chitcnn

[chitcnn]

Shifting was never an easy task, not for Simon, and not for you.

It’s rare that Simon finds time to himself between being at base and being on an op. True alone time, with nothing to do, and nobody to do anything with. 

His ride won’t arrive for two days, and Price (quite firmly) advised him to ‘enjoy the scenery, Norway is stunning this time of year, son.’ Really, Simon doesn’t give two fucks about the scenery or the apparent good weather, no, that’s not the reason he’s grateful to be isolated at a safehouse for the next day and a half.

It’s because of you.

Rather, more specifically, the freedom it allows you, short as the time may be. You’ve been cooped up (pun only slightly intended) in your raven form for several weeks now, as your mate has been sent from one mission to the next back to back, hardly any time to catch your breath, let alone free yourself from your feathered body. Now, you can stretch your arms (done enough of stretching your wings, frankly) and relax.

After shifting, of course.

Simon lifts you to his masked face and presses a featherlight kiss to your beak through the material before he sets you on the ground, your talons clicking against the concrete floor. You tilt your head, caw at him quietly, and see the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

“Not goin’ anywhere, lovie, take your time,” he assures you.

He watches you lift your wings and ruffle out your feathers, head shaking, plumage fluffing up. He knows you’re gathering your nerve. You can crow and bay about being stuck in this form all you want (which you do), but actually changing out of it is a different beast to tackle. It makes you anxious, he knows, he understands. If he could take away the pain, he would. Anything that dares to hurt you, he crushes without remorse, but being unable to do so for this one thing is torturous. All he can do is watch, and he hates it.

With as deep of a breath as your little avian lungs can take in, you close your eyes and concentrate. For a second, nothing happens, but then–

It starts with your ribs fracturing, heart growing too large to be contained inside their bony embrace. Your wings lose their feathers, bones stretching and distorting, muscles tearing to reconstruct themselves into the correct shape. Your beak shrinks back, the pure coal shade altering to match your natural skintone, shine reducing, keratin flaking off in large chunks. Your talons scratch at the concrete, legs mangling to develop an anatomy not built to resemble anything birdlike at all. 

It’s a nightmare to witness from start to end. It’s one thing to experience it himself, to feel as his body breaks itself apart to become something else – he’s far too used to experiencing pain – but to see you go through it makes him sick. If only, if only–

Your choked cry distracts him from his swirling thoughts of regret and revenge, and he’s reaching out in an instant to grasp your arms, fingers looping around skin, rather than feathers. He pulls you into his chest, and you go willingly, coughing and groaning as the last of your transformation ebbs away, leaving you bare and shivering. 

The blanket he prepared earlier, thin and shitty but better than nothing, gets thrown over your body, covering most of you, as he murmurs reassurances and praise in that gravely voice of his. It rumbles through him, vibrates past your ribs, into your soul, a kind of soothing comfort that only he can give to you.

“There she is,” he says, rubbing up and down the length of your spine. “There’s my pretty girl.”

You exhale heavily, eyes squeezed shut, chin propped up on his shoulder. “That sucked.”

“I know, swee’eart,” he assures, nuzzling into your jaw. “I know. ‘S over now.”

The pain is gone, long gone, vanished as soon as you wriggled your fingers and toes, but the memory persists, the nausea that swirls in your gut. The nuts and berries he fed you earlier suddenly feel like pebbles in a large lake, not nearly enough to make a ripple in your hunger.

You let him coo at you and coax you down from your stressed state, easing you into his lap, legs thrown over one thigh, back supported by the other that he has upright. He brushes stray strands of hair from your forehead, his mask discarded at his side so he can pepper kisses all over your face, calloused thumbs rubbing across your cheeks over and over.

“Been too long since I’ve seen ya face, birdie,” he tells you, his lips moving against the corner of your mouth. “Almos’ forgot how pretty ya were.”

You snort at him. “Charmer.”

He huffs and kisses your forehead. An arm coils around your waist and tugs you further into him, eliminating as much space as possible between you. With his free hand, the one that’s not drawing shapes into your skin, he reaches into his pack behind him and pulls out a couple granola bars, dropping them onto your lap. You scrabble to get them, tearing open the first package and gnawing on the chunky, stiff food like a dog given a bone.

“‘Oo shoo’d shiff, doo, fish ‘our fea-fers,” you suggest around your meager meal, uncaring of manners.

Simon feels differently, sighing into your hair. “Finish ya bite first, you wally,” he grumbles.

You scowl at him, but do as you’re told, chewing away until it’s safe for you to swallow and not risk choking. “Said, you should shift, too, fix your feathers and stuff. Who knows when you’ll get the chance to preen again?”

The monolith of a man – how did he manage to stuff all that excess…everything into a tiny (subjectively) bird body? phrasing, of course – grunted in disagreement, absentmindedly massaging your hip. “And miss quali’y time with my girl? Not a chance, swee’eart.”

Despite how you playfully roll your eyes, you snuggle into his warmth, breathing in the scent of him. Leather and gunsmoke, eyeblack and faded menthol, cling to him like a second skin. It’s a familiar scent, a safe one; it lets you know that, no matter what, you’ll always be protected, always looked after. He’s right, it’s been too long since you could hold each other like this, coexist in the same space as the same entity.

As if sensing your thoughts, he tilts your chin up so he can press a chaste, precious kiss to your lips. “Missed ya,” he confesses.

“You always see me,” you point out. “Every day.”

“Not like this.”

You chirrup, a reflexive response. He chuckles at your flustered expression, but answers back with a deep trill of his own.

Your eyes close as you lean into him, nosing at his cheek. “And here I thought you got sick of seeing me in this form.”

“Never,” he promises.

inspired by the incredibly lovely @beloveds-embrace's raven!Simon and raven!reader. they've been on my mind a LOT recently, and I have many many thoughts about them. might write more...

[chitcnn]

Ghost who whenever hes on leave at his apartment, hes constantly tortured by the delicious meals his neighbor cooks.

Nearly every night at six, the delicate smell of tomatoes, cheese, spices, meats. It all fills his apartment, a subtle smell that still has ghosts mouth watering. He tries to guess what ur cooking each night, stomach growling in interest.

What he doesnt know is that you also can smell his dinners. Every damn night, some sort of instant Ramen. The occasional frozen pizza before he dissappears for a time, youve noticed. It drives you crazy, because you occasionally see ghost just as hes leaving his apartment or coming back. And he looked tired in the way u know from experience happens when you eat like shit.

So, you take matters into ur own hands.

The next night, ghost hovers around his kitchen, morose to eat more Ramen when delicious food is so close yet so far away. It smells amazing tonight. Like it always does. Just as ghost fills the cup with water, a knock sounds at his door. Tentative but sure.

"Hey," you stand in front of him, an apron pinched around your waist. Ghost reminds himself its rude to eye up a stranger "we've never officially met. Im your neighbor, 23-B. I uhm- i had some plans with friends, but they canceled and ive made way too much food."

The practiced story flows easily from your mouth, and you note how ghost seems to perk up at the mention of ur food. "Usually id just have leftovers, but its alfredo and the sauce is best served fresh. Do you uh- wanna have some?"

Ghost doesnt say anything, but he nods.

Inside your apartment is smells even better. Garlic, parmesean, seasonings he cant quite identify. Its heaven on earth, has his eyes fluttering at just the taste in the air. He watches you finish up the sauce, admires how confident you are in each movement.

Its the best damn food ghost has ever had. You serve him, dont question when he turns around to eat. He does tell you what he thinks though "best fuckin' meal ive had, love."

He insists on doing dishes, "a small thanks. Let me, go sit down." Ghost practically bats you away when you at least try to dry the dishes. When he steps out that night, stomach full and satisfied for once, you bite the bullet.

"I've got some extra steak that needs to be cooked this week. Will you be hear tomorrow?"

Ghost nods, mutters a thanks and ducks back into his apartment. Silently, he wonders if you'd be willing to entertain a date.

[chitcnn]

 𝝑𝑒 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. you accompany sukuna to a meeting with the head of the fujiwara clan. all goes well, until the other concubines mess with your head, causing you to mess up and overthink everything.

tags. true form!sukuna x concubine!reader. prologue to the ‘poisoned concubine’ fic idea. mention of cannibalīsm, subtle misogynistic standards from back then, anxiety. reader gets called ‘woman’. not proof read.

the head of an influential clan would be visiting the estate today, which is why your ladies-in-waiting are currently helping you dress up. perhaps they’re doing too much. the accessories in your hair and the multiple layers of robes and cloth on your body keep weighing you down.

“all done, my lady,” one of them eventually speaks up. the others step back and bow at you politely before cleaning up the area. your head lady-in-waiting hands you a small mirror.

you look stunning. but then again—perhaps a bit too extravagant to your liking. the make-up is heavy, the red powder stands out immediately around the shape of your eyes. the hairpins dangle and make faint clinking noises as you move your head.

“beautifully done. thank you,” you answer with a hum. the jūnihitoe you’re wearing consists of the colors red and gold—something fitting of a high-ranking concubine.

and not just a high-ranking concubine. you’re the ryomen sukuna’s favored concubine.

you grab your folding fan in hand and move out of your chambers when your ladies-in-waiting are prepared for your departure. you’re a bit nervous even though sukuna has held these gatherings many times before (well, against his will; he only does so when he’s certain he’ll gain a satisfying amount of profit).

“you will be the most beautiful woman out there, my lady. i’m sure of it,” the soft voice of your head lady-in-waiting snaps you out of your anxious trance. you tilt your head to the side and flash her a grateful smile. her comment did certainly soothe your fraying nerves.

before you can respond, another one of your attendants speaks up. “those other concubines will be seething with jealousy, my lady,” she giggles quietly, hiding her grin behind her hand.

“i can assure you that they’ll look nowhere as beautiful as you do, as usual,” she adds in a whisper. the three other ladies-in-waiting snicker at the snarky remark.

you have a small itch to scold them for their reckless behavior. shaming another concubine behind her back is strictly forbidden and severely unladylike, though you stay silent. no one is around to reprimand them or you for not teaching your attendants better, so you let them have their little moment.

not like you actually care whether they badmouth the other concubines.

you eventually reach the end of the spacious hallway and come to stand at the top of the grand staircase. you take in a deep breath before looking down at the entrance to the courtyard, where the other concubines are standing.

there at the front is the one and only; sukuna.

the hushed murmurs in the hall fade away as all eyes turn to look up at you. although the only gaze you care about are that of the cursed one.

all four of sukuna’s red eyes are on you. they’re scanning, cold and calculating, like he’s appraising his finest asset. his stoic facial expression doesn’t change as you carefully walk your way down the wooden steps. his eyes, however, never leave your face and body.

the air is heavy with anticipation and as thick as incense smoke. the concubines that are gathered around the king of curses, seeming to have been trying hard to get his attention before you arrived, freeze in place. some can't help but glance your way with poorly veiled disdain or masked envy. you're the last one to arrive and it's clear why: the arrangement of your attire that is almost obviously better in quality than theirs, the coiling in your hair and faint scent of sakura and amber that follows you.

your ladies-in-waiting have been given the finest materials to work with, to prepare you thoroughly for this gathering. the rumors that sukuna had specifically given them everything needed to make sure you're looking your best are proven to be true.

once again, the other women are made aware of the painfully blatant favoritism.

but none of that matters to you. not the whispers, not the glares, not even the sharp inhale of one of the other women at your audacity when you don't even acknowledge their existence. because he is watching.

sukuna, draped in muted reds and dark silks, stands at the forefront like a carving from a fevered dream. towering and immutable. his expression is still unreadable, although his eyes follow you with ruthless precision. those terrible yet beautiful eyes.

they rake over you not like a man admiring beauty, but like a king measuring worth. you feel it in your skin, your throat and your spine. that ancient and oppressive pressure that both threatens to crush you and pull you forward. that push and pull between you two never gets old.

the others notice the palpable tension between king and concubine as well and they're clearly not happy with it. however they have little power to stop it--to speak up against this unfairness.

sukuna's gaze does not falter even once. not as you reach the bottom step, not as you finally meet his stare with one of your own as you stand nearby. it's pure silence for a good five seconds before he speaks up.

“took you a while, woman,” sukuna comments, his voice low and rough. it's not mean, but also not kind or anything close to it. you didn’t expect a compliment from him so the only thing you can do is bow your head in apology.

“my apologies, my lord,” you reply with a steady voice. you ignore the hateful stares from the concubines standing nearby, your eyes on the wooden floors.

sukuna is silent for a moment before a slight and low hum escapes his lips. it’s not much of an acknowledgment to your apology, but it’s enough. he walks past you without much of a word.

except your gaze follows him quietly, and there on his face, only you can notice the slightest curl of his lips. the ghost of that damned satisfied and amused smirk.

you fall in line and slowly walk behind sukuna, on his right side. a brown-haired concubine walks on his left—the other two following. you’re walking down the spacious hallway with elegance, just as is expected of a court lady.

the courtyard is just ahead of you now, the two ornate sliding doors closed and ready to be opened once sukuna gives a sign.

you breathe in slowly through your nose and close your eyes for a good second. you hope nothing goes wrong today, that no one tries to sabotage another.

despite your silent prayers, you’re sure at least on of those women surrounding you will try to embarrass you.

the doors to the courtyard open, revealing the familiar sight of the gardens. you keep your eyes low and fall into pace with the others. however, you can’t help but sneak glances at sukuna’s back.

you know he isn’t fond of having any humans around his estate. they’re usually food for him, or entertainment, before he kills them. you wonder what is going on through his head. if he doesn’t reach a satisfying deal with the fujiwara clan head today, he might just get rid of him. or take out his annoyance on one of the poor servants.

well, the only thing you can do is hope all goes well.

the gardens are as beautiful as ever. the only thing that has been changed to it is the raised lacquered platform with a long low wooden table on it. multiple tatami mats are placed in two rows on each side of the table. one side for the fujiwara clan and the other for sukuna and his concubines.

you’re not surprised to see that the fujiwara clan head is accompanied by his own concubines. even if it’s not spoken out loud, you know it’s a show of power by both sides. the more concubines or courtesans, the more authority and prestige someone holds.

you shiver as you feel a pair of eyes on you. four eyes, staring right at your soul. you immediately lower your gaze once you sense that flicker of dominance, coming from none other than the king of curses. he doesn’t have to directly look at you to be able to scare the soul out of you.

the unspoken threat that passes between sukuna and you is clear; look at that man for a second longer and he dies.

the pink-haired man doesn’t even greet the guests, simply walking to the elevated platform and sitting down on the mat laid out at the head of the table. he doesn’t care—doesn’t bother to talk about anything that isn’t business. he wants those humans gone as soon as possible.

you and the other concubines follow wordlessly. none of you dare to speak up without permission. not that you have any say in the matter. this is a deal between two powerful men and your opinion as a consort isn’t going to be valued much.

you sit on your knees, the cushion comfortable enough to keep you in that position for some time. you fold your hands over your silky robes and keep your head bowed slightly.

“speak,” sukuna grumbles. he’s bored already, not even giving the other man a chance to introduce himself properly. he wants to get straight to the point to prevent losing time on nonsense.

“and make it quick,” he adds as his red eyes bore onto the clan head.

the noble man is taken aback from the coldness and intimidation, clearly swearing a bit already. he’s heard the rumors—of others who’ve sought just a friction of sukuna’s power to help them, only to end up six feet under without getting a chance.

eventually, he clears his throat and speaks. “i humbly thank you for—“

“i said speak.”

a loud crash is heard and it startles nearly everyone around. you flinch but don’t lift your gaze to investigate. you could hear it—the sound of glass scattering down on the floor. a nearby vase scattered. one that was right behind the clan head. it’s a clear threat. a warning to not piss sukuna off even more.

to tread carefully.

you’re used to sukuna’s little outbursts. he’s an impatient man after all. small talk and too much ‘fake’ gratitude irks him. it wastes his time.

the noble man and his consorts squirm in discomfort in their seats, but try to not cause any more ruckus. the vase is already being cleaned up by uraume—their face expressionless as they wordlessly clean up after their master.

and so the actual deal starts to be negotiated. this time with absolute zero small talk.

sukuna isn’t interested and it’s clear. his answers are curt and straightforward, while the clan head does most of the talking and bargaining, mainly getting rejected for his offers.

the tension is heavy in the air. you and the others are basically decoration at this point. pretty dolls with not a say in the matter. no one dares to look around or move.

only when the king of curses finally and reluctantly accepts a single offer, do you breathe. the clan head would grant him full authority over a big area while also sending him sacrifices (which includes humans) every month. in exchange, sukuna would take care of a small problem.

that being assassinating the clan head’s competition, the man’s own brother.

you didn’t even realise how much you’re sweating until the noble man excuses himself to talk to one of his consorts. you look to the side, at sukuna, who’s eyes are already on you.

you’re about to glance back down at your lap when one of his calloused fingers tugs your chin back up. your mouth parts lightly as his rough thumb tugs your bottom lip down, watching it bob back into place once he lets go.

the red lipstick stains his skin, though he doesn’t seem to care.

“are you satisfied with the deal i accepted?” sukuna asks. it’s a trick question, his eyes cold and calculating as he awaits your response.

you swallow thickly before answering, “whatever satisfies you, satisfies me in return, my lord.”

the king of curses smirks. for the first time since you’ve seen him today, he shows an ounce of amusement. he lets go of your chin with a soft shove. “clever,” he comments gruffly.

though it doesn’t seem like it, he’s in a better mood. so much so he orders uraume to prepare a meal. not for the guests—they’re expected to leave immediately. he has no use for them anymore.

uraume bows politely before disappearing into the main building. a few attendants follow them to the kitchen area.

the noble man and his concubines take their leave. neither did they want to linger in the presence of such a cruel monster, who’d kill them with a single flick if they didn’t watch themselves.

the other concubines seem less on edge as well once the guests leave and sukuna seems to be in a somewhat better mood. they know it’s because of you, have seen and heard your little interaction from the sidelines. it irritates and angers them, though they know better than to let it be visible.

the brown-haired concubine whispers to the one next to her. that same woman relies the message to the other and the cycle continues for a few seconds. except for those hushed murmurs, the gardens are comfortably silent.

sukuna doesn’t seem to care much. his focus is on the delicious meal that uraume is preparing him, his fingers drumming against the table as he waits. almost impatiently.

his hard gaze flickers to you again, as it does many times. he did well ordering your attendants to dress you in the finest silk.

“keep that on tonight,” sukuna says shamelessly, his words dripping with innuendo. in other words; he’ll visit your chambers again tonight.

not the others, but you. again.

the concubines fall silent and their faces are masks of polite smiles, but they’re fuming internally. all the while you’re trying not to look embarrassed by sukuna’s bold comment.

“understood,” you answer with a short nod. your heart is beating faster as you try not to show your nervosity. his eyes are clearly undressing you, imagining what you’d taste like. both figuratively and literally.

while you wait for your meal, you look around idly. one of the concubines had called over her attendant and whispers something in her ear. you can’t catch what it is, but the young girl seems to be a bit taken aback. her eyes flicker to sukuna for a split second.

perhaps with concern.

but just as quickly, she’s gone, back inside the building with a hurry in her steps. you shake the feeling off. it’s probably nothing.

you take a deep breath to calm yourself. you’re overthinking everything again—the anxiety becoming worse as the concubines flash you smiles when you glance their way. those same fake smiles they give you whenever sukuna is around. despite the fact that you’re used to it, they seemed more sinister than usual.

perhaps it’s just your imagination.

your palms start to get sweaty when you don’t even know why you’re getting so worked up about something so subtle. that look that attendant gave sukuna, even if it was for a split second, was your first sign. and then the smiles, the muffled laughs they hide behind their fans. behind the disguise of inaudible jokes between fellow concubines . . .

what are they planning this time? are they going to try something foolish to mess with you again? or perhaps they’ll try something else this time.

. . . surely they won’t be foolish enough to try and do something to sukuna? no, of course not. they don’t have that much power or the abilities to cause any damage to someone of his status. plus, they’d be signing their own deaths with that. but if something happens to him, you won’t be save either.

it’s too much. you’re overthinking too much.

without hesitation, you stand up. you need to go somewhere to calm down, because at this rate you’re going to embarrass yourself with the concern and fear etched onto your face. all the while you try your best to keep that elegance in your form, the polite smile on your lips.

“please excuse me,” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady. you bow your head at sukuna, who’s watching you intensely with a raised brow. he didn’t expect you to excuse yourself without permission.

before he can say a thing, you’re walking down the main gravel path to the building. all eyes are on you until you disappear behind those doors. the concubines hide their victorious grins behind their folding fans, eyes downcast.

sukuna however, doesn’t show much emotion on his face at your sudden departure. the thrumming of his fingers stop soon after and he clicks his tongue.

he doesn’t know what you’re up to and it’s annoying him. he’s got this urge to keep you beside him at all times so he can keep an eye on you. just like you’re expected to do as his concubine.

what you did just now was an act of defiance. he should’ve ordered you to stay, but something inside him just let you go. to give you the illusion that you had a choice.

sooner or later you’ll return and grovel before him, apologising for your actions and explaining what the hell that was for. when that time comes, he’ll be even more ruthless with his punishment. will show you that defying him has its consequences, even for someone he tolerates. favors.

but when the minutes pass by and you’re still not back, his anger flares up. he tells himself it’s because you disobeyed him by leaving without a word. but a tiny part inside him, the one he loathes and never shows, hates the fact that you left his side more. the fact that he has this ugly possessive need to drag you back outside just so he can keep an eye on what you’re up to.

you belong to him—you’re a part of him. therefore you cannot ever leave him. even if it’s for a second or five minutes.

“damned woman.”

sukuna curses under his breath and slams his palm against the table loudly. he stands up, his large and intimidating frame unfolding to his full 7”’ height. he’s greatly displeased. displeased at the fact you defied him, that he allowed you to actually step foot inside the building and away from him.

but also angry that he has to chase after you. because he has this urge to find out what has gotten into you—the usually obedient, though fiery, concubine that wouldn’t just leave him behind like this.

the pink-haired man storms off, his crimson eyes flaring with anger that scares the concubines left behind into silence. the look in their eyes turns from fear to pure hatred once sukuna disappears behind those doors to go after you.

to have the ryomen sukuna basically chase after someone - not with the intention to kill them or actually harm them - never happens. they cannot believe it. that blatant favoritism never stops, no matter how much they try to gain his attention.

why does he keep them around, like prisoners, when he doesn’t even as much as look at them?

it pisses them off. it fuels their hatred, not only for you, but for him.

however, they calm down as they think of what they have planned amongst themselves;

if all goes well, it’ll be the first and last time sukuna seeks you out - or anyone else for that matter.

[chitcnn]

ever since i was a little girl i knew i wanted to isolate myself before others could exclude me

[chitcnn]

(this was inspired by the amazing @rawme-price ‘s royal!141 x war prize!reader!! Give him lots of love his works are absolutely incredible and so good 😩😩)

You were a prize of war, draped not in glory but in silence.

The day you were taken, the sun bore down mercilessly over your city’s broken gates, golden rays glinting off the broken helms and blood-slicked stone. The standards of your house- a serpent coiled around a silver chalice- burned upon every rampart. They’d taken everything: your home, your siblings, your legacy. All that remained of your royal lineage was a fine silk collar looped around your throat, a mark of your new station: property.

Not quite a prisoner, and not quite a guest.

They had taken you not for vengeance, though, but for ornamentation:

You were not dragged before the court in chains, nor paraded through the capital square as spoils. No. You were wrapped in silks and shadow, ferried through the marbled halls of the foreign palace like a prized sculpture- set atop a pedestal to be admired, pitied, perhaps touched, but never truly regarded. A concubine, they called you. A gift for the conquering King, a diplomatic token meant to warm his sheets and soothe his ego. But you were not soft like a prize. You were steel beneath velvet, and no man- especially not him- had thought to test your edge.

When you arrived at the palace gates, escorted by a pair of silver-clad guards, you expected confinement. Chains and surveillance. You expected to be summoned and summoned again, demanded of until you broke. But instead… they left you mostly alone.

There were rooms prepared for you- lavish chambers perfumed with foreign incense, mirrors taller than doors, baths warm with honeyed water- but no one came. No handmaidens lingered long. No courtiers whispered seductions or threats. You were given a name in the servants’ registry and little else.

Perhaps it was arrogance. That you, a silken shadow of a fallen house, posed no real threat. Or perhaps it was that none of them could see you clearly- not through the cloud of war, not through their own entanglements.

You were not their type, you quickly realized. Too quiet to entertain, and too proud to beg. And far too observant for the comfort of men who ruled through secrets and shadows.

Your presence made them uneasy, but not enough to stop them.

So they left you in peace, and like ivy in a forgotten garden wall, you grew wherever the stone gave way.

They were always busy with one another anyway.

King Price was a broad-shouldered monarch with a voice like flint striking steel, a man of battlefield charisma, not courtly grace. He ruled from a sun-drenched throne room hung with deep maroon banners and a mosaic floor of golden lions and azure wolves. On either side of him were his closest men- men you quickly learned were far more than advisors, more than knights, more than lovers of the realm.

They were each other’s.

Ghost, because you weren’t given any other name to call him by, was a thing carved from smoke and steel. He haunted the corridors in silver-threaded armor and scary bone-pale cloaks, his face masked and unreadable, his eyes like bottomless ink. He spoke rarely and only when necessary, deep and deliberate, every word a spear. You often saw him standing unmoving beneath the porticoes or looming behind the King like a silent omen. He noticed everything. You learned quickly to avoid meeting his eyes unless you wished to be studied like prey.

Soap, in contrast, was fire given form. He laughed like thunder over water, all teeth and mirth, his kilted form easy in every room. He danced through politics like he did through swordplay: reckless, sharp, and victorious. The nobles loved him, the servants adored him, and yet even his joy was a blade. You watched him, this flame-tongued warrior, wield charm and chaos as weapons. He made you uneasy, but not for the reasons one would expect. It was his brilliance you feared, not his touch.

Gaz was quieter than both, but you knew never less dangerous. His gaze flicked too quickly to be read, his thoughts fast-moving beneath the surface. He communicated in nods, in looks, in the press of his mouth and the sharpness of his shoulders. You caught him watching sometimes, not in lust but in curiosity- as though trying to read a passage he hadn’t expected in the book of war. He often lingered in the libraries. Sometimes, you found his annotations beside your own. The unspoken dialogue began there, but you didn’t dare consider yourselves allies, much less friends.

They were rulers in all but name, lovers in all but confession, bound to each other in something deeper than oaths. You were irrelevant to them then. But time- time would change that as patiently as water eroded the cliffs.

They moved around each other with the familiarity of shared campaigns, shared wounds, shared beds. It was no secret. Not even whispered. The palace knew. The court knew. You knew, from the very first night you arrived and wandered too far in silk slippers, only to hear the unmistakable sounds of pleasure echoing behind a half-opened door. It certainly wasn’t your name they moaned, and it wasn’t your skin they touched.

You were a relic, a prize kept on a shelf, unbothered, unwanted.

Which suited you just fine, because they let you roam- perhaps assuming your silence meant submission.

You slipped through their world like a ghost, always in the background, always silent. You learned the layout of the palace quickly, and found the best corridors for avoiding the guards, the quietest corners of the library, the sunniest courtyard to sit in when the day was soft and the wind carried the perfume of the citrus groves.

But silence, in truth, is the perfect vantage for listening.

And listen you did.

You sat in on council meetings when no one noticed your presence, tucked behind pillars and veiled behind sheer drapes. You learned of failing grain routes, corrupted tax collectors, nobles whose coffers jingled with coin minted in enemy nations. You listened to a young Lord boast of “diversifying” with investments in your fallen house’s overseas mines. You heard a noble Lady laugh about how many of her letters made it past the border through “trusted hawks.” Trusted hawks who worked for other kingdoms. Corruption ran smoother than the wine they indulged in.

And King Price… didn’t know.

The thought struck you odd and cold: he fought wars to protect this realm and yet knew nothing of the rot within it. A man can’t guard against betrayal if he doesn’t even know it’s in the room.

You said nothing until you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

One night, you stepped into his war chamber, where torchlight spilled across parchment seas and carved lions guarded the windows. He stood at the map table, sleeves rolled to elbows, neck glistening with sweat. His crown was absent, but the weight of it was still there in his posture.

“Your Majesty.” You said, and your voice was a clean knife through the stillness.

He looked up sharply, surprised not by your presence but by your tone.

You stepped forward, and for the first time since your capture, you let your tongue free and told him everything, the long accumulation of knowledge and fury curling like embers in your gut, too dangerous to burn, too volatile to ignore. Until at last the words clawed their way from you like smoke from a smothered fire.

And you told him. Every name; every treason. You recited them with the cold precision of an executioner: the barons laundering coin through offshore holdings once controlled by your House; the grain merchants funneling stock to rival kingdoms; the bastard son of a northern lord who posed as a loyal knight while his letters begged asylum across the border.

You spoke of ciphered routes your mother had crafted, letters tucked into false bookbindings, the bribery systems perfected over decades. You told him things he did not know- not because he was ignorant, but because his court had made him blind.

He said nothing. But the others began to arrive.

Ghost materialized from the shadowed alcove like a summoned revenant. He did not speak, only watched, his body tense with awareness, and Soap strode in halfway through, still armed, a cloak flung carelessly behind him. He leaned against the stone hearth but didn’t interrupt. Gaz entered last, quietly standing neside Ghost, hands behind his back, listening intently.

You stood before the four pillars of the kingdom- untouched, unclaimed, and now undeniably seen. You poured poison like wine, and they drank every drop.

By the end, Price’s knuckles were white on the edge of the map and his voice was more gravel than human:

“Why tell me this now?”

You looked at him, all the tired regality of your bloodline pressed into your spine. “Because my family is dead. And they don’t deserve their secrets kept.”

From that night forward, you were no longer just a prize.

You became something else: not a concubine, not a captive, but a whisper in the King’s ear; a blade turned inward; the rot-teller; the court’s living reminder that shadows bloom even in marble gardens. A walking threat to anyone in the court who thought their sins were buried too deep to be dug out.

They didn’t name you as such, of course. They couldn’t- not in court, not in record. But your presence at meetings became expected. When the King entered the council chamber, you followed. When reports arrived from the border, he read them aloud for your eyes. When suspects were named, your opinion was the blade that tipped justice’s hand.

And suddenly, the court began to fear you.

They whispered that you were a sorceress whom had enchanted their King. That the bloodline of your House had carried poisons in its tongue. That you bewitched the lions of the realm. That perhaps, perhaps, the fall of your kingdom was not the end of your reign- but only its metamorphosis.

Your new home stood higher than the falconers’ roosts, wreathed in mist and paper flowers (bougainvillea). Its terrace overlooked the rose gardens, where nobles strolled with masks of silk and secrets, and the sparring fields where sweat and metal still ruled over perfume and lies. You were given robes of maroon and pearl, the kingdom’s colors, though no sigil adorned your breast. You bore no crest. You were still, technically, a concubine. But no one dared call you so now.

The collar was gone, too.

And thus, they… began to look:

John’s eyes lingered, not in lust, but in something slower, a tension made of weight and wonder and want. Simon began appearing more often in your path, his silences thicker but more comfortable, his proximity intentional. Johnny’s flirtations sharpened, no longer jokes but invitations- his fingers brushing yours beneath council tables, his laugh darker, hungrier. Kyle spoke to you so often in the garden, bringing citrus fruits, asking about old customs, foreign songs, little things- anything to draw more of you into the light, into his lap and arms.

They looked at you like men who had conquered nations and found, at last, something unconquered; something they no longer wished to ignore. They watched you the way lions watch a lamb- strange, sharp, other, but so greedy to sink their maw into.

And slowly, the dynamic shifted.

Their devotion to one another remained- unyielding, unspoken, forged in blood and loyalty. But you had become something they could not and did not want to ignore. Your insight was a blade none of them had ever wielded, your presence a quiet gravity that drew their eyes before their thoughts could catch up. You were intelligence made tangible, sharp where others dulled, and though they had not touched you, they had long since ceased to overlook you.

So the harem grew, though it remained unspoken of. You were not meant to be their equal, and yet you still became it not through seduction, but through strategy and dominion.

And when at last one of them reached for you with quiet, reverent hands, it was not out of pity. it was worship. Lust so hot it bordered on sinfulness, for you were not their first love but you became their favorite sin.

In the court of lions, you had been a lamb.

But lambs, too, can learn to bare their teeth. That is what you think as you feel hot, heady kisses pressed against your nape, your naval, the small of your back and between your thighs, a crown tilting dangerously on your head until hands fix it back in place.

[chitcnn]

Reader who is the only one to see ghosts face, and is adamant that he is handsome.

The guys know you saw ghosts face the day it happens, because on the humvee ride you're already gushing about it. Ghost is in the second humvee, so he cant even defend his honor while you hold soap, gaz, and some extras captive with ur story. "Hes pretty and handsome, okay? The kind of guy who you double-take and whisper to your mates about."

Ghost doesnt catch wind about your lowkey obsession with his face until you start calling him handsome in regular conversation. "Pardon me, handsome, gotta get past." Or "hey handsome pass me the salt."

You dont think much of it, because ghost is good looking and ur sure hes heard it plenty of times. Still, whenever you say it ghosts muscles tense up and he frowns. You think hes maybe shy, but soap is more attuned and noticed the anger for what it is. Thing is, soap has no idea why ghost would be pissed about it, so he leaves it alone.

Which means ur pretty damn shocked while out with the guys at a bar, and ghost fucking snaps. Ur in the middle of telling gaz hes isnt actually the resident pretty boy "nah, man! You should see ghosts face, he puts you to shame. Pretty pink lips and long lashes, perfect facial structure-"

Ghost grabs you by the arm and bodily hauls you out the back door. The others send worried glances to eachother, but figure its fine. "I really dont fuckin' appreciate you mocking me, sergeant." Ghost growls the second the door slams closed.

"What?" You ask, brows furrowed "Ghost, I ain't mocking you! It's like- okay to be pretty, yknow that right? Its not a bad thing-"

"Its not that!" Ghost cuts you off before you can start rambling about toxic masculinity. He reaches up, pulls his balaclava off to scrub a hand over his face. "Im not fuckin' pretty! Im not handome. I dont look good"

He motions to his face, as if proof enough. But all you can do is smile up at him, face heating when his intense gaze turns to you. Ghost has a strong face, distinct cheekbones and deepest eyes. Pretty link lips that peel up around scars to reveal set teeth and gums, rivers over his skin where injuries have long healed. You cant help it, you smile and reach up a hand reverently to catch his jaw.

"God. Youre beautiful." You hum, and ghost seems a bit shocked by just how genuine you sound. "Face like this? I'm surprised youre not a model."

"...Youre not lyin'?" He asks tentatively. When you just coo, ghost blushes and looks away. Now youve got to spend extra time convincing him how pretty he is! Can't have a man like that thinking hed ugly.

[chitcnn]

They say you're their wife

The soldier sneers at you, your rejection stinging his ego.

"Listen here you bitch, you think you're hot shit?"

You rolled your eyes, "Just move on, I said no."

"Everyone knows why they call you Mama, fucking wh-"

Captain Price's deep voice cuts in, "What's going on here then?"

It's Gaz that steers you away and into John's office. Ghost and Soap are there on the couch leg to leg. The 141 does in fact call you Mama, you just figured it was because you well mothered them. Alway on them about making sure to eat or if they'd drank any water.

You've heard the real reason three days ago. Drunken voices in the hall, soldiers taking about things they shouldn't. About how the 141 thinks of you as their wife, how they want to knock you up, how they're sharing you amongst themselves.

They've never done anything to you though. Not so much as holding your hand, so it couldn't be true, could it? You were just one of the bases secretary's, sat at the front office. It's true you've been seeing them more and more. Needless to say, you're very confused.

[chitcnn]

To the end - Masterpost

The end of the world as you knew it began with the virus spreading in your dorm. Six months later, you are once again on the run. By your side is Sukuna, the bad boy of your camp, the most unlikely companion you expected. But maybe this is exactly as it should be because sometimes hope comes in the form of a smug smirk and a tattooed pair of sword-yielding arms.

Sukuna x Reader (female) | Zombie Apocalypse AU | 18+ | Warnings in chapter descriptions | Minors don't interact

Story: Chapter 1 ++ Chapter 2 ++ Chapter 3 ++ Chapter 4 ++ Chapter 5 ++ Chapter 6 ++ Chapter 7

Inspiration: Fanart: Sukuna Playlist: Zombie Apocalypse

Chapter 1: ++ Bodies by Drowning Pool ++ Haunted House by DBMK

Chapter 2: ++ Twisted by Missio ++ The End by JPOLND ++ beetlejuicebeetlejuicebeetlejuice by Life After Youth

Chapter 3: ++ Happy Birthday by The Birthday Massacre ++ Kill4Me by Marilyn Manson

Chapter 4: ++ Party at the end of the world by My Chemical Romance

Chapter 5: ++ Running up that hill by Placebo ++ The ghost of you by My Chemical Romance ++ The jetset life is gonna kill you by My Chemical Romance

Chapter 6: ++ American Blood by Dead Poet Society ++ Soda by Nothing but Thieves ++ Like Fear like Love by The Birthday Massacre ++ Real Love Song by Nothing but Thieves

Chapter 7: ++ Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex ++ Painkiller by Nothing but Thieves ++ Driven like the snow by Sisters of Mercy ++ To the end by My Chemical Romance

[chitcnn]

12 year old you who babysat 6 year old Sukuna, the shy, scrawny bullied kid with neglectful parents. Also your neighbour btw. You'd stand up for him and even taught him to stand up for himself.

But then he moved away and you never saw him again.

Fast forward 18 years later and he's one of the youngest MMA champion who credits you for how far he's gotten.

The first time he won the championship, he tore the mic out of the referee's hands, stared straight into the camera and went "Hey if you're watching this, this is for you. All of this is for you."

[chitcnn]

Had this idea rolling around my head for weeks, but couldn't word it right.... anyways, God of death!reader anyone???

Reader, who finds soap in the narrows of Las Almas. Youre standing over the body of a mother and child, shot dead. Soap assumes you to be another shadow and tries to stab you, only for his blade to pass clean through. When you look at him, your face his covered in shadow even under the beam of his flashlight. He knows, from the very atmosphere around you, that you are not human. That youre something more, something powerful.

"Johnny mactavish." He jerks when you speak his name, the voice coming from inside his head "we must move quickly. Graves will spare no soul"

So you lead him through the streets. Your presence looms over the city, fills the buildings and blankets thicker than rain. In the church, ghost is meeting you too, though not for the first time.

In the stolen truck soap finally asks what you are. "You know what I am. Death." Its simple, no embellishments. No thunder or sense of dread when your name is spoken.

"Why are you here? What do you want from us?"

Mortals. Always curious, it makes you smile in a way that has static purring in the back of their minds. "I dont appreciate men who push my domain. I take my time, I will arrive when I am meant to. What's happening here..." your voice draws back a bit, floats and shifts as if debating your words "...is not my design. The man you call graves presumes my will. Fills my basket with unripe fruit."

Dark crouds around the truck, night pushing close. "I dont appreciate it. You, you will stop him. I will make sure of it."

[chitcnn]

JEALOUS!WOLF READER PART 3 ... AND MY LIFE WILL BE YOURS!!!!

(Previous part here, part one here)

"...what."

Its the only thing you can think to say, mind stuttering at the completely wild accusation soap just threw at you.

"What, shocked someone finally called you on it?" Gaz cuts in, stepping slightly in front of soap. You just stare at him, confused. One second youre getting kicked out and the next youre being confronted about something you aren't even aware of.

"Called me on what? What have I done? I genuinely dont know!" You, ironically, feel a bit like ur being cornered by a pack of wolves. Gaz just raises a brow, arms folding over his chest.

"Called on the fact that you hate hybrids."

What?

"What the actual fuck?" You cant even focus on the anxiety at the back of ur mind. Fucking appalled at gazs statement. You look desperately at ghost and price, but they hold no sympathy. "Hate hybrids? What the fuck would make you think that?"

"Dont play dumb. On the heli ride back from those traffickers. Soap was just getting some head pats, as he should, and you were glaring at him the whole time. Then you looked at me as if expecting me to share your disgust."

"...no way." Your voice is quiet, replaying all these days of suffering you've been through. "I wasnt fucking glaring at soap! I was jealous because he was getting head pats and I wasnt! Yknow, because im a wolf hybrid!"

Your little outburst shocks gaz. His eyes are wide, and you can see in real time as realization then regret dawns on him. "...wait. so- so all these times you've been staring at soap since then? Or shoulder checking him in the halls?"

"I was just a bit jealous and trying to playfight. You guys are always indulging his instincts, and I thought itd be a good way to get rid of whatever was making him avoid me." Now its you who crosses your arms.

"You seriously thought I was what- some kind of bigot? Because you assumed i had a problem with soap?" Gaz has the decency to look sheepish, and as u turn ur glare to ghost and price they glance away nervously. "You couldn't even fucking ask me if that was true?"

"I've been suffering for weeks! I thought my fucking pack was rejecting me! Do you know how horrible ive felt? Because of a misunderstanding that you couldn't be bothered to sort out even when I asked?!"

A growl, unbidden, crawls up your throat. You feel elated that this was all a misunderstanding, and at the same time furious. You cant decide whether to stew in ur anger to to be happy ur pack still wants you.

In the end anger wins, and u storm off back to ur room, ignoring when soap calls your name.

It doesnt help. Ur room is just as depressing as its been since the incident. Den torn up and circle paced onto the floor. You ignore it, crawl into the tatters of your bed and lay there. No desire to leave, no desire to sleep.

[chitcnn]

Please please please please expand on the immortal!reader series, it’s such an interesting take on immortality!

So, immortal!reader has experienced pain beyond anything a normal person could ever survive, right? If theres a way to be hurt, you've felt it.

Which means your pain tolerance is through the fucking roof, and as a side affect so is your reference for what others consider painful. Ur not totally unaware, but you kind of think a sprained wrist or fractured rib is just above normal pain.

This misunderstanding is realized by the team in the most unfortunate way. Everyone is slowly coming to terms with ur immortality, and you still run drills and exercises with them, right? Well price decides everyone needs more practice sparring. He pairs you against soap and says "now dont hold back, alright?" After you had mentioned how you tend to go light on spars.

You nod, and price assumes youll maybe start taking it seriously. He expects ghost levels of combat, if hes honest. He does not expect for you to bully ur way into soaps space, sweep his feet out, and fucking stomp on his chest.

A loud crack is overshadowed by soaps pained shout. In an instant hands are on you pulling you back, and price is yelling at someone to get a medic. When he sees gaz dip down to comfort soap, all of prices anger turns to you. "What the bloody hell was that?!"

"What?!" Youre instantly on the defensive, hackles raised from how ghost is restraining you. "You fuckin told me not to hold back! Its not like I punctured a lung or anything, thats just a fracture!"

"just a bloody fracture?" Price looks back at where soap is breathing labouredly, hand in a death grip over gazs wrist. Your captain looks back at you with a thick layer of disappointment and contempt "if thats what you think is normal conduct for a spar, you leave me no choice but to bench you from further training. You dont talk to or aid subordinates, you dont train with peers, you dont touch anyone without my say so first. Got it?"

A sick feeling crawls up your chest. Youre not stupid and neither is price, training is basically 90% of social life outside of ops. Hes basically making you a social outcast, and you cant even blame him. Not with the way soap somehow still hasn't recovered, guilt curls around you at how much pain he seems to be in. With a nod, you cast your gaze down.

"Affirmative, captain."

[chitcnn]

maybe that fictional man is evil to you. to me he holds me and caresses me and loves me and has incredible sex with me. he’s still evil, i just wanted you to know that we fuck freaky style

[chitcnn]

Ladies want dragons and then complain when they bring their ancient cursed relics everywhere

(My OCs Drahan and Sylfri)

[chitcnn]

you guys: pls pls post chapter 8 of turning page

me with all the deer!reader blurbs I stuffed in my mouth:

[chitcnn]

(mdni) geto, who often has to flip his hair back like he's in a shampoo commercial because it gets in the way so frequently. It's not uncommon for you to shy away from the tickling sensation whilst he's trying to fuck into you, but you also can't help but be envious of how much healthier his hair is compared to yours

geto, who enjoys shower sex. He loves pressing you against the cold tiles and loves hearing you hiss at the cold sensation paired with his thrusts. He eventually grows confused when you fall silent, looking up from the sight of his cock thrusting into you, just to see you making shapes with his hair that is plastered to the wall

geto, who has to stop fucking you during sex when his music turns off to play a Grammarly ad. You can feel him softening inside of you as you both lay in silence, waiting for the ad to end

geto, who accidentally knocks over some scented candles when trying to change positions with you. The hot wax splashes him, and you both freeze after a pleasure-filled moan leaves the man

geto, who attempts hypnotism with you one day. The evening ends with you working out his past trauma with a certain white-haired, blue-eyed individual. He never tries hypnotism again

geto, who gently coaxes his slender fingers down your throat. Your eyes grow hazy once he slides the digits down your soft tongue, pressing down whilst tilting your chin upwards. He has to stop once the rings he's forgotten to take off clink painfully against your teeth

geto, who's not as seductive as he looks sometimes

[chitcnn]

refocus pt. 2

early access + nsfw on patreon monster!AU masterpost