, now human, had laughed softly at his reaction, hugging his blanket around your frame as you patiently explained.

You didn’t know how it happened, only that one moment you were a cat, and the next, you weren’t. You weren’t human either—at least, not entirely. There was something… other about you. Something ancient.

Jinwoo, despite his disbelief, couldn’t deny it. After all, he had seen far crazier things in his life.

But even as he struggled to understand, one thing remained the same.

You were still his (Y/N).

Still the one who curled up beside him when he was tired.

Still the one who looked at him with unwavering trust.

Still the one who made his lonely world feel a little warmer.

And that realization hit him harder than any battle ever had.

---

Days passed, then weeks. Jinwoo adjusted—somehow. He learned that you were just as mischievous in human form, stealing his hoodies, teasing him mercilessly, and still insisting on perching in his lap like you were still a tiny feline.

“You do realize you’re not a cat anymore, right?” he grumbled one evening, as you comfortably made yourself at home on his lap.

You grinned up at him. “Old habits die hard.”

He sighed, but his hands instinctively went to your hair, fingers combing through the soft strands. Just like before, you leaned into his touch, a content hum escaping your lips.

Jinwoo’s heart did something strange. Something dangerous.

He ignored it.

Or at least, he tried to.

But then there were the little things—the way you always waited for him to come home, the way you instinctively reached for his hand when you were nervous, the way you whispered his name like it was something precious.

And Jinwoo, the strongest Hunter in the world, found himself utterly, hopelessly weak.

One night, as you curled up beside him—just like old times—he finally gave in.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. You stiffened slightly in surprise, before melting into his embrace.

“Jinwoo?” you murmured.

He buried his face in your hair, exhaling softly. “Stay.”

A pause. Then, a smile.

“Always.”

And with that, Jinwoo finally admitted what he had known all along.

You weren’t just a stray he had picked up.

You're no longer just his cat.

You were his home.

His love.

And he would never let you go

Till death do us part

---

The End.

[syndrossi]

@lidoshka's art is so pretty, I'm literally done in for. Her latest masterpiece with older teenage Jon and Rhaegar made me wonder if, upon getting old enough for some independence to fly on their own and escape Daemon's helicoptor parentitis, Jon and Rhaegar would fly to the wall to check things out as warriors-in-the-know re: how important the wall actually is. I could see them wanting to show up, help out, do what they can without swearing their lives over. Do you think the watch would like to have them as, ah, celebrity visitors?

I was just thinking that teenage Jon would totally spar with them, and end up teaching a bunch, being reminded of his own days there... the nostalgia! And Rhaegar would too, but also he'd dive into the library and just marvel at the wonder of it all. (I assume he'd insist on visiting the Nightfort. No sitting on cursed chairs or making deals with evil dark ice queens, boys.)

Just imagining their adventures...

I mean, the Watch entertained Tyrion (aka the queen's brother), and vice versa I suppose, for quite a while! The king's nephews by blood would surely be welcome and viewed as a sign of the Crown's support. Especially if they were to have finagled some extra resources from Viserys prior to their visit.

The main obstacle is literally Daemon, whose helicopter parentitis has perhaps relaxed a tiny bit, except for two very particular locations: the Wall, and the Trident. So they'd probably be toting Daemon along for this, and he would be grumpy about it because it's bloody cold.

I don't know if Daemon could watch Jon sparring with recruits/rangers/etc, so Rhaegar likely has to distract him while that's going on. I'm anticipating a lot of cocky/skeptical rangers who are expecting pampered princes (solidified somewhat by Daemon's bitter complaints about the cold) and instead get humbled by a teenager. While Jon's chatting with the rangers about their patrols, Rhaegar is probably subtly probing the stewards for any hints of unusual activity that would suggest the Others have awoken.

At the very least, they want a good picture of the state of the Watch, and its readiness for recognizing and responding to threats. I wouldn't be surprised if Jon slips away on a patrol just once, and Rhaegar has to sit on Daemon to keep him from following.

And yes, Rhaegar is adamant about visiting the Nightfort! Which gets a few grumbles from the brothers of the Watch because the kid's great-grandmother was the one who insisted on it being abandoned and now he wants to go there? (Given that there's no one to host them there, this probably involves visiting Winterfell to drum up a party to travel with them that can carry supplies, etc. At this point, Bennard would be regent for Cregan, so the political atmosphere there would be...interesting.)

The boys' best bets for adventures sans Daemon would be to plan for nothing north of Winterfell, nothing near the Trident, and nothing too close to Dorne (or Oldtown). I'm betting they have a ton of adventures in the Vale, since it's close to home, but the weird stuff would definitely occur mostly in the usual suspects (along or north of the Wall, Harrenhal, etc).

[eodred]

Boromir Week | Day 1: Brother of Faramir, Childhood, Protector and Teacher

Prompt filled for: @boromir-week

Title: Table Time

Word count: ~3.6k

Summary:

An unusually windless evening in Ithilien brings four companions around a table — and a pile of games, each drawn from their homelands.

As dice clatter and laughter spills, Boromir is thrown back into memories of his childhood, when Faramir was just a swaddled mystery in a cradle, and every day felt like a game of luck and risk.

From wooden soldiers and whispered lullabies to dwarven gold and Perudo bluffing — this night is a love letter to brotherhood, rivalry, and the way old habits return around firelight.

Inspired by:

The chaotic beauty of YouTube’s Table Time, mixed with the charming unpredictability of Baltic Loto, Old Took’s Luck, Perudo, Dwarven Gold, and Dice of Fate (a.k.a. Bingo).

Expect playful betrayal, sibling snark, and an exasperated Faramir facing the ultimate peril: Pippin’s commentary.

AO3

Old Took’s Luck

The evening in Ithilien turned out warm, quiet, and, to everyone’s surprise, windless — a rare gift for this time of year. The sun was already dipping behind the dark, jagged crowns of the trees, flooding the forest with a thick, honey-golden glow. It was for this light that street painters took to the open air, hoping to capture the reborn silhouette of Osgiliath, its pale ridgeline visible on the horizon.

The company had wandered into an old pavilion from the days of stewards and kings — a round rotunda wrapped in ivy. The whitewashed columns shimmered in the halos of torchlight, thoughtfully lit by Boromir after he’d stashed away the game Pippin had brought.

As agreed, everyone had brought a board game dear to their people. Boromir took an immediate dislike to the one chosen by the hobbit: he was never fond of games where pure chance decided the outcome — and Old Took’s Luck was precisely that sort.

Gimli, on the other hand, was delighted. The moment he heard the rules, the dwarf shook his mug of ale and burst into booming laughter:

“Now this is a proper pastime! Ale in one hand, dice in the other!”

Boromir sighed heavily and exchanged a glance with his brother. The light-hearted excitement stirred memories of very different dice cast by fate — the kind that life itself seemed to throw, back when he was just a boy of five or six, and tiny Faramir had first appeared in their home.

Boromir remembered that first day — the echo of footsteps in the corridors, the soft weeping behind the door to the bedchamber, the scent of fresh wood from the cradle, carved by the finest craftsmen of Gondor. He had peeked timidly into his mother’s room: Finduilas lay half-reclined on the pillows, trembling from exhaustion and joy, while on her chest lay a tightly curled little bundle, gently snuffling in sleep.

A boy of five, almost six, Boromir had no idea what to do with such a fragile miracle. He had brought his favorite wooden soldiers — he wanted to build a fortress on the rug, to show his brother how the drums of the City beat. But the moment he made them clatter, the infant’s face scrunched up and he began to cry. His mother’s smile faded for a moment, and Boromir felt a helpless sting — as if he’d rolled the dice and thrown a bad cast.

The next day, he tried a different approach — tiptoeing to the cradle and, as he’d seen the nursemaids do, whispering ever so softly:

“Don’t be afraid, Faramir. It’s me. Your brother.”

The baby turned his head, and for a heartbeat the corner of his tiny mouth twitched — perhaps a smile, perhaps another grimace. It was just like a game of luck: would the right face appear on the dice? Sometimes Boromir got it — and joy surged through him, like he’d rolled two shining sixes; but sometimes Faramir would begin to cry, and the boy would flee, cheeks burning with shame.

And so he grew — each new day like another throw of the dice, trying to guess: would his brother smile or weep?

“Babies are fussy, my son,” their father would say. “Be patient. Stay near him.”

But Boromir couldn’t help thinking that Faramir was governed by strange, hidden rules — rules he didn’t understand. Ever since, games of chance had struck him as a cruel reflection of that childhood lottery.

That was why, now, with nearly all the tokens facedown save for the cursed “12,” Boromir’s heart beat with unease. It seemed that two sixes would seal the game in his favor — but the dice stubbornly showed a four and a six. Give up? Never. That wasn’t the way of the Guards of the White City. He rolled again — and heard Faramir chuckle quietly.

“Brother, relax. Just enjoy yourself.”

“Maybe that works in the Shire, under their soft little sun,” Boromir muttered through gritted teeth.

“I mean, look — half of my tokens are already flipped,” Pippin said with a shrug. “You’ve only got one left. That makes you the winner.”

“Winner, is it? These cursed dice are mocking me! I didn’t think such a trivial game could torment me this much.”

Faramir raised a finger toward the hobbit — the sign of their secret alliance — then snatched the dice from his brother and winked.

“For Daddy’s new boots.”

He blew on the dice and rolled. The bones danced, bounced — and landed neatly: six and six. Boromir blinked in disbelief. Pippin cheered. Faramir, grinning with satisfaction, flipped the “12” token.

“See?” he whispered, flashing the hobbit another thumbs-up. “C-oalition.”

“Or perhaps our father truly does need a new pair of boots,” Boromir muttered with a huff of laughter.

Their laughter echoed beneath the ivy-covered dome. The game dragged on for another good half hour, and in the end, it was the alliance of Faramir and Pippin that claimed victory. The coalition had worked.

Dwarven Gold

Returning to the table, Boromir noticed a new item placed before him — a tightly tied pouch of plain, unbleached cloth. Identical ones lay in front of every player. Gimli, smugly stroking his thick beard, had already begun explaining the rules:

“In each pouch is a scatter of stones. The goal: be the first to gather five gold nuggets. Draw as many as you like — but beware! The gold is identical in weight and shape to ordinary pebbles. Get greedy, and if you pull two of the same worthless stones in a turn, you lose everything you’ve drawn that round. Stop in time, and you keep your haul. There are also rare gemstones:

Emerald — lets you draw two more stones immediately.

Schorl — if you draw two black stones in a single turn, each player must give you one of their schorls.”

From the very start, luck seemed to have abandoned Pippin — his bag now clattered like a forge bellows, filled to the brim with black stones.

Boromir, convinced that fortune had already made her choice, went all in.

Faramir stuck to his cautious plan: never more than one “risky” stone per round. Each turn, he tried to coax his brother into doing the same.

“That’s enough, you already pulled one gold. Leave fate alone,” he whispered, gently catching Boromir by the elbow.

“And when am I supposed to win, then?” Boromir huffed, pointing at the single yellow nugget in his pile — while Faramir already had four. “You only need one more!”

He plunged his hand into the pouch again.

And Faramir, watching him, couldn’t help but recall how much their habits had changed since childhood.

When Boromir was eight and Faramir had just turned four, they used to stage “sieges” in the courtyard of Minas Tirith. The elder would build a fortress out of bricks, always “forgetting” one small gap in the wall so that the little “assault trooper Faramir” could find the weak spot and win. Sometimes, Boromir — playing the role of a grim commander — would order his wooden soldiers to “retreat” at the exact moment Faramir raised his stick-sword.

But as soon as his brother got older and won his first honest victory, eyes shining, he declared, “This time, you didn’t let me win on purpose!” From that moment on, Boromir only let him win when Faramir himself couldn’t yet see the path to victory. In all other cases, he played to win — so his brother would know the thrill of a true battle.

That evening, however, the memory offered no help: the temptation to take one more risk won out.

Boromir reached into the pouch for the third time — and when he opened his hand, there lay another gray stone.

“So much for luck,” Faramir said quietly, without a trace of mockery.

“Well… it was worth a try,” Boromir sighed, tossing all his stones — even the single gold nugget he had earned — back into the communal pile.

The outcome was predictable: the brothers’ cautious strategy didn’t earn them the win. Victory went to the host of the game — a roaring Gimli.

He carefully poured his five golden “pebbles” back into his pouch, nudged his mug of ale toward Boromir, and declared in his deep voice:

“Remember this, Men: gold favors the brave — but luck favors the dwarf.”

Perudo

Boromir laid out hollow bone cups on the table — one for each player — and poured out a clatter of dice: five per person. He had chosen this game without hesitation; neither he nor Faramir had played it to death yet.

He had first learned it from the corsairs of Umbar, back when he was a fourteen-year-old lad serving aboard a patrol ship guarding Gondor’s southern coasts. It had been his first long voyage, months away with a sword barely his own — while nine-year-old Faramir stayed behind, counting the days until his brother’s return. Ever since, Perudo smelled of sea salt, pitch in the hold, and the bitter tang of separation.

The rules were simple: each player rolled their dice in secret beneath their cup, then took turns announcing a bet — the total number of dice showing a certain value across the entire table. The next player had to either raise the bid (by quantity, face value, or both), or challenge it by calling “dudo!” — “I doubt it!” If they were wrong, they lost a die. If they were right — the bidder did.

Faramir hated Perudo… or rather, he hated it when he had to play against Boromir. As a child, he had grown up trusting in his brother’s unwavering honesty: Boromir had never lied to him — not about monsters under the bed, nor about wins and losses in games.

Now, sitting across from him, Faramir still believed every word — even though bluffing was half the game.

Boromir, of course, knew his brother’s weakness all too well and barely hid his grin whenever Faramir fell for the most obvious traps.

Making a bid after Boromir was torture: should he trust his innate truthfulness — or do the math, like their steward-father had taught them?

“For the love of the Valar, just count, will you?” Boromir laughed, watching his brother squirm.

“What?” Faramir lifted his cup. Only two dice remained underneath. “Why did you drag me into this? This is pure gambling!”

“Imagine if there were gold at stake,” Pippin giggled, elbowing Boromir.

“He’d explode on the spot,” Boromir agreed. “Make your call, brother — two paths: three sixes, or…”

“Two ones!” Faramir suddenly blurted, leaning back in his chair. “Just… saw it.”

The bid leapt straight to wilds — ones counted as any value named. All eyes turned to Gimli. It was his move.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the dwarf growled.

“What?” Faramir spun his cup nonchalantly. “Two ones are entirely possible.”

“Pfft. And what do I do now?”

“Don’t believe me — and call it.”

“They’re definitely there,” Gimli groaned, staring at his still-covered cup.

“Or do you think I’m bluffing?” Faramir added innocently, mimicking Boromir’s signature solemn honesty. “Tell me, friends — when have I ever lied?”

Boromir and Pippin were shaking with laughter as the dwarf squirmed, and Faramir casually tapped his cup with smug rhythm.

In the end, Gimli chose to raise the bid — and escaped unscathed.

Pippin, however, wasn’t so lucky.

Whether lost in the game or fooled by the “honest Gondorian,” the hobbit raised the bar to four ones.

There were only two on the entire table…

And both were under his own cup.

Nainë Mandë (Dice of Fate)

The evening was winding down when Faramir — flushed from ale and anticipation — shook a bag of brown velvet over the table. Something inside clattered, dry and wooden, like tiny barrel-shaped batons.

“A game where no one can argue!” he announced cheerfully, giving the bag another shake, prompting Gimli to cautiously slide his mug farther from the splash zone.

Boromir put on his most intrigued face. His brother had a talent for unearthing games that seemed known only to library mice and silver-haired aunties.

Faramir handed each of them a thin wooden board with rows of random numbers — from 1 to 90. The rules were simple: draw a number blind from the bag and mark it off if it’s on your board. First to cover them all wins.

No bluffing, no betting, no sneaky ways to sabotage your opponent — in Faramir’s opinion, the perfect “family” game.

The brothers had learned Dice of Fate from their nursemaid, old Nan. Sitting by the hearth, she’d click the little barrels against the side of the bag, handing out nutshell halves and copper coins in place of tokens. Serious-eyed little Faramir always got the “hero’s coins”; Boromir used to dream of the day when he’d earn copper too — the mark of a true man — but for now, contented himself with his humble nutshells.

Snapped out of his reverie, Boromir realized Faramir was launching into an impassioned explanation of why he’d chosen this particular game, voice brimming with earnest nostalgia.

Meanwhile, Pippin was quietly giggling, sneaking glances at Gimli.

“Seven — that’s a pickaxe, straight up!” he bellowed in his best dwarven bass and elbowed Boromir.

The ale buzzed pleasantly in Boromir’s head, and the Steward’s eldest son couldn’t resist:

“You want all of Gimli’s number associations? Easy! Thirty-three — like twin mountain sapphires, fused together…”

“And forty-four!” Pippin cried, catching on. “A pair of quartz crystals, exactly!”

They were so caught up in mocking the game boards that it took them a moment to notice Faramir had fallen silent. Lips pressed thin, he already looked like he regretted bringing his cozy little family ritual into the circle.

“If you two are quite finished mocking…” he said softly, but firmly. “Can we get back to the rules?”

“Oh — sorry, brother. You were telling a story, weren’t you? About the nutshells?” Boromir said sheepishly, raising his hands in apology.

“Nutshells?” Pippin squeaked.

Faramir’s ears flushed — a sure sign his feelings were stung.

“Not nutshells, they were— never mind. It was a sweet little tale, but who cares, right? Let’s just play.”

“Are you upset?” Boromir asked gently, leaning toward him with a guilty smile.

“Why would I be?” Faramir replied coolly, fiddling with the tokens and refusing to meet his brother’s eyes.

“Well, sorry for interrupting,” Boromir said in a conciliatory tone, touching his brother’s shoulder.

“What are you apologizing for?” Faramir snapped, jerking away and casting a sideways glare at Pippin.

“Me?!” Pippin gasped, pressing both hands to his chest in exaggerated outrage.

“No…” Faramir sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just play.”

“No, no — tell it!” Pippin pleaded, leaning in with genuine curiosity sparkling in his eyes.

“I’m telling,” Faramir said with deliberate calm, straightening his back. “The rules of Dice of Fate…”

Boromir rolled his eyes discreetly — an all-too-familiar scene.

Ever since the brothers had reached the age of “semi-legal drinking,” a certain less-than-charming trait had begun to emerge in Faramir. The moment wine shimmered ruby at the bottom of his cup, the wise, measured commander transformed into an easily offended youth. The first time it happened was at Boromir’s sixteenth birthday: by his third mug, Faramir had launched into a tirade about Sindarin verb conjugations, and when met with disagreement, went entirely silent — mentally recording the names of all “phonetic offenders.”

It had since become a family joke — though not one the subject ever found particularly amusing.

Tonight, however, things were following an unfamiliar pattern: luck danced around Boromir like a sunbeam. Every other barrel he drew matched a number on his board, and Faramir’s brow darkened by the minute. Pippin shook the velvet bag like a maraca; Gimli kept opening his mouth only to shut it again, hiding his laughter.

“Seventeen!” Faramir called, eyeing his brother’s board. Boromir, snorting, raised a hand — then immediately slapped it over Pippin’s mouth before he could burst.

“Are you serious?” Faramir sighed.

“If I could rig this, I would!” Boromir protested. “But it’s just draw and mark.”

“How many do you have left?” Faramir leaned over — then bulged his eyes. “Six?!”

“It’s not about who’s fastest,” Pippin reminded him, still jiggling the bag. “You could get stuck on one number for eternity. I’ve only marked one so far.”

“Go on, chase the champion,” Faramir muttered. “Six! I’ve only got three. All right, no questions here,” he nodded at the ever-stoic Gimli, whose board also showed six blank spots. “With hands used to pulling gold from rock, no wonder his luck’s steady. But you, dear brother — where’d you get that fortune? Sell your soul?”

“Oh, for the Valar’s sake!” Boromir laughed. “They’ll all hit seventy-seven eventually — you’ll see.” He pointed at the number on his board.

At that exact moment, Pippin drew the next barrel. His hand trembled, eyes sparkled, breath came short.

“What is it?” Faramir asked warily.

“…Seventy-seven,” Pippin whispered — and then dissolved into laughter so violent Gimli slapped the table and Boromir doubled over, wheezing.

Faramir glanced at his half-empty board, rolled his eyes toward the rafters of the pavilion, and raised his mug — not yet suspecting that he, in the end, would be the one to win this game.

The table now stood empty. On its stained surface, only drained dice cups and half-finished mugs remained, glinting faintly in the dying torchlight. The four unlikely companions — two Men, a hobbit, and a dwarf — had drifted off to their chambers, each carrying with them the quiet aftertaste of the night, and the spark of camaraderie they’d come to share.

Your day’s been carved in heavy stone

With burdens resting on your shoulders wide

But soon the evening claims the city

And daylight burns in amber tide

Together we sigh, and bid the blazing day: “Take flight.”

Each game that night had stirred some childlike memory:

Boromir and Faramir glimpsed the echoing corridors of their youth;

Gimli heard the hammer of his father ringing through stone;

Pippin saw the green hills of the Shire — and Merry, laughing beside him.

In play, they returned for a moment to simpler years, when time was counted not by hours, but by new adventures and sunburnt cheeks.

There is a hidden place we keep

Where childhood lingers, deep in the night

Where stories flow and laughter spills

In ways outsiders never get quite right

And we gather again round the table’s warm light…

Even the brief spat at the end — like old yard fights over a rag-stuffed ball — burned hot and vanished quick, leaving only shared laughter and a sharp edge of friendly rivalry.

The crackle of fire and rustling leaves

Will echo that summer we never retrieve

Of golden stripes and whispered talk

Let’s meet again, take that same walk

And into the starry sky, our voices weave…

As they parted for the night, they knew without saying: they would gather again — more than once. There would be teasing jabs, desperate rolls, and victories, fair or otherwise.

And while the stars dimmed gently over Ithilien, a chorus of fading voices could still be heard, carrying one simple promise:

“Until next time.”