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petit-etoile · 8 months

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everything i see, everything i feel (you are my universe)

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 8746 content warnings: astarion is not a vampire nor ascended & tav is not the dark urge but i use pet names from his ascended route because i think they fit & some of the dark urge connections are necessary, brief mention of tav being raised as a child soldier by gortash, tav is gender neutral, nearly 8k of pure smut other tags: alternate universe - royalty, character study, porn with plot, dom/sub undertones, mi.ssionary style, do.ggy style, riding, cr.eampie, marriage proposal, sort of archiveofourown: here. note: depending on reception & if i have time, there may be a part two or a prequel. i ended coming up with lore for this verse so i like it a lot. summary: ‘We are the Prince and his Shield,’ Astarion tells you sweetly, voice melodic in your ear. ‘This will be our world. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we will do as we are meant to do.’

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You can already tell what kind of evening it will be just from the way Astarion looks at you from beneath his eyelashes, so coy and pretty and unabashed in the way he glances over you. Whatever happened tpday at court has pleased him. He practically purrs when he steps past you to enter the sanctuary of his expansive bedroom.

‘You’ll come,’ he murmurs, ‘won’t you, darling?’

You’ll play his game because he likes it. You keep your lips pressed together in a firm line despite the way his hand slides gracefully across your waist, warming the chainmail that you wear dutifully every day so that you can keep the crown prince safe. He pouts when you pretend to not notice the playful mood he’s in. And when you change your mind after only a few minutes, Astarion will wear the same mischievous frown and think he has claimed victory over you once more.

You recite your vows to yourself to keep your mind from wandering, but it’s difficult. I am the Sword of the Crown, the Shield of the Realm. I serve no one but the Rightful King, the First of His Name, the Soul of Truth, Astarion Ancunin. It’s…admittedly hard to remember the rest. You’re distracted by the most impure thoughts. Memories of nights before. The taste of him on your tongue, the feel of him between your thighs, the sight of him as he grinds above you, the gleam of his skin as dawn begins to creep over the horizon. You squeeze your thighs together and try to wait out at least five minutes before you cave.

You peek down the hallway. There are no other guards skulking around at night. You’re not technically supposed to leave your post, but if the prince commands it… Well, it’s an excuse. You rush inside before you can feel the call of your valor and close the door after you with a soft click. Astarion sits with his legs crossed at the edge of his bed. He grins. It’s almost as predictable as you are, but you would never admit it.

‘You called, my prince?’ you ask carefully, trying to keep your tone even.

‘I did,’ he says with a delicate shrug. ‘I thought I could use entertainment, and you were there…’

You smile beneath your helm. You were always there. Astarion tries to hide it a little too much, but there’s no one else he would seek out to keep him entertained when his mood is like this. He tries to play into the expectations everyone has of him. That he’s ambitious, unpredictable, easy to rile up. The truth of the matter is that Astarion longs for you in a way that he will never admit except into the curls of your hair when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. You care for him — love him — and there’s nothing you adore more than the way he laughs around you as though you were born for him and him alone.

‘I take it the court wasn’t too uneventful,’ you say.

He grimaces. ‘I saw Lord Gortash, unfortunately. I believe the sight of him has ruined my week.’

‘So cruel,’ you hum. You touch the buckles of your cape and release it from your bodice.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Astarion asks defensively, playfully.

You touch the latch of your armor. ‘He’s head of the city guard.’

‘I ought to fire him,’ the prince says darkly. ‘Hire a new one.’

‘Who would protect the city instead?’

‘You,’ Astarion says without pause.

‘Alas, I am duty bound to serve the prince,’ you disagree. You pull the weight of your chest piece off your shoulders and drop it to the floor. ‘How can I serve the city when my mind is filled with nothing but you?’

Astarion smiles, a true smile. ‘Oh, you honor me. You truly mean every word.’

‘Without question,’ you promise.

You think about kneeling before him and looking up at him, but your chest piece is still in the way. You pull and untangle and twist until it all slides to the floor, leaving you in a simpler top. His honor, a single white rose, is pinned to the front of your shirt. You can still remember the day he gave it to you, the day you knelt in the throne room and he pressed his sword to your shoulder to claim you.

‘You are mine,’ Astarion says slowly.

‘I am yours,’ you repeat fondly.

‘Until the end of time?’

‘Until the end.’

‘And,’ Astarion begins playfully, ‘if I asked you to please me?’

‘I would be duty bound,’ you reply.

‘Then may I ask you to please me?’ he murmurs, eyes dangerous.

Astarion practically preens under your careful attention, his eyes unwavering as he watches you. You take your time. You remove the rest of your armor slowly, savoring the hungry way he watches. Even in court when you are his shadow, Astarion barely hides it. The hunger. The longing. The darkest of desires. He would claim you in public if it wouldn’t be a scandal.

You lower yourself before him, groveling on your hands and knees. You place your head in his lap and sigh when he threads his fingers through your hair. These are the moments you live for. When he is no longer a prince and you are no longer a knight. You are you, and Astarion is Astarion.

You don’t have to wonder where his mind is. Not during times like these. He’s anxious to feel you, but you take your time in this. You slip his fancy boots from his feet then take your time undoing his belts and buttons, sliding everything down his lean legs with careful intent. His cock greets you, already half hard and growing still.

It still makes you nervous, deep down inside. Astarion is a prince and the pinnacle of perfection. He could have any duke or duchess he wanted, yet it’s you he takes care of when the standing watch for hours on end from dusk til dawn has caused your bones to grow weary. The least you could do is love him like this. You lean forward and kiss the side of his cock, and Astarion’s fingers tighten in your hair.

‘Please, your highness,’ you whisper.

You are perched at his feet still awaiting commands. Like a good little pup. You shiver.

‘Go on,’ Astarion encourages.

You barely stick the tip of your tongue out and watch as his cock throbs in anticipation. This is dangerous. Obscene, even. You’ve seen him hundreds of times yet it still excites you. Carefully, you take him into your mouth and admire his debauched moan.

You have half a mind to tease him, but when you glance upwards at him, he’s as pretty as an aasimar. Or something worse, but you don’t give yourself much time to think about it. You know his desires. What he enjoys. What he tolerates for you. You know Astarion likes your little hums as you glide your mouth over his cock. He likes being pampered more than anything.

Astarion’s hand is tender as he moves your bangs out of your eyes. It’s the eye contact he wants. He likes to see and always acts like it’s the first time. He holds the edge of your jaw while you rub the tip of his cock against the inside of your cheek, eyebrows scrunching. It’s divine for you as well.

Astarion lives for the pomp and circumstance, absolutely devours court rumors with a delight you barely understand — but he would let his kingdom fall into the Underdark if it meant he could spend every hour of every day fucking you.

It’s the same for you.

It always has been ever since your coronation.

You were not like the other knights who were born into houses of servitude, second born sons and daughters who were the spares of their family names. You were given to Astarion by Lord Gortash as a way to buy favor from the crown. You were once his favorite, well-trained dog.

But unlike Lord Gortash, you are coveted by the crown in a way no other knight has been before. Astarion kisses you every morning and finishes against your spine every evening. But he is your salvation, your savior, and you are on your knees to show what that means to you.

Astarion stirs beneath your ruminations, his thighs tensing beneath your elbows, his hips doing those unconscious lusty jerks that you like so much. His head falls back as he gets lost in the feel of your tongue and mouth and he moans so sweetly that it almost distracts you from your ministrations. You take his cock as far back into your mouth as you can manage, closing your eyes to squeeze out any embarrassing tears that might threaten to fall. Like the prettiest bird, he sings for you.

‘Wait,’ he moans. ‘Not yet, I want — ’

You pull away from him as commanded, licking your lips clean of spit. His hands dance frantically against your shoulders as he pulls you up against him, cock hard against both of your bellies. He kisses you hotly, one hand fisting in your hair and the other tugging uselessly at your shirt.

‘You are needy today, my prince,’ you whisper against a barrage of kisses.

‘You were too perfect,’ he whines. ‘Always perfect for me.’

You laugh against his cheek. ‘You did say to please you.’

‘And now I’m saying to get on the fucking bed,’ Astarion fusses. ‘Oh, and clothes off. I want to see you.’

‘Yes, your — ’ you begin.

‘You,’ Astarion accuses with an affectionate pinch to your side, ‘are being quite the obstinate charge tonight. I want to taste you and be tasted in return, but be familiar with me, my love. Come back to me. Share my bed.’

You are in the middle of doing as he requests, sitting with one leg on either side of his thighs when he slides his hands to your waist and forces you to roll to the side. He pushes you further into the many adorning pillows of his bed and starts devouring you, his mouth dancing from your neck to your collarbones while he tears your shirt apart with his hands, though he does slow down enough to place the white rose on the bedside table. He pushes his palms flat against your chest and leaves bite marks and bruises across your chest and down your belly, chasing after you as you try to squirm away. Astarion finally takes interest in leaving his mark on your throat.

You set to work pushing your leggings and small clothes down your thigh, but Astarion, in all his impatience, gets in the way of that too. He presses his thigh between your legs on purpose, rolling his cock against your hip while his thigh applies almost perfect pressure to the most sensitive parts of you.

You moan and turn your face away, but Astarion chases the sound. He nuzzles your noses together until you look at him, bleary and dazed, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. He rolls his hips again with intent. He catches the sound of your moan on the tip of your tongue and returns it, his own ragged breath warm against your cheek.

‘There you are, my love,’ he whispers deliciously. ‘I’ve missed you. My treasure, my pet…’

‘Yours,’ you moan.

‘Mine,’ Astarion agrees. ‘All mine.’

He drags his fingernails across the swell of your hip, and you can’t help but chase the curve of his wrist. Your cheeks burn, but you’re tempted to beg him. To ask if he’ll please you with his hands. You want to feel his fingers pressed up inside you, to feel them curl and twist. You want it more than anything else you’ve ever wanted to. Astarion watches the way you twist and turn with a small smile on his face. He pets your hip and slides his fingers between your thighs. You can feel the cool of his jeweled rings against your heated flesh.

Astarion is grateful for your reckless display. He acquiesces to your silent begging, brushing his fingers between your folds and pressing the tip of his middle finger against you. He watches with delight as you grind against the pressure. His cheeks and the tips of his pointed ears are ruddy, and though he’s pretending to be controlled right now, you can hear how shaky his breath has become.

And then, like a god answering a prayer, he presses a finger inside of you so painstakingly slow it’s almost maddening. You mewl, watching his expressions in fascination, because his own mouth falls open as he cranes his next to watch. He adds another. He twists and twirls his fingers as deeply as he can reach it. His eyes flutter with desperation. He’s so beautiful that you can hardly stand it. You want more, so much more, and you press your wrist against your mouth to keep from begging.

‘Don’t hide from me,’ he says hoarsely. ‘I want to hear everything. Please, sing for me.’

‘More,’ you whisper thickly. ‘More, I need more, I want more.’

He kisses your jaw sloppily. ‘I’ll give you everything.’

‘It’s not enough!’

‘You’ll take it,’ Astarion tells you. ‘You’ll take what I give.’

‘Astarion,’ you weep. ‘I want you. I want — ’

This time, he might as well have ripped the rest of your clothes with his haste. You aren’t sure what he does with them, you just know that you’re naked and in his bed, surrounded by all his pillows with your thighs slick from how wet you are.

Your eyes watch your star’s every movement. He rids himself of his finery as well, shrugging out of his layers until there’s nothing left. The moonlight hits his skin prettily, almost as dainty as the way his eyes catch in the candlelight. He chases you, chases your mouth, presses his cock against you and ruts for a moment. You can’t help but be dizzy with lust yourself. You leave your own marks across his collarbones and chest, mindful of his neck and what skin would peek above his elegant collars. You wonder how he’ll take you. Astarion has always been the creative type. Sometimes you’ll ride him, and sometimes he’ll ride you until you see stars. Despite his urgency, he seems tender tonight.

Astarion wants to make you feel good. He wants to find your heat and bask in the warmth. You can tell in the way he watches your face ever so fondly. He’s always been so good at masking how much he prefers you to anyone he’s spoken to before. You’ve stood and listened as the perfect guard during meetings with dignitaries from neighboring cities, and Astarion always spoke to them with practiced politeness bearing a practiced albeit bored undertone. Yet with you, he seems to hang onto your every word. He takes it in until there was nothing left to share. He cares when you are supposed to be nothing more than a knight at his door.

‘I have a gift for you tonight,’ Astarion says suddenly. He blushes. It’s adorable how much it’s unlike him.

‘What is it?’ you ask.

‘Patience,’ he complains, but he doesn’t mean it.

Astarion reaches for something just beyond your sight, and when he sits back up, you feel as though someone has released a cage of birds in the pit of your stomach. He holds out a small silver band for your inspection. ‘A warding ring,’ he explains. ‘I had my Master of the Arcane enchant it for you — for us.’

‘Kiss me,’ you whisper. ‘Please.’

‘Put it on first,’ he insists. ‘For me.’

Something must show on your face, because he’s quick to show you his own hand. There is a matching silver band there, and it causes your heart to swell so much you think your heart will give out. Astarion, with great care, slides the band onto your finger and then looks at you, hopeful.

‘Whatever you feel, I shall feel,’ he says like a promise. ‘You and I, together.’

You guide his mouth to yours before you can do something silly like cry. When you touch his chest, intent on finding his heartbeat, you can feel it so frantic against your palm.

What is a better story than a prince and his knight? A savior and his sword? The bards will sing forever about the prince and his favored knight, their matching rings, their sacred vows. You ache with longing. You surge with love. It is all Astarion’s fault.

You push your hands through his thick curls and guide him to lie on top of you. You can feel the ring humming with magic. Though you are sure this isn’t its intended use, you can’t help but feel nervous.

You take him into your arms. He collapses into you and your only thought is that it’s a little poetic. You have caught a star as it fell from the sky. Now, it rests in your hands again and again and again until, slowly, you cannot exist without one another. His mouth finds yours, and your hands with the matching rings reach out for one another as though choreographed. Astarion presses you against his sheets and you willingly let him devour you once more. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Astarion kisses down your chest again. He kisses your tummy and all the muscle you’ve earned from being a knight. He kisses every scar from every battle you’ve ever endured all the way down to your hips, to that warm core that lies between them. You moan unapologetically, head rushing until you’re almost positive you’re going to faint. Astarion presses a kiss between your legs, growls as though he was a man starved before finding you, and takes you into his mouth.

It’s a little romantic how you’ve grown together. You were each other’s firsts — Astarion taught you how to kiss, and you taught him how to fondle someone else’s body without feeling shy about it. You had first used your mouth on him, but he had taken all of the knowledge you had given and weaponized it against you the next moment that he could. He’s determined to please, desperate for compliments, hopeless in all his endeavors to please you almost as much as you’ve pleased him. But unlike you, Astarion is selfish and he reaches for fruit to pluck that anyone else would have discarded as soon as something better came along. He chose you.

He licks and bites and nuzzles and feasts upon the very fruit of you, groaning at how you taste. It’s his favorite taste in the world, and he would brag about it if it didn’t make your cheeks flush. He laps at your folds hungrily and squeezes the thickness your thighs until they’ve bruised.

‘Little star,’ you whine, pressing your hands to your eyes. ‘Please, please.’

His tongue is like torture. Astarion never does anything without fully committing, and from your time together, you know he’s memorized every little thing he can do to drive you absolutely wild. He’s pulled your legs over his shoulders, his fingers moving on after bruising them to dig into your hip bones, and he hums so prettily for you.

Even you aren’t sure what you’re begging for. You want Astarion to stop teasing you so insistently. You want to feel his heartbeat, you want to taste his lips. There’s a part of you so empty and full of longing that if you wait any longer, if you withhold anymore, you might lose yourself. The only thing serving to ground you to this world is depravity, twisting carnal lust, and the depths of your love. You shiver under his touch and moan even as you try to hush it.

‘ — star!’ you cry sharply.

You try to twist out of his grasp, crying at how determined he is, but Astarion simply drags you back down to where he is as if it’s nothing to him. He doesn’t stop torturing with your tongue until you’ve choked out a sob and chased your release, chest heaving from the effort. He doesn’t let you go for long either, climbing up your body so that he can press encouraging kisses to your jaw, pushing your damp curls back from your temple.

Astarion pushes his nose against your ear and breathes in, almost so desperate to have memorized your very scent. It’s always been his little habit. As if just by knowing your smell, he is able to do whatever he needs to accomplish in this world.

‘You,’ he murmurs between kisses, ‘are always so magnificent for me.’

You reach for his hip, the back of your knuckles sweeping against his sharp bone. ‘I want to do the same for you,’ you say shakily. ‘Let me have you, please. It’s all I want.’

He moans, soft and quiet, and settles between your legs. He kisses you again with that same hunger. The same, almost desperate kind of lust. He presses you so far into his sheets that you’re not sure you’ll ever be released from them again. And you think you would be fine with that. There’s nothing more that you want than to stay here with him. His hands joined with yours, your hips pressed to his, forever until the world has ended.

You slide your hands across the broad sweep of his shoulders and feel as his muscles shift. He is so gentle with you even when he doesn’t have to be. He’s cautious, meticulous, almost ridiculously polite because it’s you. His love is like an apology for everything you’ve been through, and when he cradles the back of your head, you lean into his touch.

‘You are mine,’ he says tenderly. His thumb sweeps across your cheek.

‘Take me,’ you say hungrily. ‘I am your prize.’

‘You were created by the gods for me,’ Astarion tells you sincerely. He sits onto his knees and pulls your hands flush against his stomach. ‘Look at how well you fit against me.’

You were never one to be shy before, but his praise causes you to turn your cheek aside and look away. He pushes his hands up your thighs, searching, admiring. He says pretty words, but he’ll never understand if you were to repeat the things he’s said back to him. Underneath that prestigious bravado and practiced façade, Astarion still understands little of his own divinity and worth. You’re thankful for him as much as he is for you, and you allow him this. He finds his worth at your core and marvels in it, allowing you to see him as Astarion. Like a mortal making a deal with a cambion, he reaches for you.

‘Do you want me inside of you?’ he asks in a graveled voice.

‘More than anything else,’ you reply, choking on how thick your want is. You think about how it feels every time he’s claimed you and shudder. ‘Please.’

‘I am going to get lost in you for hours,’ Astarion promises. He smiles, dangerous and dark. ‘When you return to your post, you’ll feel me still. You’ll be sorer than you’ve ever been.’

You are so aroused it’s painful. You ache and twist, spreading your legs so that he might take you then and there without so much as a second thought. You need the closeness. His grounding touch. His cock, as much as it would embarrass you to say aloud, has been on your mind ever since he invited you inside his room. He strokes your hip.

‘You’re shaking,’ he says fondly.

He leans forward and kisses you. He connects with you like that, nose brushing yours affectionately, before he stares at the little shivers you’re now aware you’re doing. He sees everything, knows everything. It delights him.

And then he slides his cock into you. Slowly, agonizingly, inch by inch. He squeezes your hip in encouragement, but you’re too full and he’s too thick for you to manage any coherent thought. He’s determined to reach the deepest parts of your core.

Astarion speaks through gritted teeth. ‘You are perfect.’

‘No,’ you say. ‘You are.’

‘I like to watch,’ he says honestly. ‘I like to see how you take me. You’re so tight here, did you know?’

‘More — ’

‘Use your words for me.’

You swallow. ‘I want you — to fuck me.’

‘You’ve been a good pup,’ Astarion says with a small laugh. ‘I’ll make love to you until dawn calls.’

For the faintest few heartbeats, this is the only way you want to exist. He is pressed inside of you, and you are surrounded by nothing but him and his scent and his bed and his pretty words, longing so intently to memorialize this moment. Astarion is haloed by the silver moonlight. He shines prettier than the crown he wears at court.

He shines brighter than the stars.

You’re aware of how fragile your breathing sounds. You forcefully drag air down into your lungs and hold his gaze, so warm and soft when he looks at you. You don’t know why it’s so different this time with him, but you reach out until he entwines your fingers together and you lose yourself in a way you haven’t before. You don’t realize you’re crying until he coos at you and calls you beautiful.

Astarion only moves once he’s assured you’re not in any pain. He’s conscious of the way you tense, but you shake your head and try to dry your tears.

If you’re being honest, you aren’t really sure why you’re so emotional tonight. You’re ignoring what the rings promise on purpose. A meaning that you are too nervous to confront. You know it’s how much you wish this was your fate. It all comes to a boil when he leans forward and kisses the tip of your ear. Astarion wraps his arms around you and moans softly in your ear, the heat of his cheek flush against your temple.

‘I love you,’ he whispers.

‘I can feel you,’ you whisper back, voice uneven. ‘All the way inside.’

‘Our souls are touching tonight,’ Astarion promises you. ;This is what I want to give you.’

Once he’s assured that you’re fine, Astarion begins moving inside you. You still feel overly full. It’s almost difficult to breathe, that you’re so aware of how deep his cock is inside of you — as if it’s the first time you’ve experienced him before. He murmurs encouragement into your hair and ruts further and further, but when you press your fingers against his biceps, you can feel how he’s shaking too.

‘Let me be yours,’ you say softly, eyes fluttering closed. ‘Let me be with you, Astarion, please.’

‘You are my pretty consort,’ Astarion says fiercely. ‘You belong to me, and I to you.’

His consort, his knight. The one he comes home to, that he ignores all the other lovely people at court for. The idea of it makes your blood warm, makes you feel a little wild and different. You rock your hips back against Astarion’s. Feeling him lose what little of his control pushes you over the edge. You start mumbling nonsensically, thank you, thank you, my prince, my star, thank you, I feel it, Astarion and he growls low in the bottom of his throat. His hips stutter against yours and you know with a little wiggle, you could make him spend then and there.

It’s only when Astarion pushes into you as far as he can go, the tip of his cock pressed as deep into your core as you can handle it, that you remember what a devout worshiper you are. You’re fully aware of how your spine protests the way your back arches up off the bed. You feel Astarion’s mouth hot and desperate against the side of your throat, his hands slowly sliding down your skin to grip your hips, the tips of his fingers digging in harshly to the curve of your ass.

When you dare meet his gaze, you’re mesmerized.

Astarion has always been the most beautiful person you’ve ever set eyes on. The height of his cheekbones, the way they flush when you moan his name. His uneven smile, the way his teeth point when he laughs. His intense eyes that take in even your faintest moves. He is sharp and calculated, cunning and keen on dramatics — but underneath, you can see the gentler side. The warmth in his gaze. The way he laughs ugly with you instead of with practiced finesse. You fit rather well together. Perfectly, like a puzzle. Intoxicatingly. He catches you staring and his breath catches in his throat.

You must be quite the sight as well. Astarion always lavished you with the utmost attention, often buying you things you’d never need as a knight. Rings, gowns, circlets and other finery to wear with him on your occasional strolls through Baldur’s Gate when you were off-duty and carefree.

You feel nearly feral at this moment. It takes all your self-control to not rake your nails down his spine or bite his shoulder because you’re too full and he’s too much and you’re almost certain you’re going to explode, but you wrap your legs around his hips and pull him tighter to you until there’s almost nothing else he can do that grind uselessly, desperate sounds coming from both of your mouths as you try to hold on just a little longer.

Without thinking, without caution, you whisper, ‘Inside — Tonight, I want you to — ’

‘Gods,’ he chokes out. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’

‘Please,’ you beg. ‘I’ve been good. I’ve been — ’

Astarion burrows his face against your collarbone, whining unceremoniously. That’s when you can feel it, his cum, hot and warm, so wonderful and dizzying that you also forget to be dignified. Your fingers stutter against his skin, and if it was painful to experience, the only proof is the way Astarion hisses at the burn and coils dangerously beneath your touch.

‘That’s it,’ he soothes proudly. ‘You’ve done well, my sweet.’

You murmur, ‘So much.’

‘Don’t tease me,’ Astarion says. He pouts his bottom lip. ‘You’re quite beautiful, you know.’

‘Not as beautiful as you,’ you say.

‘Well,’ Astarion allows with a small laugh, ‘I am rather perfect, I agree.’

He groans when he pulls away from you, brow furrowed in concentration. He trembles with exertion, and whatever other plans he might have had are forgotten, for Astarion drops down into his sheets beside you in all his naked and exhausted glory and presses close to you, an arm thrown over your waist.

A pang of guilt hits you at the sight of his closed door. Your armor is thrown carelessly across this floor, and while you wish you could enjoy this moment of bliss with him, you must continue to do your actual duty of guarding the prince. You move, delicate, to stand up. Astarion wraps his other arm around you.

‘Where are you going?’ he demands tiredly. ‘The sun is not yet up. Come back.’

‘My post — ’

‘Fuck your post,’ he snorts. ‘Your only duty is to lie in my bed and look pretty.’

You open your mouth to protest, but Astarion fusses. It’s hard to deny him even though you know only what the Captain of his Kingsguard has instilled in you. The moonlight is a gorgeous embellishment on his skin, and the ridges of his body are enticing enough that you forget your vows for the time being. Your heart squeezes at the tenderness. Astarion welcomes you back into his arms without further complaint. It’s your turn to tuck your head against his shoulder, basking in the warmth of his body as he cradles you close.

‘This is where you belong,’ Astarion tells you plainly. ‘You and I belong in bed having forgotten our other duties forevermore. The kingdom may fall to rot and ruin for all I care. As long as I have you, I care not.’ He touches your hip. ‘I know what you must be thinking. That it isn’t that easy. But it is that easy. I’m the prince and I want it to be so. I see our fate in my dreams.’

You allow yourself to daydream and doze for the moment. He’s murmuring sweet things into your hair, and your eyes are so heavy you know when you close them, it’ll be hard for you to wake up if you give in. The ache in your muscles is comforting. It’s a reminder of all the ways Astarion has ever had you, and you can’t help but wonder if this really is where your life was always meant to head.

You do fall asleep. Despite your best efforts to stay awake, you fall into a peaceful slumber with Astarion’s hand petting your spine. When you next awake, Astarion is no longer at your side. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed staring out of the window watching as dawn begins to peek through.

He hasn’t left you entirely alone. He’s draped his many fancy satin blankets over you and somehow managed to coax your head onto a pillow without waking you. You’re almost inspired to fall back asleep at the sight, but the view of Astarion basking in an orange glimmer keeps you from entering the depths of your mind once more.

‘No,’ Astarion says. He’s smiling. ‘Don’t move. I like the way you look.’

‘And how do I look, your highness?’

‘Sated.’

‘Come back to me, my love,’ you say. You try to hold one of your hands out, but you’re still so very tired from before. You press your cheek further into the pillow. ‘’m cold.’

‘I was thinking,’ he says.

‘Enough thinking,’ you whine. ‘I miss you beside me.’

‘Promise me something first.’

‘What shall I promise?’

‘That when I am king, you will help me create my new world,’ Astarion says, peering affectionately at you from over his shoulder. ‘A world where you are both my shield and my consort. A world where no one else like us has to get hurt.’

You start to sit up at that, blood suddenly rushing to your head as you try to think of what he means. Were you not already his Shield, extending your Sword to his greatest foes? Were you not already his Consort in all but proper name? You furrow your eyebrows, too sleepy and overwhelmed, but Astarion is quick to come to your side, to press kisses into your hair and against your ear and at the tears on your cheeks.

‘When I am king, there will be no need for us to hide like this,’ Astarion promises, petting his hand comfortingly down your spine. He shushes you. ‘I will sit on the throne and you will sit beside me.’ When he’s certain you’re done crying, he adds, ‘Or in my lap, if you prefer.’

Somehow, there’s only one thing you can manage to say. ‘I love you.’

‘And I love you,’ Astarion says. ‘That’s why I will do this for us.’

‘Will it go well?’

He hums. ‘Of course it will go well. I will be king. I will make it go well.’

You say again, ‘I love you.’

‘We are the Prince and his Shield,’ Astarion tells you sweetly, voice melodic in your ear. ‘This will be our world. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we will do as we are meant to do.’

‘I promise,’ you say, ‘to help you.’

‘Then say no more, my love,’ he whispers. He kisses the side of your throat again and slowly pulls his silk sheets away from your skin. The cold morning air leaves a trail of gooseflesh down your spine, and he tastes every knot of it with his mouth and tongue. He gives you commands, ‘Let me have you again. You’re so beautiful in the morning light. I need you now more than ever. Gods, the things you do to me.’

You rock your hips back to meet his. It’s an alluring situation straight from your wildest, most longing of dreams — a world where you might sit alongside Astarion as he rules, no longer a simple guard dog to follow commands, but something else. Something sweeter.

It was like marriage but better. The thought of you and Astarion rising to godhood through his own determined means rather than falling into the same song the bards often liked to play on unrequited love. You allow him to trace his fingers down your stomach to that place between your legs, your warm core where you’re certain he’s found his divinity. Astarion presses his cock against your lower back and gives into his own avarice. He bites your shoulder almost a touch too rough and leaves a bruise in the shape of his teeth, reveling in your shocked cry.

You want him.

You want to be by his side, to kneel at his feet. You want to watch him dress in the mornings and fall into his arms every evening. You want to place his crown atop his brow. You arch your hips against his waist, and ponder about the creation of the empyrean heavens above. You will guide him to become celestial.

It’s with a near untamed fervor that Astarion tears through his sheets to get to you. He slides his knee beneath yours and pushes it forward, his breath warm and hiccuped against the blade of your shoulder. He doesn’t hurt you and he never would, but he slides his cock inside, the tenderness of earlier forgotten.

‘Be loud,’ he encourages you, groaning, his hand still scrambling against the arc of your belly. He sounds debauched. ‘Let them all hear. Let them know.’

He fucks into you like he wants you both to grow together. One body and one soul. You’re glad for it. It only intensifies the burn from the evening and pushes you to a place you’ve never been before. You’re almost certain you see sparks in your vision, but you do as asked. You don’t swallow down your moans. They’re taut, sharp, staccato ah-ah-ahs that match the sun’s rise.

It’s almost sweet how hard Astarion fucks into you. His princely demeanor is gone now, the control he tries to exhibit. He moans freely as well and kisses without meaning. Your shoulder, the back of your head, the nape of your neck, and he’s babbling things that don’t make sense. But you’re no better. Your cheeks are so warm you’re feverish, hands clenched in his sheets, and the pleasure borders on welcomed pain when he sits up behind you, knee still forcing you to be pliant, as he drags his cock in and out of you from behind. Astarion is watching again, one hand on your lower back, the other on your ass. When you try to hide your face in mild embarrassment, he scolds you.

‘Let me see you,’ Astarion rasps. ‘Let me see, I want to see everything — ’

So you let him, shifting and arching as much as your back will let you. Your muscles feel strained. Your mind is hardly there. But the prince has asked, and it would be rude of you to not heed his call. It’s not as though it matters. You’re easily distracted by the way he presses himself in and out of you, intoxicated by the gravitational pull he’s created between you. You can’t help but lean into his every touch, to mewl, to whine the exact way he likes.

You wonder what Lord Gortash would think of his loyal dog if he saw it now. You were taught the blade and the bow, how to use a lance and a shield, and you were never meant to be anything more than a warrior given to the ground so that he could get on the good side of the king. There isn’t much of your life you can remember before you were brought to the steps of the throne room and thrown down before the prince and his father. All you remember is looking up and seeing an angel smiling down at you.

So you arch your back and push up into your elbows, looking over your shoulder to catch Astarion’s eyes. He’s constantly looking between your face to make sure you’re alright and looking down at your hips where your bodies meet. He has the audacity to blush. It makes him look sweet and less severe.

‘More — ’

The fairest thought you have is that you’re not sure you can take more. There’s something ferocious building in the pit of your stomach, a volatile hunger unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Your almost delirious with how much greed is inside you, how you long to do this all day if you could. Sitting pretty on your hands and knees and belly while Astarion ravishes you — forgetting your duties and the kingdom — but it’s somehow worse than before when you’re aware that he would do the same. Gone is any sense of decency, replaced by something carnal, something infernal.

Just when you think he might be done with you, Astarion pulls out and drags your body along. He lays handsomely in the center of his pillows, a deep blue and rich satin and silk display, and pulls you into his lap. His bottom lip is ruined from where he’s bitten it in an attempt to maintain control.

He arranges for you as he likes. He tilts his head to the side as if looking upon a painting. Finally, he coaxes you upwards and whispers kind encouragements as you guide and slide his cock back inside of you. You aren’t sure how far it can go, but then it goes deeper and deeper and deeper until you’re sick.

‘Oh,’ you cry sweetly. ‘It’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t — ’

‘You can,’ Astarion promises, rubbing his thumb across your hip. ‘You can do anything. You were made for me, and I was made for you, and we were created for this.’

You sit atop him, your ass flush against his hips, and try desperately to not squirm in his lap. The wiggling makes it worse, you think. You feel swollen around him. He feels thickest inside of you. And you can’t help but lean forward as he rubbs his hands up and down your spine, kissing your temple and cheek and jaw. You can kiss him better this way. You can taste the sweetness of his mouth, taste his words.

‘I love you,’ you say over and over.

‘I know,’ he murmurs, kissing your tears.

And you do cry in this position, overwhelmed and stuttering. Astarion guides your hips back and forth across his so that he’s not necessarily drilling inside of you, but watching how you dance across his cock. He always watches so intently as if he’s afraid to miss anything you do. He guides you intently, humming, tensing beneath your thighs as you try to balance yourself with your hands on his belly.

Astarion moans at the sight. He sounds positively wrecked. You decide that you want to hear him sing for you again, so you raise your hips this time and slide them back down. You squeeze your eyes shut in concentration, treating it more like trying to hit a tricky shot with an arrow rather than taking and un-taking every inch of his cock. You’re trembling so much that you seek out his hands, guiding them away from your hips so he can tuck them under your thighs for help.

‘Ah,’ Astarion says hoarsely. ‘Fuck.’

And that’s how he helps you, his hands helping carry your weight so that you can bounce on his cock and enjoy every minute of it. The physical strain is worth it. You know Astarion likes to watch, possessive of the way you look and ride, and his eyes shine with a certain kind of deviance that you’ve grown to love.

It’s a long way from where you started as a poor soul standing on the steps, but you lean forward and kiss your raison d'être on his open mouth, savoring the way his bruised lip tastes in your mouth, enjoying just how much he enjoys you. The sunlight warms your skin and basks Astarion in a golden glow, so impossibly handsome that they should write songs about the way he looks after a night of lovemaking. He groans, trapping your bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard enough you’re almost certain he’s drawn blood.

You don’t mind it. You welcome the rougher things, enjoy them as much as he does. You lean back, hands now behind you on his thighs, and try to not feel too self-conscious about how open you’re being with your body. You’re encouraged to do it. His reactions are what drive you to be better. Because Astarion’s eyes widen slightly to take in the sight of your legs spread apart as you sit on his cock, your skin shining with a delicate veil of sweat. He comes with a rough moan.

Gods, you could listen to the sound of him all day.

You fall forward onto Astarion’s chest. Your limbs feel like nothing after a night of increasingly more difficult sex, but it’s worth it for the way he spoils you after. Astarion kisses you nice and slow, lips and tongue and teeth, as if an apology for the roughness you willingly endured. He cradles you close to his body. He always seeks your warmth, always tries to press as close as he can.

It’s your turn to preen under his careful ministrations. Astarion pushes your sweaty hair back from your face and runs the tips of his fingers across your cheekbones and forehead, following the delicate lines of your bone structure. He lightly pinches your cheeks as if to savor the heat of your blush, but it doesn’t hurt when he does it. He kisses them better. He helps you slide back down into his sheets and takes note of the mess, smoothing his fingers against the bruises and love bites he’s left as gifts against your skin.

Astarion takes gentle care as he lifts your hand. He admires the ring on it and watches as he slides his fingers into yours so that his ring can crowd the empty spaces of your fingers. He kisses the back of your hand like a proper prince and then unceremoniously collapses down by your side, boneless and lazy.

‘You’ve made a mess,’ you accuse him sleepily.

‘I made you happy,’ Astarion corrects.

You reach out and touch his throat. ‘You’ve ruined your sheets.’

‘These sheets are perfect, my love,’ he murmurs. ‘Just like you.’

Later in the morning, after you’ve rested again despite your attempts to stay awake, you’re coaxed back into existence by Astarion’s lips dancing softly against the nape of your deck. You’re almost certain he’s going to ask for more — a thought that startles you — but instead he lifts you from the depths of his blankets and carries you to a bathing tub in the corner of his quarters. He lowers you into freshly warmed water, and you try to not let how much you long for him show.

‘The maids — ’

‘They’ve seen you,’ he says with a shrug. ‘But they did not care. You should have heard the way they swooned over us.’

He lavishes you again with rose petals and fancy perfumes and soaps. He guides a cloth over your skin and even massages a rather determined knot in your hip. You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. You’d let him pamper you for the next month if you could.

‘I will have you like this often,’ Astarion warns. ‘Tonight. Every night. You have no idea what you’ve done to me. It’s like you’ve enchanted me.’

He’s climbed in with you at this point, tucked behind you so that he can style your hair in a plait. He likes the way it’s gotten long. You can tell how hard he’s thinking by how silent he is. His fingers trickle water down your spine and occasionally trace the shape of a petal against your skin. You shiver and allow him these idle distractions, basking in his touches and singing while he allows himself to wander in his lost thoughts. You fall asleep again briefly, lulled into a dream by the warmth and the relaxing scents of the many perfumes and Astarion humming softly in your ear.

Astarion washes your chest again to avoid having to leave the bath. He’s in one of his contemplative moods, eyes somewhere a thousand miles away, lips twisted in curiosity. You would’ve stayed forever as well, but the water is slowly getting colder and you’re beginning to shiver. You look over your shoulder at him. You watch as his eyelashes flutter and close as if he too is moments away from falling asleep, but then you see it. A sign of melancholic hope.

‘You and I belong together,’ you tell him.

‘We are the greatest match together the world has ever seen,’ Astarion agrees. ‘There is no one else.’

‘It is an honor,’ you say. You catch a petal in your palm and show him.

He pulls your fingers up to his mouth with his own hand guiding you. He kisses your palm and the petal, and then each of your fingertips one by one.

‘I’m doing this for you, you know,’ he murmurs.

‘You are doing this for us,’ you say, shaking your head. ‘We are a family.’

‘We are more than a family,’ he insists. ‘We are more than lovers. Our souls belong together.’

‘I’ve never been happier,’ you say.

Whatever world Astarion is imagining, you’re beginning to see it too. A world where being a king means more than throwing extravagant parties and hosting masquerades and balls and ignoring those in need. Astarion cares because you care, and that makes your heart squeeze dangerously. You are with Astarion when he usurps his father’s court. He had called them weak-willed men in front of his own council, his lip curled in distaste. They had allowed a shadow ruler to take his father’s place for years, had controlled the crown like a puppeteer would his prized puppet. And now, Astarion has pulled together enough favor to overthrow those who had betrayed him, who had betrayed you, and who had betrayed Baldur’s Gate most of all.

‘I believe you are sitting in my chair,’ Astarion calmly tells Ketheric Thorm.

The removal of the pretenders is fairly certain. Ketheric’s own daughter Isobel aids in his arrest. The installation of Astarion’s council is relatively easy with such esteemed replacements. Wyll Ravengard takes his father’s place as Lord Commander of the Flaming Fist. Karlach takes Enver Gortash’s place as leader of the city guard, betrayed as you were, and her eyes burn with heat when she pulls him from his tower. Gale and Shadowheart had been planning the entire thing for years behind the scenes, favoring Astarion against the old court. All you do is stand beside Astarion with your hand on the hilt of your blade though no one dared raise their arms against him.

Astarion’s coronation takes place later that week, and even with all the planning, he does not allow you to stray from his side. You are with him when meeting with the emissaries Lady Lae’zel and Lord Halsin and Lady Jaheira. You are with him during his fittings. You are with Astarion the night before when he fucks you so hard you see stars.

You are there the day of his coronation. He is dressed in brilliant reds and off-whites and wears a crown with rubies. You stand alongside him in the armor he commissioned for you styled after Dame Aylin’s and hold the sword gifted to you from the crown.

It is a wedding as well.

A wedding of peace and resilience. A wedding of love and understanding.You drop down before him to one knee and swear anew your vows, though now they taste sweeter on your tongue. I am the Sword of the Crown, the Shield of the Realm, the Consort of the Chosen. I serve no one but the Rightful King, the First of His Name, the Soul of Truth, Astarion Ancunin. When you rise, Astarion kisses you.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x oc #astarion smut #bg3 smut #from ，carcosa .#my fic #* et toi，et moi

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awearywritersworld · 2 years

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Look After You

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: You were betrothed to Aemond Targaryen, and while the two of you got along well enough, you hardly behaved as man and wife. After you suffer a great loss, Aemond decides to change that. Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: mentions of parental death

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Your relationship with your lord husband, Aemond Targaryen, was something of a complicated matter.

During the first few moons of your marriage, you were admittedly frightened by him. His apparent disinterest in you did little to qualm your nerves. He was brooding and intimidating, and while you were never on the receiving end of it, you'd been witness to the sharpness of his tongue.

Then, as time carried on, there was some improvement. It was true that he still maintained a cool, unspoken distance with you. Touches were rare and fleeting, conversations never progressed too far into the night. Nevertheless, he had become someone you could talk to.

The daughter of a northern lord, you had few friends in King’s Landing. That made you thankful for the relationship you’d come to have with your husband, even if it left you wanting at times. Thus, when a raven came late one night bearing news that would shatter your world, you could think of no one else to go to.

Opening the door to his chambers, you found Aemond leaning through his window, looking across the expanse of King's Landing. At this hour, it was illuminated only by scattered torches. His hands rested on the stone as he leaned forward, accentuating the toned muscles of his back.

"Lady (Y/N)," he greeted without turning to face you, as he often did.

You remembered the afternoon you finally questioned how he always knew it was you. His reply was simple, but caused your cheeks to darken a few shades.

"I would expect no other woman in my chambers.”

On this particular night though, you failed to return his greeting and stayed quiet instead. It was taking everything in you just to keep from falling apart. Confused, he turned to look at you.

With widened eyes and raised eyebrows, he took in your tear stained cheeks along with the way you were furiously wiping at them. You thought it might have been the first time you'd ever caught the man off guard.

"What troubles you?"

He'd never seen you in a state like that, perturbation blossoming in his chest at the sight.

"Forgive me, my prince, for bothering you at such an untimely hour.”

Your voice was weak but sincere, as you had never come to him with such a personal or serious matter.

He took a step forward, but it did little to close the space that separated you both. "Never mind that. What has caused you such sorrow?"

A choked sob threatened to pass your lips and your hand flew to your mouth to stifle it. You looked away from him, vulnerability and grief clawing at you all at once.

"My father.. There was a hunting accident. H-He is..."

He could barely make out your words, but gathered enough to piece together what had happened. The way you stood there alone, one arm wrapped around your torso, the other attempting to quiet your cries-- it made his heart ache.

He was not meant to be a husband, for how could he ever be a good one? His father never showed him any semblance of devotion, while his mother was more often than not impatient and choleric. The only love he'd ever been shown was destructive and conditional.

He knew your relationship with your father was near opposite his own and he had no idea how to console you. You lost your mother when you were young, so it had always just been the two of you. He felt helplessly stuck, mind reeling with possibilities of what to say or do next. Interpreted as rejection, his silence threatened to break the few remaining pieces of your heart.

You turned to leave the room. "I apologize, my Prince, for the disturbance. It was inappropriate of me-"

"No," he quickly interjected, his body moving to grab your wrist and stop you from leaving.

The contact startled you, but still, you did not pull away from him. Hesitantly, his hands took hold of yours and though the skin of his palms was rough from years of training, his touch was gentle.

Your hands were so very small in his own and he realized it was the first time he'd held them since the day he took you as his wife. For that, he cursed himself. He believed he was protecting you by remaining distant, but the fact you felt it necessary to apologize for coming to him inspired doubt in his mind.

"Oh, my dear wife," he murmured, his thumb moving to brush away one of your tears, "I wish my sympathies could better serve you. I cannot imagine your anguish."

Meeting his eye for the first time since you entered his chambers, you found a look there that was foreign to you.

"I would not desire it even for my worst enemy," you whispered honestly.

Your misery was written all over your face and it compelled him to offer you what little comfort he could.

Pulling you into his chest, Aemond did not miss your sharp, but shaky intake of breath. For a moment, your body was completely rigid against his own and he worried he had made a mistake.

His uncertainty was soon put to an end when you all but collapsed in his arms, body wracked with violent sobs. Supporting most of your weight, he tightened his grip around your frame and held you close.

When you started to gasp in between breaths, he worried that you were going to make yourself sick, so he took to rocking you back and forth steadily. His chin rested on your head and eventually you began to calm down, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

“It hurts,” you told him, feeling as if you’d been hit in the stomach by the hilt of a sword.

“I know, love.”

In nearly any other circumstance, you’d have been over the moon, for it was the first time he’d ever used a term of endearment with you. Now though, it did little to lift your spirits.

“He was all I had,” you croaked against his chest, queasy with guilt. You thought back to the letter you’d received from your father just yesterday, a half written reply laying on your bedside table. “He was all I had, yet I was hundreds of leagues away when he...”

Unable to finish your sentence, you hid your face against his body.

“You were in the place he wished for you to be, (Y/N), you mustn’t punish yourself for that.”

He stroked your hair as he spoke, hoping his words could bring you some bit of peace. You were exhausted, both emotionally and physically, and as if sensing your tiredness, Aemond made an offer he never had before.

“Would you like to stay here tonight, with me?”

Not that he had ever mistreated you, but such warmth was rare from the young prince. It made your eyes well up once more and you voiced a quiet agreement, hating the idea of returning to your lonely chambers.

He took it upon himself to hook one arm behind your knees and the other around your back as he lifted you off the ground. You made a noise of surprise, which Aemond silently regarded as endearing.

He placed you gently on his bed then sat down beside you. For a while, the only sound in the room was your quiet sniffling.

“There is no apology in the seven kingdoms that could make up for how I have neglected you, the one whom I should hold above everything else."

“My forgiveness is yours."

He noticed the way your hair was splayed out on his pillow and he took to twirling one of the strands around his finger. Your regretful, undue apologies still rang loudly in his thoughts and he was unsure if he would ever be free of the bitter self-reproach it aroused in his mind.

Your weariness was plain to him, so his next words were spoken softly. “I will look after you, tonight and always. I swear it."

He listened closely as your breathing evened out, relieved that you were free from your grief for the time being. Standing slowly, he rounded the bed and climbed in beside you, careful not to disturb your slumber.

He propped himself up on his elbow, allowing for a moment to admire your features. Leaning over, he placed a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“Sleep well, my precious wife.”

It did not take Aemond long to join you in dreaming. When his eyes greeted the light of morning, he soon discovered that you had not yet awoken. However, he was content to find that you were now pressed against his chest in the safety of his arms.

#m!writes #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen imagine #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon imagines #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon #hotd imagines #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagines #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader

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mononijikayu · 2 months

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night flower ─ ryomen sukuna.

Despite knowing the futility of his desires, The King of Curses couldn't suppress the ache in his heart. It was pathetic. When he thought he had long past any human desires, one thought of you shatters him whole. Everything of you was a ghost, a curse, his pain, his grief. All the things that should not be. Yet, he knew he was stuck with you. He can never bury you. Not even if he wanted to. Not even if he tried. And he hated it. He hated how this made him feel. And most of all, he hated you. He hated you, his untenable night flower.

GENRE: Heian Era to Cursed Womb Arc, 2018;

WARNING/s: Alternate Universe ─ Canon Divergence, Romance, Emotional Hurt, Mentions of Character Death, Mention of Grief, Mention of Mourning, Depiction of Physical Touch, Mild Angst, Heavy Angst, Heavy Pining;

masterlist

ashes of love

kayu's playlist, side 400;

listen: night flower by ahn ye eun

note: i ended up changing the song, this was so emotional!!! this sukuna story blurb is an introduction to an upcoming chapter of us and them, which i will be writing soon!!! i had to write them because they're in my brain, having an angst life. anyway, i hope you're having a good day!!! please hydrate and take care of yourself, i love you!!! <3

HE DIDN’T THINK IT WOULD EVER BE POSSIBLE FOR HIM TO BE SO NOSTALGIC. Ryomen Sukuna moved with deliberate caution through the expansive compound, his steps measured and precise, as if treading on eggshells to avoid disturbing the slumbering inhabitants. In a place where every sound was magnified, he couldn't afford to make even the slightest noise.In the recesses of memory, Sukuna was haunted by the austere edicts of the Ryomen clan, their enforcement a testament to the severity of tradition. The memory of bamboo striking palm under curfew's shadow lingered, its echo dancing through the corridors of time.

Amidst the shroud of darkness and hushed whispers, Sukuna traversed the once-familiar paths of his ancestry. Each step carried the weight of disdain for the new moniker donned by his once-proud lineage. The rise of the Mikoto, descendants turned usurpers, cast a pall over the legacy of the Ryomen.

To Sukuna, this renaming was a grievous wound upon the honor of his clan, a desecration of their noble lineage. The Mikoto, in his eyes, were but pale imitations, lacking the fortitude and majesty that once defined the Ryomen's grandeur.

Yet, amidst his scorn, Sukuna was forced to confront his own culpability in the clan's decline. His defiance of tradition, his embrace of cursed power, had kindled a flame that consumed the Ryomen's glory. Now, as he treaded the silent halls of his forebears, the burden of his transgressions weighed heavily upon his spirit.

In the hallowed halls of the clan manor, Sukuna moved with the silent grace of a feline predator stalking its prey. Each step he took echoed with a quiet intensity, as if the very shadows themselves yielded to his presence. His senses, finely attuned to the symphony of the night, allowed him to discern the subtlest of sounds and movements in the darkness.

Like a nocturnal hunter, Sukuna prowled through the labyrinthine pathways of the manor, his movements fluid and deliberate. Every corner turned, every corridor traversed, was a testament to his instinctual prowess. The air around him seemed to hum with anticipation, as if the very walls whispered secrets only he could comprehend.

In this clandestine ballet of shadows and whispers, Sukuna was the undisputed master. His senses, sharpened by centuries of existence, guided him through the darkness with unwavering precision. And as he moved with silent purpose, a sense of primal satisfaction coursed through his veins, reminding him of the ancient power that pulsed within his being.

The body he inhabited belonged to a weary traveler, half-asleep and oblivious to the ancient being residing within. Itadori Yuuji was barely able to keep a hold of him, even in his slumber. And yet he supposed, it was the only reason he was alive. He scoffed. It was better than nothing. Better than being without a body. He’ll figure it out, he was certain. But until then, Sukuna's consciousness coexisted with the boy's, a symbiotic relationship born out of necessity rather than choice. He had seized control of the boy's form, driven by his insatiable hunger for power and dominance.

As he moved silently through the moonlit courtyard, Sukuna couldn't help but scoff at the mention of Kyoto, once known as Heian-kyo. Such trivialities held no significance to him; his existence transcended the petty concerns of mortals. He cared little for the names of cities or the passing of time—it was power and conquest that consumed his thoughts, driving him ever forward in his relentless pursuit of supremacy.

In the quiet of the night, amidst the ancient stones and whispering winds, Ryomen Sukuna found himself standing once more in the hallowed grounds of his past. The air was heavy with memories, echoes of a time long gone yet ever present in the recesses of his mind.

He had always known, deep down, that he would return to this place, his spirit inexorably drawn back to the land of the living with each cycle of rebirth. But to behold the familiar sights of his once-beloved home, to feel the earth beneath his feet and the cool night air against his skin—it stirred something within him that he could not name.

The landscape of his former home unfolded before him like a tapestry woven with threads of memory, each detail etched into the very fabric of his being. The ancient structures, weathered by the passage of time, stood as silent sentinels of a bygone era, their stone walls bearing witness to the centuries that had slipped away like grains of sand in an hourglass.

The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and cherry blossoms, mingling with the faint aroma of incense that wafted through the narrow streets. Lanterns adorned with intricate patterns cast soft pools of light upon the cobblestone pathways, illuminating the way with a warm, inviting glow.

As Sukuna ventured deeper into the heart of his former domain, he passed by familiar landmarks that stirred memories long buried beneath the sands of time. The towering pagoda, its wooden beams weathered and worn, rose majestically against the night sky, a silent testament to the enduring legacy of his clan.

The sound of running water filled the air as Sukuna approached the tranquil gardens that had once been his sanctuary, a haven of peace amidst the chaos of the world. Koi fish swam lazily in the moonlit ponds, their graceful movements a reflection of the timeless tranquility that pervaded the sacred space.

But amidst the beauty and serenity of his former home, Sukuna felt an undeniable sense of melancholy tugging at his heartstrings. The memories of days long past weighed heavily upon him, a reminder of the fleeting nature of existence and the inevitability of change.

And yet, for all the pain and longing that his return had evoked, Ryomen Sukuna could not deny the undeniable pull of nostalgia, the bittersweet symphony of emotions that danced upon the winds of time. For in revisiting the echoes of his past, he found solace in the knowledge that some things remained unchanged, eternal in their immutable beauty.

In the ethereal glow of the moonlight, Ryomen Sukuna traversed the path of his past, each step a testament to the tumult raging within his immortal soul. The air was thick with the weight of centuries, bearing witness to the ebb and flow of time itself.

As Ryomen Sukuna wandered through the familiar alleyways of his former home, his steps faltered, caught in the delicate web of memories that enveloped his mind like a gentle breeze. Amidst the labyrinthine paths, he found himself transported back to moments shared with you, like fragile petals dancing upon the winds of his thoughts.

Pausing amidst the hushed stillness of the courtyard, Sukuna's gaze fell upon the scene before him. Though the landscape had changed, the essence of the place remained etched in his memory with crystalline clarity. Each stone, each flower, held echoes of the past, stirring dormant recollections within his soul.

In the tranquility of the courtyard, Sukuna's mind drifted back to a time long gone, a time when laughter filled the air and joy knew no bounds. He remembered the sound of your laughter, like music to his ears, as you danced with abandon in the gentle patter of raindrops. Your laughter, so pure and infectious, had once been the melody that accompanied his existence.

Yet, amidst the fleeting moments of happiness, Sukuna couldn't escape the shadows that loomed on the horizon, casting a pall over the memories of days gone by. Despite the passage of time and the trials they had faced, the memory of your laughter remained etched in his heart, a beacon of light amidst the darkness that threatened to consume him.

As you gazed at him with those tender, doe-like eyes, a spark of excitement dancing within their depths, Sukuna found himself ensnared in the magnetic pull of your enthusiasm. Your invitation to dance in the rain stirred something within him, a flicker of longing amidst the depths of his stoicism.

Despite his usually composed exterior, Sukuna felt a ripple of uncertainty course through him at the thought of indulging in such carefree revelry. The notion of abandoning the constraints of propriety and embracing spontaneity tugged at the edges of his resolve, threatening to unravel the carefully constructed facade he wore.

With a hesitant brush of his free hand through his hair, Sukuna wrestled with conflicting emotions, torn between the allure of your infectious enthusiasm and the weight of his own reservations. In that moment, suspended between reluctance and desire, he grappled with the choice before him, unsure of which path to tread.

"Come on, Sukuna, let's dance in the rain!" You called to him, the pitch of your voice boisterous with excitement. Rain hadn’t come in a few days. You and the other priestesses in the shrine had been begging the heavens for rain water, for the harvest. And you were gladdened, the gods had listened. And you now want to celebrate. You grinned. “Come!”

Your mischievous smile and playful insistence proved to be irresistible, gradually eroding Sukuna's resolve as he found himself drawn deeper into the whirlwind of your enthusiasm. Despite the furrow of his brows and the sheen of sweat upon his brow, he couldn't deny the tug of your infectious energy.

With each hesitant step forward, Sukuna's internal conflict became more palpable, his movements marked by a hesitant dance between desire and duty. His concern for your safety and reputation weighed heavily upon him, casting a shadow over the impulsive joy of the moment.

As you reveled in the downpour, heedless of the consequences to your brightly colored kimono or the mud that clung to your delicate attire, Sukuna felt a pang of guilt gnaw at his conscience. Your father's expectations loomed large in his mind, a constant reminder of the responsibility entrusted to him to safeguard your well-being.

Watching you frolic amidst the puddles, your laughter echoing through the air, Sukuna's heart clenched with a mixture of apprehension and admiration. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was failing in his duty, his anxiety mounting with each daring leap you took.

"I don't know about this, my lady.” He whispers back to you, as audible as he can. The rain fall was as loud as a drum beat. “You would get sick! And what if someone sees us? Without chaperones? My lady, your reputation–”

Your words resonated with a sense of spontaneity and freedom that he couldn't ignore, stirring something deep within him. You laughed and giggled, and then smiled ever so mischievously back at him. He looked at you as though you were mad, but you did not mind him very much, spinning about the puddles. He calls you, concerned about lacing his words. You look back at him, laughing once again.

"Who cares about what they’ll say, Sukuna? My reputation? I do not care! Let's live a little! Besides, when was the last time you did something spontaneous? There’s nothing to do today. We ought to enjoy today! Drop all you’re carrying, go on. Join me!”

Reluctantly, Sukuna allowed himself to be led into the open courtyard, his footsteps heavy with apprehension as he followed your lead. The cold rain pelted down upon him, each droplet a testament to the sky's tears, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from you. Your hand, heavy with the chill of the rain, tugged gently at his, pulling him further into the heart of the storm.

Despite his reservations, Sukuna found himself captivated by the warmth of your smile, a beacon of light amidst the darkness of the rain-soaked courtyard. He stumbled slightly, his footing uncertain on the slick pavement, but his eyes remained fixed on you, unable to resist the magnetic pull of your presence.

As you twirled and danced with abandon, your laughter ringing out like music in the night, Sukuna felt a sense of wonder wash over him. Your smile, radiant and full of life, seemed to illuminate the world around him, transforming the dreary landscape into a kaleidoscope of color and light.

At that moment, as the rain fell around them, Ryomen Sukuna felt as though he were standing beneath a canopy of stars, each one shining brightly in the vast expanse of the night sky. And in your smile, he found a warmth and brightness that eclipsed even the most brilliant of constellations, filling him with a sense of wonder and awe.

"Trust me, you won't regret it!" You tell him, as you two are cast into the expanse of the bright grayish skies. You stand in front of him, your kimono wrapping itself deeper into you as you smile at him. You looked up into the sky and felt the rain pour. Enjoying what little tranquility you have born into the rainy day.

As the rain continued to pour down upon him, each droplet a reminder of the world's relentless judgment, Sukuna felt a sense of vulnerability wash over him. Towering over your figure, the rain seemed to amplify his feelings of unease, magnifying his fears of being seen as inferior.

Despite his usual stoic demeanor, Sukuna's sullen expression softened into a tender gaze as he watched you, his heart stirring with emotions he could scarcely comprehend. In these quiet moments, when the world seemed to fade away and it was just the two of you, he allowed himself to entertain the fleeting hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there could be a place for him in your heart.

But the reality of their disparate stations in life weighed heavily on Sukuna's mind, reminding him of the vast chasm that separated them. He was but a servant, bound by duty and obligation, while you were the epitome of grace and privilege. He knew that he could never bridge that divide, never dare to speak the words of longing that echoed in the depths of his soul.

And so, Sukuna resigned himself to silence, keeping his feelings hidden behind a mask of stoicism and restraint. In the quiet moments between them, he found solace in the unspoken bond they shared, cherishing the fleeting moments of connection even as he kept his true desires locked away in the depths of his heart.

"This is ridiculous..." He mumbles under his breath, clutching his chest. He takes a deep breath.

As you twirled and danced in the rain, your laughter resonating through the empty courtyard, Sukuna found himself mesmerized by your infectious energy. Despite his initial reluctance, he couldn't help but be captivated by the joy that radiated from you with each movement.

Watching you laugh and dance, each step more carefree and uninhibited than the last, Sukuna couldn't help but marvel at your ability to enchant him time and time again. There was something inexplicably magnetic about you, something that drew him in and held him spellbound.

In that moment, as the rain continued to fall around them, Ryomen Sukuna found himself caught in the gravitational pull of your laughter and movement, unable to tear his gaze away. It was as if the world had faded into the background, leaving only the two of you and the symphony of raindrops as you danced beneath the stormy sky.

You laughed as you twirled and nearly fell into a puddle, catching Sukuna off guard as he rushed to you. You continued to laugh as he helped you up, his face contorted in concern. “Come on, Sukuna, let go of your worries and just enjoy the moment! This won’t last forever, now!”

With a reluctant sigh, Sukuna felt himself succumbing to the irresistible allure of the moment. Despite his initial reservations and the weight of his concerns, he found himself swept up in the joy and spontaneity that surrounded him.

As he allowed himself to be drawn further into the dance, a rare smile began to tug at the corners of his lips, betraying the stoic facade he often wore. It was a small, hesitant expression, but one that spoke volumes about the emotions stirring within him.

"Fine, but just this once," Sukuna conceded, his voice laced with a mixture of reluctance and amusement. In that fleeting moment, as he surrendered to the whims of the rain and your infectious enthusiasm, Sukuna felt a sense of liberation wash over him, freeing him from the constraints of his own reservations.

As the rain continued to pour down, its rhythmic patter merging with the sounds of your laughter and the soft rustle of leaves, Sukuna felt the weight of the world slowly lifting from his shoulders. With each step he took, each twirl you shared, the barriers he had erected around his heart began to crumble, giving way to a newfound sense of freedom and joy.

Gone was the stoic demeanor he had worn like armor, replaced instead by an openness and vulnerability he had rarely allowed himself to display. In this moment, surrounded by the gentle embrace of the rain and the warmth of your presence, Sukuna felt truly alive.

Together, you danced amidst the droplets, your movements fluid and graceful, as if you were choreographing a dance with the elements themselves. The world around you faded into obscurity, the worries and cares of the outside world melting away in the face of the simple pleasure of the moment.

For Sukuna, who had known only the harshness of battle and the weight of his own past, this moment of respite was nothing short of a revelation. In your company, he found solace and peace, a fleeting glimpse of the happiness he had long believed to be beyond his reach. And as you danced together in the rain, lost in the beauty of the moment, Sukuna knew that he had found something truly precious: a connection that transcended time and circumstance, and a bond that would endure long after the rain had stopped falling.

In those fleeting moments, when the weight of his burdens momentarily lifted, Sukuna found himself immersed in a world of wonder and awe, captivated by the beauty unfolding before him. That night, when his village burned and he was left with nothing, you stood before him like a beacon of light in the darkness, offering him solace and sanctuary. Behind your eyes, he glimpsed the entire universe, and in that moment, you became his home.

You bestowed upon him a name, a sense of identity that he had never known before. With you, he found happiness, a fleeting but profound sense of joy that made him feel truly alive. Despite the tumultuous journey that followed, and the eventual rift that formed between them, Sukuna couldn't deny the impact you had on his life.

Even now, as he stood amidst the shadows of his past, Sukuna reflected on the world he had burned and subsequently rebirthed. Amidst all the chaos and destruction, he found purpose and beauty in the memories of his time with you. For Sukuna, life had meaning when you were by his side, and that truth remained etched in his heart, even as the sands of time continued to shift and change.

Despite the passage of centuries, the memory of your warm smile remained etched in Sukuna's mind like a sacred mantra, a beacon of light in the darkness of his existence. In those stolen moments of tranquility, he found solace in the knowledge that even in the midst of chaos and turmoil, there existed moments of fleeting happiness, like delicate blossoms scattered upon the winds of time.

As Sukuna stood amidst the haunting walls of his former home, the echoes of your laughter still reverberating in his mind, he couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of longing for the simplicity of days gone by. In those moments, when his obsession hadn't yet consumed him, life was free from the suffocating confines of power and strength—they were everything to the monster he once was.

In a world consumed by darkness, you had been his guiding light, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos of his existence. Your presence reminded him of the beauty that still existed, even in the bleakest of times. But now, you were beyond his reach, lost to the depths of time and memory. Your soul had vanished, leaving only ashes in its wake.

As he paused before the ancestral resting place, his pulse quickened with a familiar intensity. This building, standing defiant against the passage of centuries, held the remnants of your existence. He knew you were here, a silent witness to the ebb and flow of history.

But even as he yearned for your return, Ryomen Sukuna couldn't deny the bitter truth: you were gone, forever beyond his grasp. The Gojo clan, in their final act of defiance, had reclaimed your body, leaving Sukuna to mourn the loss of his beloved once more. And overtime, your soul, which he had siphoned to keep forever, had gone and disappeared. His gaze narrowed.

If Sukuna was being honest with himself, he had no right to be here. Not after what he had done to the clan, not after what he had done to you. But it was fate. You both were marked by fate. You had said so yourself. There was none of you, without him. There was no soul at all, without the other half. He belonged to you as much as you belonged to him.

As Sukuna's words hung heavy in the air, you struggled to comprehend the weight of his confession. The revelation that he intended to leave, to abandon the safety of your clan and the familiarity of home, sent a shiver down your spine. Clutching your silk sleeve to your chest, you couldn't suppress the rising sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm you.

"Why?" you implored, your voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and desperation. "What do you mean you intend to leave?"

Sukuna met your gaze with an intensity that mirrored the turmoil within his soul, his own eyes reflecting the conflict raging within. "I cannot stay," he confessed, his voice heavy with resignation. "This is not where I belong. This is not our clan. This is not home."

Your heart sank at his words, the gravity of his decision weighing heavily upon you. "But Sukuna, the Fujiwara are still a threat," you protested, shaking your head in disbelief. "They still have a bounty on your head. You cannot leave now, not when danger lurks at every turn."

"I cannot stay here... under the Gojo," Sukuna murmured, bitterness lacing his words like venom. The mere mention of the rival clan sent a chill down your spine. "What if they sell us to the Kamo? Or to the Zenin?"

The thought of falling into the hands of their enemies sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't deny the validity of Sukuna's concerns. Yet, the idea of him leaving, of facing the dangers of the world alone, filled you with a profound sense of dread.

As Sukuna's words cut through the air with a sharpness that stunned you, a sense of disbelief washed over you. His declaration, delivered with an intensity that left no room for argument, left you reeling, struggling to comprehend the depth of his mistrust.

"My husband would never do that—" you began, your voice faltering as you tried to reason with him, to bridge the chasm that seemed to widen between you with each passing moment.

"I do not trust him!" Sukuna's retort was swift, his voice tinged with an edge of desperation that startled both you and him. The realization of his own words seemed to hang heavy in the air, his breath catching in his throat as he lowered his head in a rare display of vulnerability. "I never will... You cannot force me to."

The weight of his refusal echoed in the silence that followed, leaving you grappling with the reality of his steadfast determination. As the head of your household, you had hoped your authority would carry weight, but Sukuna's unwavering resolve proved to be an immovable barrier.

"Not even as..." you trailed off, the words catching in your throat as you searched for a way to sway him, to appeal to the bond that once united you both.

"No." Sukuna's response was resolute, his head held high as he met your gaze with a steely determination that sent a shiver down your spine. In his eyes, you saw a reflection of emotions too complex to decipher, a glimpse into a soul that had been irrevocably changed by the passage of time and the weight of his own burdens.

This was not the Sukuna you once knew, you realized with a pang of sorrow. He was someone else entirely, a stranger to the depths of your heart. As the realization settled over you like a heavy blanket, you couldn't help but mourn the loss of the man you once loved, the man who had long since slipped away, leaving only a shadow of his former self behind. No, you think, there is only a curse. One that you carved into his soul. Revenge, that’s all that there is to him now.

The weight of Sukuna's plea hung heavy in the air, mingling with the bittersweet ache that tugged at your heartstrings. His offer of freedom and escape stirred a longing within you, igniting a spark of desire for a life unbound by duty and expectation.

"But where will you go?" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the tumult of emotions swirling within you. The thought of Sukuna leaving, of embarking on a journey without you by his side, filled you with a sense of unease that threatened to consume you whole. "Where will you—"

As Sukuna's hand gently cupped your cheek, his touch a fleeting caress against your skin, you felt a rush of warmth spread through you. His eyes, filled with a tender sadness that mirrored your own, searched your face as if seeking solace in the depths of your gaze.

"Come with me," he pleaded, his voice a soft whisper that reverberated in the quiet space between you. "We could roam the world together, free from the burdens of our past. We could carve out a new path, forge our own destiny."

Your heart constricted at his words, torn between the allure of adventure and the ties that bound you to this place. The image of a life lived on the road, hand in hand with Sukuna, danced tantalizingly at the edge of your consciousness, tempting you with its promise of liberation.

"I... I can't," you confessed, the words heavy with regret as you struggled to articulate the depth of your conflicting emotions. "I have a family now, Sukuna. My children... I cannot abandon them. Not even if I..." Your voice trailed off, unable to voice the unspoken truth that lingered between you—that even if you yearned to follow him, to lose yourself in the vast expanse of the world by his side, your responsibilities tethered you to this place, anchoring you to a life you had built from the ashes of your past.

"Not even if you want to."

Tears welled in your eyes at Sukuna's completion of your unspoken words, his understanding piercing through the turmoil of emotions that churned within you. "I'm sorry... I..." Your voice faltered, unable to find the words to express the depths of your conflicted heart.

As Sukuna's hand fell away from your cheek, a heavy silence settled between you, thick with the weight of unspoken truths and unfulfilled desires. His eyes, filled with a mixture of resignation and sorrow, bore into yours, conveying a silent understanding of the complexities of your situation.

"I see," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, heavy with the weight of unspoken regrets. "Forgive me for asking."

With a heavy heart, Sukuna turned to leave, his departure casting a shadow over the sacred space between you. The air seemed to grow heavier in his absence, the lingering echo of his presence haunting you like a ghost.

In the wake of his departure, you were left grappling with a tumult of conflicting emotions. Part of you yearned to chase after him, to throw caution to the wind and follow him into the unknown. The allure of adventure and the promise of a life unfettered by the constraints of the mundane world beckoned to you, tempting you to abandon all else in pursuit of the elusive freedom he offered.

As the echoes of Sukuna's footsteps faded into the distance, reality came crashing back in full force, grounding you in the present moment. The weight of your responsibilities and the bonds of love that tied you to your home and family became palpable, reminding you of the life you had chosen and the commitments you held dear.

Though the allure of adventure and the promise of a life untethered from the constraints of the mundane world may have whispered tantalizingly in your ear, you knew that your true happiness lay in the simple joys of everyday life. Surrounded by the familiar comforts of home and the warmth of your loved ones, you found solace and contentment that transcended the call of the unknown.

In the end, it was the love and responsibilities that anchored you to this place, guiding your footsteps and shaping your destiny. While the world beyond may have held its allure, you found fulfillment in the bonds you shared and the life you had built.

But as the sun rose on the new day, casting its golden rays upon the world, news of the massacre of the Fujiwara clan reached your ears. A shiver ran down your spine as you realized the implications. Ryomen Sukuna's journey was far from over—it had only just begun. And with a heavy heart, you knew that the world would never be the same again. He was not your Sukuna anymore. He was the King of Curses. And you cannot love a curse, not even if you wanted to.

The mere thought of standing before your final resting place, the solemn marker of your absence, sent a shiver down Sukuna's spine, a cold sensation that seemed to penetrate to the very core of his being. It was a stark reminder of the transient nature of life, a sobering confrontation with mortality that left him feeling strangely vulnerable.

For Sukuna, who had lived once more after thousands of years had passed, the encounter with your memory was a poignant reminder of the relentless march of time. Reborn into a vessel that barely contained his ancient power, he found himself grappling with the weight of his own existence and the echoes of his past.

Despite his attempts to distance himself from his human origins, to shed the vestiges of his former humanity, Sukuna couldn't help but feel the lingering connection to you. You, who had been his anchor in a world of chaos and darkness, remained a constant presence in his thoughts, a reminder of the humanity he had long abandoned.

Even as he stood on the precipice of oblivion, Sukuna found it impossible to consign your memory to the annals of history. In your absence, you remained etched in his mind, an indelible part of his being that refused to be forgotten, no matter how hard he tried.

As Sukuna stepped into the solemn confines of the ancestral shrine, a rush of memories flooded his mind, transporting him back to a time long past. The faces of those he once knew flickered in the dim light, each visage a testament to the passage of time and the inevitability of mortality.

His footsteps echoed softly against the polished stone floors as he made his way deeper into the shrine, the weight of his presence seeming to hang heavy in the air. Memories intertwined with the shadows, painting a vivid tapestry of days gone by.

Pausing before the grave of your father, Sukuna's gaze lingered, a mixture of reverence and regret coloring his expression. Your father had been a pillar of strength in the clan, a figure revered by all who knew him. And yet, even in death, his presence loomed large, a silent testament to the legacy he had left behind.

But it was when Sukuna's eyes fell upon your grave that time seemed to stand still. There, at the heart of the shrine, stood a full-life statue of you, radiant and eternal in its silent vigil. It was as if you had been frozen in time, your likeness preserved for eternity in marble and stone.

For Sukuna, gazing upon your statue was like confronting a ghost from his past, a haunting reminder of all that he had lost and all that he could never regain. There you stood, unchanged by the passage of centuries, a symbol of everything he could never be.

In that moment, Sukuna couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for the life he had left behind, for the warmth of your smile and the comfort of your presence. But as he stood in the shadow of your statue, he knew that his fate was sealed, bound by the chains of his own making.

Your grave stood alone at the center of the shrine, a solitary figure in a sea of memories, worshiped for being all that Sukuna could not be. And as he marveled in the silence, he couldn't help but wonder what might have been if he had chosen a different path, if he had chosen you over power and immortality. But it was too late for regrets now, too late to undo the choices that had brought him to this moment. All he could do was honor your memory and carry the weight of his sins for eternity.

As he gazes at the statue, the resemblance to your visage is striking, almost intimidating. You had a way of lingering in his thoughts, even after two thousand years had passed, remaining a haunting presence he couldn't shake. Strangely, he finds comfort in your ghostly presence; he doesn't want to escape you, if he's honest with himself. His hands reach out tentatively, mirroring the tenderness you once possessed as they brush against the cold stone.

It lacks your warmth, yet he tries to conjure the memory of it, knowing your warmth was synonymous with life itself. It's a challenge to forget you; you were unforgettable. He acknowledges that as a man like him, he has no right to mourn—he's no longer truly human. But with you, it's different; you transcended mere humanity. You were his world, his curse, and the ache of longing for you remains.

As Sukuna stands in the solemn presence of the statue, his mind becomes a battlefield of swirling emotions, each thought a tempest threatening to consume him. Amidst the stillness of the shrine, a whisper of a thought passes through his consciousness like a fleeting breeze, stirring the depths of his soul.

He wonders, with a heavy heart, if you would ever grant him the chance to speak to you again, even if only in the ethereal realm of dreams. The weight of his transgressions hangs heavy upon him, a burden he bears with aching regret and remorse.

His thoughts drift to the possibility of forgiveness, a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness that threatens to engulf him. Would you, he wonders, find it in your heart to forgive him for all he had done? Could you look past the sins of his past and see the man he longs to become?

And then, in the quiet recesses of his mind, another question emerges, tentative yet hopeful: Would you meet him in another life, in another time, and love him again? The notion fills him with both trepidation and longing, a desire for redemption intertwined with the fear of repeating past mistakes.

As the King of Curses stands before the imposing statue, its silent gaze casting a solemn shadow over the shrine, he grapples with the weight of his own existence. In the hallowed stillness of the sacred space, amidst the echoes of his tumultuous thoughts, he seeks solace, a fleeting respite from the ceaseless turmoil that churns within him.

Fickle hope flickers like a distant flame in the darkness of his heart, as he silently pleads for a chance at redemption, a glimmer of forgiveness in the face of his countless transgressions. But even as he yearns for reconciliation, a bitter truth gnaws at the edges of his consciousness: he knows he will never humble himself, never stoop to beg for your mercy. A king does not bend his knees. It was all too late. And you would never hope for it from him. You knew him too well.

For the King of Curses, pride is both his armor and his downfall, a barrier that shields him from the vulnerability of human emotion, yet also isolates him in his eternal solitude. He knows he can never be with you, not in this life or any other, for curses are not meant to know the warmth of love or the tender embrace of redemption.

In the depths of his despair, he acknowledges the irreparable chasm that separates him from you, an insurmountable divide between the angelic purity of your soul and the infernal darkness that consumes his own. He resigns himself to the harsh reality of his existence: a flower in the night, destined to yearn for the unreachable glow of the moon, while knowing that his true salvation lies forever beyond his grasp, bathed in the radiant light of the distant sun.

"Sukuna..." The sound of your voice, soft and gentle, echoes in his mind, stirring something deep within him. “Sukuna….”

As Sukuna stands in the sacred confines of the shrine, grappling with the weight of his emotions, he feels the gravity of his words hanging heavy in the air like incense smoke, swirling around him in ethereal wisps. The question lingers, a delicate thread woven into the fabric of his thoughts, as he waits with bated breath for a response that may never come.

"Would you ever let me speak to you again?" His voice is a mere whisper, barely audible above the hallowed silence of the shrine. The words escape his lips like a prayer, a desperate plea for absolution in the face of his tumultuous past. "Will you, my little night flower?"

The stillness of the shrine remains unbroken, the only sound the soft echo of his own voice reverberating off the ancient stone walls. Yet, despite the absence of a tangible answer, Sukuna can't help but sense a presence, a ghostly whisper of your essence lingering in the sacred space.

Closing his eyes, Ryomen Sukuna offers a silent prayer to the heavens knowing full well that the gods would never accept the prayer of an infidel. He could care less about their judgments. Yet, in the depths of his heart, he harbors the belief that if his words were to reach anywhere, it would be in your arms, wherever you may be. In the quiet sanctuary of the shrine, surrounded by the echoes of his own longing, he clings to the fragile hope that perhaps, somewhere in the depths of eternity, you're listening, ready to grant him the solace and redemption he so desperately seeks.

As the moon wanes overhead, casting its ethereal glow upon the shrine, Sukuna remains, allowing your memory to haunt him. If it means just one more night with you, he is willing to endure the torment of your ghostly presence. Though weary from his journey, he finds solace in the thought of being in your presence once more, even if only in his dreams.

As he kneels before you, the lilac crystal adorning the shrine gleams softly in the moonlight, casting a delicate hue upon the scene. In this moment, Ryomen Sukuna finds a semblance of peace, a fleeting respite from the turmoil of his immortal existence. Perhaps, he muses, this is all there is to be—an eternal dance between curses and prayers, between love and longing.

When the sun rose, he let the boy have control.

Ryomen Sukuna let himself stand within his realm.

Loneliness seeping in, the night drifting away with you.

For you only belong in the wide sky, his night flower.

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chrisevansonly · 7 months

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𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒐𝒏 | 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒄

☁︎charles leclerc x female reader

☁︎there is nothing that brings in the fall feeling than a little cuddle on the couch and a binge watching party for gilmore girls…and yes, charles loves it just as much as you do

☁︎no warnings just very cute and wholesome:)

☁︎oh my godddd anyway we’re almost at the end of the fall celebration🥹 i’ve been having so much fun writing these and im gonna miss them so much! i feel like this is bad and crappy but ill be doing a christmas version in december so great ready for that ;)

If there was one thing Charles loved more than you, it was the little traditions you’d both started since getting together, many of them he’d adapted from you and your love for fall and all things october. More recently you’d introduced your boyfriend to Gilmore Girls, and if anyone knows this show, the best time to watch it is in the fall when the leaves are all changing and the weather turns a bit cooler.

“Do you need any help baby?”

You could hear his voice from the living room as you stood in the kitchen, just finishing up some last minute pastries and snacks for the two of you

“Um I think I might need some help to organize all of these things” you stated with a slight laugh, yes you were known to go overboard with food

“Wow, we could feed a whole family with this mon amour…”

Your cheeks flushed as you shrugged

“Well I did kind of invite Carla and Arthur to come over and watch…they’ve never watched it…”

It should be mentioned that you and Charles rewatched Gilmore Girls every fall, it was your favourite bingeable show to enjoy together

“What?!”

“I know I said the same thing”

Charles almost couldn’t believe your ears, if people thought Lando Norris was the king of sass, they’d be surprised to see Charles’s sassy attitude at home with you

“How can people just not watch Gilmore Girls? It’s just-it makes no sense.”

Laughing you walked over and pressed a kiss to his lips

“Don’t worry lovie, we’ll make sure they watch every episode carefully”

“They better, it’s important”

With a last dramatic sigh he moved to the kitchen to help organize all your snacks, which allowed you to pour the apple ciders in to your cute fall mugs, placing them neatly on a tray and bringing them to the expansive coffee table. Your next task as placing a few blankets on the couch and dimming the lights to perfect for your afternoon and evening of tv watching

“It looks perfect as usual baby”

Smiling you leaned into Charles’s side as you both examined your hard work, well more so yours because the last time the monégasque tried to help you ended up with burnt turnovers and very crispy croissants. He might be quite handsome, but he was a far better race car driver than he was a baker or a cook, that was for sure.

“Thank you lovie, now we just wait for Carla and Thur and we will be ready to go”

“What would I do without you?” Charles stated, leaning down to press a kiss firmly to your lips as you smiled

“Hmm..probably die of starvation and never know the beauty of Gilmore Girls…”

At this Charles simply laughed, he couldn’t agree more with that, although he could cook a pretty mean toast for breakfast, he knew, better than anyone that he was the luckiest man in the world to be here with you.

Even if he had to share his binge watching duties with his little brother and his girlfriend…but let’s be honest, it couldn’t be that bad.

383 notes · View notes

gyuswhore · 5 months

Text

Remembrance of Ice

"Fear does anything but land with precision."

PAIRING: ice king!xu minghao x fem spy!reader

SYNOPSIS: Xu Minghao rules over a land where the sun never rises and crops never grow, shunned by the world for their nature so ruthless it has them caged within their borders.

That is, until you land straight into the dragon's den to find the story untold.

CONTAINS: angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, kinda lore heavy, reader and minghao are in a perpetual spat, talks of military and political power, manipulation (not by minghao), ft. chan

WORD COUNT: 5.3k

masterlist

[AN]: MIKA DAY MIKA DAY MIKA DAY except im a day late bc I don't know how to time manage ANYWAY mika my love I hope you enjoy this you mentioned villain hao that one time and I stuck to it praying this is good ksjgnvrkjgn @toruro

id love to turn this into a longer, more detailed fic in the future, I really like this concept and theres loads more I could do with it. lmk if you'd like to see it hehe

edit: had to repost a couple times cuz it wasn't showing in the tags. it still isn't but idc anymore if this only reaches mika then so be it sgnkrtjg

The cold was the worst.

Your iced pride had been swallowed down to accept the flimsy cloth the guards that pushed you into this stone dungeon had given you. Not that it was doing much to help you, the thin fabric acting as more of a permeable layer than your gear.

Huddling into yourself, you breathe out warm exhales in the hopes that it’d do something about the face you couldn’t feel anymore. With the sight of your discolouring fingernails, you hope the people in this wretched place would decide what they wanted to do with you before you succumbed to the cold. There’s a bad taste in your mouth at the thought of dying a death like this – that the cold would become your ultimate demise.

The croning of the metal doors of your prison wrench open in what feels like a deafening sound, the screech having you throw the flimsy blanket off your body in haste. You would not be seen taking advantage of their supposed kindness.

The two guards that trudge in are quick to tell you to stand. You nearly laugh at the prospect of doing anything they ask.

“What do you want?” your voice has eroded to a brassy sound.

“Stand up,” the guard repeats, his face covered in the black balaclava that wraps around everything but spares his eyes. Cold, dark, soulless.

Your pride screamed to refute. But you were at a dead end, and perhaps it was time to accept it. Eyeing the weapons strapped to both their waists, moreso the lack thereof of your own, you make the first attempt to pull yourself up. It’s difficult, you find, needing a moment to regain your senses before pushing up completely. You tried not to show it, not wanting to look weak in front of the very people you need to show strength.

“Hands,” the other guard gruffs out.

You hesitate before bringing your shivering wrists forward, cursing yourself for not being able to control your own body. The cuffs they bind to your wrists are somehow even colder, and you have to consciously bite back a cursed wince.

Your resolve begins to truly thin when you struggle to simply take a few steps forward, the muscles in your legs frozen like everything else in the room. You manage to not fall. A commendable feat when your goals went from overtaking a couple of (very armed) guards to simply not falling over like a newborn fawn.

You feel them lightly shove you out the gates, something you should not have struggled to recover from from, but alas, you can only grit your already ground teeth as you try to not tip over entirely. The halls of the dungeons are made of the same gray concrete as your cell, the tight corridor leading you out into an only slightly larger hall with a single door at the seemingly dead end.

The large brass handle with the distinct reptile circling its expanse stares at you. You are forced to consider the idea that these may be your final breaths.

One of the guards squeezes out into the hall and approaches the door, three sharp knocks to the wood before you hear a muffled “come in.”

Your feet remain planted to the floor as you feel another push of the guard that remains behind you, urging you forward as the other one stands at the door, expecting you to walk inside. Perhaps some would classify this as a moment of weakness, especially when all you’ve been taught is to face death with anything but fear. But it seeps into your bones regardless.

You wonder if all those stories you were told of fearless soldiers and sheilds of humans were as lionhearted in their final moments as the storytellers claimed, as brave as the legends that followed.

You considered yourself one of the best in your field, most of your peers agreed. And yet, that moment of hesitancy in the face of potential death caged you in an unimaginable retaliance. What on Earth was wrong with you?

And so you moved forward, one foot in front of the other with resilience fueled by pure outrage at your own feeble mind. You would do as you were taught, you would march into the mouth of the dragon because you were not allowed to fear death. You refused to meet your end as a coward.

The cuffs that encase your wrists burn at the skin as you walk into the room. It’s small, small enough to force you and the two guards to shift closer to keep from the man that stands across the room.

You almost don’t notice him, which alarms you immensely. Regardless of the stark black attire that matches the dark, gloomy atmosphere of the tiny room, the man seems to blend into the shadows, becoming part of the walls. His back faces you as he looks out the window, like he’s invigorated with the snow that drifts to the earth.

It’s nighttime. It’s always night time here.

“The prisoner, sire,” the one in your left gruffs out.

The man at the window turns to face you, the sight of his face causing you to bite back a gasp.

His skin is the same colour as the snowflakes that fall behind him, near glistening white. It seems to make every other feature of his face stand out in earnest; the black of his eyes, the crimson of his lips, the dark of his hair.

He’s gorgeous, you decide, but you also decide that you may be about to die at his hands.

There’s also the matter of how he was addressed by the goons that flank you. Unless sire means something else in this godforsaken land, you should have realized who this is by now.

Xu Minghao’s expression remains unchanged, the mild disinterest evident as he barely glances at you before taking a seat at the makeshift office area in the middle of the room. He leans back against the plush, finally regarding the other people in the room with words.

“You can leave.”

You hear the guards begin to file out the room.

“Ah—take off the restraints before you go. And shut the door.”

You want to describe what his voice sounds like, and while indifferent to another, it’s like a million icicles plunging into your eardrums. It isn’t until the guard blocks your view to unlock you that you realize how strained your eyes were, like it was draining to simply look at him.

When both guards have left the vicinity, doors closed with a deep thud, you set yourself in steel. Just because he was about to kill you didn't mean you were about to make it easy for him.

You wonder why a king was meddling to discard a mere enemy officer, but if you knew anything of their bloodthirst, this was a form of amusement.

“Well?” you say, your voice still bare-there.

“Take a seat.” He means the lone chair that stands on your side of the table.

“No,”

His eyebrows shoot up, “No?”

You stare at him, and it's the first time he’s looked at you for more than three seconds.

“No,” you reiterate. “If you’d like to eliminate me, I’d suggest we cut to the chase. I don’t want your bleak hospitality.”

“Are you offering your head?”

“I’m asking you to quit the niceties. We know what you are.”

He studies you for a moment before continuing quietly, “Who is we?”

Your jaw is set as you calm yourself down, “The people who keep coming into your barren lands, only to never return. My people.”

“Your people that keep invading this barren land, only to find out that actions have consequences?”

“The mere thought of us is a consequence for you vermin,” you spit.

“Your people, you had said?” There’s a strange hint of jest in his voice, and it only infuriates you even more.

“Yes,” you breathe out.

“Your people who have not once attempted to negotiate your release from us vermin, I thought your people were known for your camaraderie. Especially for such an important soldier, do they truly consider you that disposable? ”

The low fester of embers had now ignited into a full flame, the rage becoming near indescribable. Aside from how heinous, you had underestimated how infuriating his kind could be.

“You know nothing of me!” your voice is loud, your own shade of venom that laces your tongue.

And then he says your name.

You falter.

He shouldn’t know that. You don’t have a nametag, nothing to identify you on any record, anywhere. And yet, you know what you’ve heard is your name that fell from his lips, undeniably so.

He continues with the faintest sneer, “Captain of the SUN team, first in line from your peers for a promotion, and of course, right hand of your idiotic General of the Army.”

You can't be sure if you’re shivering from the cold or the rage that courses through every vein in your body. Perhaps it was the latter as you feel your mind shortcircuit at the sight of his smug face.

And, of course, with the way you lunge.

It takes barely a second for your numb fingers to reach his pristine throat, curling with the need to rupture his airways beyond measure. It also takes him barely a second to step out of the way, causing you to thud into the table, fingers faltering as they grasp onto nothing.

The air is knocked out of your chest, and you don’t realize what’s happened. He’s quick, and you’re out of shape. He’s on the other side of the table, hands in his pockets as he stares at your weak attempts at regaining your bearings.

“This is the problem with your people. Why must your first response to any confrontation be to fight to the death?”

Leaping over the table, you attempt to corner him against the wall, only to find him leap over to the other side of the table when you advance, switching your initial spots. It might have even been laughable if you weren’t so heated, like children running around in circles in a lethal game of tag.

He takes advantage of yet another moment of weakness you’ve shown, pushing the separating table directly into you, forcing you back as you stumble to hit the window. The opening is just enough to fit your waist, with no room for your legs to leap back over, locked in at the sides of the table that effectively cages your body between wood and glass.

Your first instinct is to push the wretched thing back, but you realize very quickly that you can’t. It shouldn’t explain how he was able to cage you in a place like this, especially with his scrawny build. Unless he’s locked it in place somehow, you wouldn’t put it past him.

“What the fuck?” you gasp out to mostly yourself.

“You’ve weakened, little soldier. I heard you were better than this.”

“Let me go so I can prove it to you then,” you spit, still fruitlessly struggling against your prison.

“Had your chance,” he states, hands in his pockets, an eyebrow cocked. “Of course, fear does anything but land with precision. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“What makes you think I’m scared of you?”

“Oh, you are such a simpleton,” he narrows his eyes.

“You haven’t been talking about anything of substance for someone who doesn’t claim to be scared. What’s holding you?” you gruff.

He stares for a moment like he’s studying you. For some reason, your struggling falters, his piercing gaze leaving you wondering what he had up his sleeve.

“You know you are weak. Your strength isn’t nearly where it had been when you arrived. I’ve also been told you’ve been starving yourself.”

“I said I don’t want your hospitality!”

“You were supposedly indifferent to everyone in the room, including the guards, but you kept your eyes on me like a hawk. The first mention out your mouth was of death.”

“Was I supposed to expect compassion?” you mock, but the desperation lingers in your voice.

“Can’t be helping knowing nobody is looking for you,” he finishes.

“Because you would’ve sent me on my way home if they were? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Quite right, yes.”

“Like you did with the other soldiers that seemingly disappear in your lands?”

“Nobody asked, so we did not deliver.”

“Lies!” It comes out as a near scream.

You think of all the stretched months that turned into inevitable years trying to retrieve your lost manpower. Of course, your higher-ups asked for hostage negotiations, did everything in their power to bring them home.

Fitting for the man in front of you to deny it, but infuriating nonetheless.

“And you’re wildly defensive,” he sighs. “You’re scared. Of being in enemy territory, of dying, of being alone. One or the other, that’s for you to decide.”

You want to scream again.

“They lied to you, soldier. And I may be a villain in your self-written history books, but you will come to know of the harsh truth, from me or anybody else. You should know what exactly it is that you’re fighting for.”

“What are you yapping about?”

He turns back around, moving to the door before rapping a knock. The guards re-enter the room.

“Take her to base.”

“Chan?”

He stands at the entrance of the tent, speaking to somebody in armor with a solemn expression. He turns around at the sound of his name, catching sight of you walking up.

He breaks out into a smile at the sight of you, eyes going wide as he excuses himself to sprint over. You’re not quite sure if the fatigue is causing you to hallucinate, but with the way his face becomes clearer with every step he takes, you have to convince yourself that you’re not.

As appropriate as it is to slam into him in a hug, considering you thought he was dead mere seconds ago, you can’t see yourself caring.

“They told me it was you that arrived,” he says.

“Oh my god, I thought you were dead. Everybody thought you were dead. How are you here?” you breathe into his ear.

He pulls away slowly, and you note how he doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Chan?”

“There’s a lot to unpack here. Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

A lot to unpack there was, you realize, as the guards leave you with Chan when said to. The questions doubled when you entered the significantly warmer tent to find it swarming with familiar faces, busy working on tables littered with charts and papers, military symbols drifting overhead.

Chan is quick to let you know that none of the ‘fallen’ soldiers were missing at all. In fact, were stationed here at this military base.

Your gaping mouth renders no response as he fishes you both through the hustle and bustle of the industrial canopies, destination unknown. As much as you’d kick yourself for your lack of vigilance, you find yourself trusting him to take you wherever, your mind preoccupied with trying to absorb every detail of your environment.

If this was what sensory overload was, you’re not sure you like it blocking your thinking capabilities this much.

He lets you into another tent, littered with trunks and equipment, lit with a couple hardworking oil lamps. He goes to rummaging in random trunks as you watch.

“What is this place?”

“Inventory. Clothes and a bunch of other stuff,” he says as he throws you a pile of fabric. “Here, change into this, it’s warmer.”

He leaves you alone in the tent to change, which you do quickly to meet him again outside. Moving the flap of the tent away, you find him out in the snow waiting.

It isn’t until you’ve adequately cornered him that you can ask. “Chan, are being held here against your will? Is everybody here—”

“Wait, hold,” he holds a hand up to silence you. “Just—let me explain.”

You’re rendered silent in a corner of this base camp, albeit a little warmer than when you came in with the effective coat you’re now shrouded in. Other than being lost in a mine of confusion, you notice the calculated expression on Chan’s face when you bring it up. Like he didn’t know how you’d react.

“There’s been a lot of lies our entire life. One’s that we didn’t realize till we landed here,” he starts, facing the endless plane of snow to the East.

“What on Earth are you talking about?” you ask, keeping your eyes steady on him.

“These people aren’t cruel, nor are they the animals we’ve been told they are,”

“Chan, what is wrong with you?” you take a step back in mild exasperation.

“Listen, this sounds insane, but it’s only because we’ve been brought up to believe anything the government told us, anything our superiors drilled into our heads. I’d started having doubts while we were still home—”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Nobody wanted to tell you anything. You were more loyal to the General than you were to yourself!”

“I—because…” you falter. He was right.

“They’ve taken advantage of the way this land refuses to retaliate. We’ve been in the wrong this whole time.”

“I don’t know what it is that they’ve been feeding you for so long, but this isn’t the Chan that left home all those months ago.”

“You’re right,” you hear, but it’s not Chan.

Whipping your head around, you find the overlord himself walking to where you were.

“Apologies for interrupting, but I think you’re needed back there, Chan,” Minghao informs him as he regards him.

You whip back around to Chan, “Wait, you can’t just—”

“Listen, it’s going to take you a little bit, but I promise you’ll see what I mean,” he reiterates.

“This is absurd—” you start again but are cut off by him again. He lurches forward, grasping both your wrists in his, forcing you to pay attention to him.

“Do you trust me?”

“W-what?”

“Answer the question. Do you trust me?”

You stare at him, stumped for a moment. Did you trust him? Five months ago, before he left, you would’ve said yes in a heartbeat. Yet, now you find yourself hesitating.

“Yes. I trust you,” you decide out loud.

“Then give it time. You’re shaken, you’re exhausted, you’re confused. You’ll make your decision yourself when you see for yourself.”

He watches your shoulders droop ever so slightly, a clear sign of your surrender. “Fine.”

“Good.”

You turn back to find the other man long gone, the vast expanse of snow and darkness engulfing the plane that leads to the congregation of tents. Chan begins to lead you back, mumbling about how he needs to get back inside.

It’s during your trudge that you realize there’s something that still bugs you, supposing you’d get your answer if you asked him.

“What’s the king doing meddling in military bases and war prisoners?” you begrudgingly ask.

“He’s very… hands-on, I guess. He cares about what happens around here, his land, his people.”

“Like a normal ruler?” you mumble in annoyance.

“When was the last time you saw the General leave his office?”

You haven’t.

A month. That’s how long you’ve been at this base camp.

Enlightenment may be an understatement to what this place is giving you, absurdities that they call the truth. Absurdities, as you may have called them a moon ago.

This barren country did not have a military, you were told. These makeshift headquarters were made to keep up with the endless external aggressions from the other side.

“They’re all people given the choice to stay. We needed the manpower. Military precision was never our forte,” Minghao explains.

You hate how he has an answer to every critical question of yours, how you’ve gone past thinking this was some elaborate, well-thought-out story to put your guard down, to put everyone’s guard down.

Sitting at this wooden table with maps and charts littering the surface, he looks you down from the other end. Chan remains silent next to you, knowing that if you asked, he would’ve given you the same response.

“So you’re trying to build an army? To what, retaliate?” Your arms remain crossed over your middle.

“We cannot retaliate,” Chan says.

“The difference in military power is too much, anyway. We can’t fight something that fights us in different ways,” Minghao finishes. He looks stressed, pinching the bridge of his nose. You watch him drag a chair to sit down.

The majority of camp was resting for the day, leaving the base relatively empty save for the three of you.

“Different ways?” you question.

You watch him close his eyes, running a hand over his face. “Chan, you told me she was smart.”

“She’s having a harder time adjusting than I thought she would,” he chuckles humourlessly in response.

“Are you gonna tell me, or do I have to take another month to figure it out on my own?” you snap.

“What have you been told about our borders? Why is this land the way that it is,” Minghao starts.

You don’t have an answer because you’ve never been told. The general was forever adamant that a land and its people were interconnected, that Minghao’s nation was as ruthless as the land itself was.

“What about what you thought?” he tries again.

“Nature’s weird, I don’t know,” you huff.

“You were so loyal to a man that had no rhyme to his reason. How blind did you have to be—”

“Keep to the question,” you monotone.

He exhales before continuing. “This land is the incarnation of balance. It might not look like it, but we play the most important role in making sure your nations remain stable.”

“Regular communities cannot survive in this weather, the livestock perishes, and crops cannot grow. Everything that makes humanity thrive remains absent here.” Minghao places his elbows on the table, hands clasped together. “But it remains like this here so the rest of the world can foster humanity; that’s the purpose of this land.”

“A sacrifice of sorts,” Chan adds quietly.

“My land remains lifeless so others may thrive,” Minghao finishes.

“Why…why this land?” you question after a few beats.

He leans back against his chair, “I don’t know. Perhaps my ancestors were cursed. Perhaps this is just what this land was made to do. All I know is that my mother and father left me the job of ensuring this place is protected, as their mother and father taught them. All for the sake of keeping balance.”

It was wildly ironic that a place that was the definition of extreme was seemingly also harboring the balance to this world, but you found no jest in his words. You had also learned that it was the more unbelievable things here that would turn out to be most true, so you let yourself believe in whatever lore you had just unlocked.

“So you can’t retaliate,” you echo.

“Not if we wish to keep the peace, no.”

Chan chimes in this time, “This is all really just a misunderstanding that’s fallen into the wrong hands. The General’s a bloodthirsty fuck; this is just an excuse for him to retain power and satisfy all his sick fantasies.”

“How do we fix this then?” you dare to ask.

“We can’t,” Minghao says. “Not right now, at least. If we want to make a move, we have to grow as an entity. What your General doesn’t understand is how he’s feeding his own enemy whenever he sends some poor soldier our way.”

“That’s what everyone’s been working on. The SUN team is nearly complete with you here. We need to equip everyone here with skills more than anything,” Chan says.

“And then?”

“And then we let the General know who’s side we’re really on.”

Xu Minghao had a very peculiar way as King.

Other than remaining in the same bunkers as the rest of the population, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone besides the guards address him as sovereign. He sat with everyone during mealtimes, spoke to everyone like a friend, yet remained the one in charge.

Over the months, you remained the last newcomer of the bunch, learning slowly but surely of your new truth. That was, until your sixth month.

It happened during breakfast, walking out into the dark sky to greet the person Minghao had told you was the newest aggravated prisoner. You knew her from headquarters, having seen her multiple times as she trained, but never learned her name. Her brows unfurrow slightly at the sight of you, recognizing you immediately.

You try to stay as others who remain familiar to the newcomer speak to her, adding where your credibility was due. You underestimated how difficult it would be, not because she was being frustrating, but because she was frustrated.

With every surge of exasperation she showed, every snarky remark to words of reason, you saw yourself. A strange, heavy feeling sets itself in your chest, making it difficult to speak, difficult to simply stand there as you watch her ideologies rendered as lies.

So you excuse yourself, moving out of the way into the snow you’d learned to make a confidant instead of an irritation. It wasn’t strange to find somebody contemplating alone in the snow, the constant darkness ready to keep everyone company.

You aren’t sure what it is that you want to contemplate, but simply sitting in the snow helps, allowing you to remain unstimulated. The weird feeling remained, but what also remained was your brain's inability to distinguish one from the other.

You don’t know how long you had been sitting there, but are aware of the lighter sheen of blue that the sky has turned into when you hear trudging behind you. You turn to find Minghao approaching, halting a foot away.

“Did you see the newcomer?” he asks.

“Yeah. They’re handling it, she’ll be fine.”

It falls silent once more. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t warmed up to the man in the past months, perhaps even enough to call yourself friends. Chan had quite the role to play in that.

He invites himself to sit next to you in the snow, letting out a deep exhale that fogs the air. “I wanted to ask if you were okay.”

You’re stumped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well…” he chortles. “You’ve been sitting here for a good three hours, so I only thought it was natural to assume.”

“It’s not good to assume.”

“And that you can’t be doing too well seeing the newcomer.”

“...Got me,” you whisper, still gazing into the far-off mountains.

“You can talk about it if you want,” he offers.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you sigh.

“Or is there too much to talk about?” he raises a brow.

You’ve turned to look at him at this point, making out his facial features with the low light of the lamps that burn in the distance.

“How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Know what I’m thinking about.”

“You’re easier to read than you think,” he chuckles. “Why? D’you think I’m reading your mind?”

“Seems like it sometimes.”

“Do you miss home?” he asks, albeit a little cautiously.

“I do. I miss what it meant to me. I don’t think I could go back and feel the same way, though,” you answer. If he was trying to get you to open up, he was succeeding.

“Why’s that?”

You snort, “Obvious, isn’t it? Can’t call a place full of lies home. I can’t believe I let them manipulate me to that extent.”

You think of the mental turmoil on the girl's face.

“It wasn’t your fault. You were doing what you taught.”

“Other people found holes in the story, though. They saw the beginnings of what was really happening. I was so blind, they couldn’t even try to talk me out of it.”

“You can’t keep blaming yourself. It was the General’s job to be conniving. What use if his right hand could see through it. With how long it took you to come around, it only shows how dangerous he is.”

You remain silent as you absorb his words. There was truth to them, but you find it hard to dissolve it into your mindset.

“What matters is you're here now, that you chose the truth despite what you’d grown to learn.” He’s staring right at you when he says it, something you find as you look up to do the same.

There’s a lurch in your stomach, one that has your cheeks burning despite the temperature.

“How do you not hate any of these people? How do you not hate me? We’re the reason your people are so detested,” your voice comes out shaky, yet thick with a weird mix of emotions.

“I hate the ones that choose to be like this despite knowing what the truth is.”

“Like the General?”

“Like the General.”

It’s silent as you watch him gaze into your soul, an uncomfortable feeling yet one that stops you from looking away.

You want to kiss him.

The thought alone has you jumping in place, shaking off the way your body seems to have seized up. You move your knees away in blatant ignorance, looking at anything but his face.

“What?” he asks at your sudden change in behavior.

“Nothing!” you say, a little too loud to be considered casual.

“Why’d you move away?”

“I didn’t!” Of course, you realize how stupid you sound. You huff as you continue, “Just—I don’t know!”

“You don’t know what?”

“Goodness, you need to learn to drop things.”

“Not when it involves me,” he says.

“Who says it involves you?”

“Do we need to go over this again?”

You look at him in question, only to realize he could read you just as well as he could at any other instance.

“You’re not gonna like it,” you finally say.

“Try me.”

“Would you hate me if I said I wanted to kiss you?”

He pauses for an agonizing few moments, ones that make you feel like erupting into a ball of fire that could melt all the snow in the land. Your numb fingers fidget with each other, hating yourself as soon as the words come out of your mouth.

Minghao uses his mouth in ways other than words when you feel it against your lips. It takes you a moment to realize what’s happening and another to let your body take control.

He’s kissing you so painfully slow it has you wondering if you’re imagining it, the feeling of his surprisingly warm lips on your frozen ones. You pull away for a moment, a question ringing in your mind.

“I’m not making a mistake, am I?” you breathe into his mouth.

“Absolutely not,” he says, diving back in with a force not present before.

You throw your arms around him in instinct to keep yourself from falling back onto the snow in his newfound enthusiasm. Not that you can find yourself complaining, especially not when his tongue prods against your bottom lip, urging you to open up for him.

You let him pull you closer, let him explore your mouth, let him hold you as you give yourself up to the feelings that now, after so long, have finally boiled over.

You’re both breathless when you pull away, remaining in each other’s arms as you gain your bearings.

“Figured it out, did you?” he asks with the slightest smirk.

Of course, with every passing instance that he’s reminded you of the mental walls you don’t seem to have with him, this was perhaps his end goal. You want to ask when he figured out you liked him before, wondering if he had known before you had in the first place.

He doesn’t let you, though, as his smiling lips meet yours again, chasing the feeling that's come forth after months of waiting.

You’ll find out the run down soon enough. For now, you give into him, believing in your ice-cold heart that Xu Minghao would never lie to you.

Taglist: @weird-bookworm @rubyreduji @vampirexlotita @simqly-yunjin @tomodachiii

#seventeen #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen x reader #seventeen imagines #minghao #minghao fluff #minghao angst #minghao imagines #minghao x reader #the8 #em.writes

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jayden-killer · 6 months

Text

Unforeseeable incident.

(Loki x fem!reader).

summary: you agreed with your best friend Thor to come to Asgard, expecting you could take well the interdimentional voyage. Well, you didn't. And now you're stuck in a certain prince's bed...

warnings: none. This is a LOKI AU!! This takes place in an universe where Loki was never traumatised by Odin and the events of the first Thor movie don't happen!!!

☆

Hot.

What I felt on my skin was a suffocating heat that left me no time to breathe.

I could feel the drops of sweat on my forehead, and my breathing was straining as I regained consciousness. Until I opened my eyes with a startle. As if I were drowning in the open sea my lungs filled with all the air possible; I inhaled, I exhaled. I did it a second, then a third time, until my breathing settled. My first thought, looking around the room decorated with antique ornaments, illuminated by the light fire from the fireplace, was that it was certainly not on Earth. Had I been abducted? By aliens? Perhaps I sounded tempting for dinner.

Definitely.

All the thoughts in my head distracted me from the slender figure and well dressed in green and golden armor. The raven hair was well combed backwards. And those aquamarine eyes that reminded me of the salty expanse that I loved so much. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw me awake.

"My apologies, young lady, I didn't mean to startle you" was his kind voice.

"I am.. where?" That’s all I could say in the throes of curiosity and fear. If I was kidnapped, I had to at least know the name of my kidnapper.

"I offer you my sincere apologies on behalf of Loki, God of Mischief, son of Odin, and Frigga, brother of Thor and future King of Asgard". He bent down at the bed foot, his face quite close to mine. I could see the delicate features of his face, his lips rosy and thin...

Wait a second. Asgard. Thor..

Oh.

Now my little neurons were connecting.

My hand hit my forehead hard, making the slap ring throughout the room. The raven-haired boy let out an amused laugh. "Your brother is an idiot if he thought I would survive the Bifrost trip," I said, rolling my eyes.

"My brother is many things. Among these, he do not have any sense". He smiled again. "Foolish brother..."

"Right.."

Sitting down, resting my head on the soft (royal) pillow, I still looked around the lost room. It was clear that Asgard, one of the worlds of the Nine Kingdoms, had just come out of a chapter of the ``Lord of the Rings``. Everything seemed so... medieval.

"Make me guess, Prince Loki..."

He raised a hand in dissent and laughed. "I do not approve of the use of real titles, I find them retrograde. We may also be a different people from you Midgardians, however..."

This time it was my turn to interrupt him. "Midgardians?"

"Ah, yes," he smiled. "Mortals. Humans. Earthlings. Which one do you prefer?"

"Every of them, as long as you don’t use earthlings. It looks like I'm talking to an alien." I shuddered at the idea and he couldn’t help but laugh. He moved to the edge of his large bed, standing beside me, while maintaining a distance between us. "I will never do it again, I swear to the gods."

"But you are a God," I pointed out.

"Ah, correct answer, but I am not a superior God."

My eyes shrunk into two small slits, confused. "Okay, go ahead."

"As I said, you mortals are not accustomed to the use of our means of transport. It was clear that you would not be able to pass out at the end of the journey. No wonder my bum-head brother didn’t show you the instructions".

Now I was more confused than before. "Are there any instructions on how to cross it?"

"We’re not barbarians!" he replied, offering me a mischievous smile from those who knew each other. Then he stood up, not looking away from mine. He kept his smile curved towards the corner of his cheek, turning the bed and walking towards the door. Meanwhile I remained on the bed, never breaking the visual contact between us. It was intense, a visual contact that implied that between us it would be a deep future connection.

"Your Asgardian clothes are resting on the chair at the bottom of the room," he said softly, keeping the gold-plated knob in his hand.

"I’m going to have a chat with my stupid brother. You, instead, take it easy, Midgardian."

I think he meant the change of clothes.

Before he could let me fight with my thoughts soft eyes turned towards my direction with a mixed look of curiosity and malice, saying with confidence: "I expect to see you take part in the annual welcome back ceremony of the eldest son tonight. Don’t be late, Odin doesn’t like to wait". With this, he closed the door behind him, and I swore on my life to hear him sniggering. I think it was the third or fourth time I turned to look at the room I was in, in a state of confusion. As much confusion when I wondered aloud if Thor, in another universe, had measured his boldness better.

#marvel imagine #marvel x reader #loki x reader #loki laufeyson x y/n #loki x y/n #loki laufesyon x reader #loki laufeyson #loki series #au!#au #one short #imagine #mcu #oneshot #tom hiddleston #loki x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki

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flowersandbigteeth · 5 months

Text

Meeting your changeling BF: pt 8

General Plot: You arrive in Darkbell and meet the king

Word Count: 3.5K

Changeling (Clark) x f nymph reader

TW: yandere behavior, sfw fluff, magic

Previous parts and more nsfw monsters here

The troubling thoughts were scrubbed from your mind when you reached the gates of Darkbell. They were massive, rising up several stories and made of some gleaming white metal.

“Amazing, hm? The gates of Darkbell have never been breached. The citizens have lived safely inside for centuries.” Clark said, pulling your horse to the side where there was a smaller entrance with a night elf guard.

“State your business,” he barked, not at all friendly.

Clark opened his jacket and pulled out some document.

“I’ve been sent by the Mage’s Chamber to answer your request,” he said.

The night elf examined the document carefully, then looked at you, his glowing violet eyes skeptical.

“What about her? Doesn’t say anything in here about a nymph,” he said.

Clark sighed and rolled his eyes.

“For Goddess’s sake,” he grumbled. “No one is trying to break into your bloody cave. She’s my wife! Why else do you think I’m carrying around a nymph?”

He pulled out the two little booklets the administrator had given you to mark your marriage and showed them to the elf. The guard didn’t seem the least bit moved by Clark’s tirade, but handed his documents back and waved you through.

“Proceed straight to the castle,” he said as you passed.

Clark mocked him in silence when you were out of his view.

“Be nice,” you said, smacking him lightly on his arm.

“You are too sweet, my love,” he said, nuzzling your ear.

You gasped at your first vision of Darkbell. Clark’s description did not do it justice. The city was stunning. The homes and businesses were cut directly into a shimmering blue stone, flecked with sparkles that looked like stars. Gravity defying aquaducts wound around the buildings delivering water in sparkling waterfalls to various ponds and wells tucked in walled gardens. The paths were lined with blocks of the same gleaming white metal as the gates. There weren’t just glowing mushrooms, there were bioluminescent vines and flowers climbing every vertical surface and clusters of gently pulsing fungus crowded the corners.

Night elves moved elegantly through the neighborhoods, their skin a similar blue to the buildings but their eyes glowing a rainbow of colors– blue, green, pink, and violet. The cave was relatively dim, but you could still see quite well with tall illuminated fungus growing along the avenue like street lamps.

At the far end of the massive expanse that was the city, a lovely sparkling castle sat at the top of hundreds of stairs. It appeared to be carved from blue and purple crystals that were hundreds of feet tall. Even more crystals arranged almost like stonehenge circled the main building. As you approached, your eyes followed two of the aquaducts emptying into a wide river that bisected the city. It was clear and still as glass with massive white fish with no eyes gracefully swirling their long fins below the smooth surface.

“How pretty,” you breathed, your eyes eating it up like candy.

“It is a little pretty,” he agreed, guiding your horse along the widest road towards the castle.

You had to dismount in front of another surly guard at the base of the castle.

“King Khelvan is expecting you,” he said, carefully examining all of our documents again. “Proceed.”

“The king,” you whispered as Clark took your hand to lead you up the staircase. “I’ve never met a king before! What do I do?”

He chuckled.

“Just let me talk with him,” he assured you. “Be polite and bow when you approach, that’s all. Don’t be hurt if he’s a little rude, all these elves are cold to outsiders.”

You were expecting an old King with lots of wrinkles and maybe a long beard, but that wasn’t who was sitting on the throne. The night elf was incredibly handsome and appeared to be close your your age with oddly familiar glowing green eyes. A sweep of long blue hair fell over wide, strong shoulders. He was dressed in a robe that looked to be woven from silver thread only accentuated his graceful features. A single silver circlet rested on his head.

To either side of you, what must have been his court, peered at the two of you, whispering amongst themselves.

“Greetings your Magesty,” Clark said with a practiced flourish as he bowed.

The king’s eyes met yours for a moment and while Clark was looking down, he winked at you! The edge of his lip lifted just slightly as he looked you up and down. Your cheeks burned and since you were standing there staring, Clark grabbed your wrist and pulled you down with him.

“Rise Mage and state your business,” the king said, his tone neutral though his voice was very smooth and deep.

“I’m Clark Septos and this is my lovely wife (Y/N). We arrived to answer your request for an investigation,” Clark said. “You wrote there was a wraith haunting your halls, causing trouble. The Mage’s Chamber humbly offers my services to hopefully find some solution.”

The king rose from his seat and glided down the set of stairs that separated the two of you from the throne. He circled the both of you, taking your measure.

“A changeling and a nymph,” he hummed. “What an interesting match.”

“I’m very fortunate,” Clark said, smiling at you warmly. “The goddess blessed me with a wife as sweet as she is beautiful.”

“Hm,” he said, then turned and walked down a side hall. “Let’s discuss the matter in my library.”

You stuck close to Clark as you followed him. The inside of the castle was just as beautiful as the outside. Everything from the chairs to the shelves was carved from faceted crystal.

He led you into a smaller room with a massive, sparkling desk and took his seat behind it, gesturing for the two of you to take the ones on the opposite side.

“As my request explained,” he started as soon as you were settled. “There’s a wraith on the loose. I’m not sure who conjured it or why, but it seems to have some vindictive mission. Things and people have gone missing, relics destroyed, and no matter what spells we cast they simply aren’t strong enough to excorcise the creature. I assure you, we would not have summoned you had we been able to handle the situation ourselves.”

Clark pulled out a small notebook to write notes.

“Does it speak or communicate?” he asked.

King Khelvan nodded.

“It goes on about some betrayal that occurred,” he said. “I have no idea what injustice they refer to. I’ve searched the library and asked the elders, but no one can come up with anything.”

“When and where does it tend to appear?”

Khelvan thought for a moment.

“It seems to like hanging around the Queen’s chambers. I, of course, have yet to choose a Queen so they are unoccupied, but maids and guards maintain the rooms. There are also many artifacts and heirlooms there that will become the property of the Queen when she is crowned,” he explained. “It’s her items that disappear. It took a scrying mirror, a painting, and a fan that has been passed through generations. There may have been other things I have yet to notice.”

“What was the painting of?” Clark asked.

“A princess,” he said.

“What princess?”

“No one of note.”

“Hmm,” Clark hummed. “I’ll have to investigate the area to find out more.”

“Yes, of course,” Khelvan responded with a tip of his head, then his glowing eyes flicked to you. “I can keep your wife company while you work. This wraith is much too dangerous for a fair nymph. My guards will escort you to the Queen’s halls.”

Clark frowned deeply and seemed to be wrestling with the idea in his head, but finally caution won out.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It would be unwise to risk (Y/N)’s safety with a wraith I’ve yet to see.”

“But-” you started and he shook his head, shushing you.

“You’ll be safe here,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

You were nervous about him leaving, but he gave you a comforting kiss on the forehead before he joined the guards standing outside.

“Would you like a glass of wine to ease your nerves?” Khelvan asked.

You didn’t really drink, but you didn’t want to be rude, either so you nodded.

He poured you some rich, red liquid from a decanter and placed the silver goblet in your hand.

“How did you come to be the wife of a changeling mage?” he asked as he retook his seat. “Most nymphs stay in the old wood. I’ve only met one other that busied herself with our affairs.”

“It’s kind of a complicated story,” you admitted. “But I adore Clark. He’s been my anchor and my protector through a very confusing time.”

“I’m sure he would guard such a treasure fiercely,” he mused, smiling at you.

You found yourself getting lost in his eyes. They were an intense chartreuse, like sun filtering through the leaves of summer trees.

“Have we met before, you majesty?” you asked.

You knew it was a silly question, you’d only been in this world a few days, but he seemed so familiar.

He didn’t answer, likely because it was obviously foolish, taking a sip of his drink.

“Does he treat you well, provide for you?” he asked, instead.

“Oh yes, we have a pretty house in Leotolas and a garden. He’s given me some gold to buy what I need,” you said. “He’s an excellent provider.”

“Leotolas is lovely,” he hummed. “But it can’t compare to Darkbell, can it?”

You blushed. Darkbell was beautiful, but you wouldn’t compare the two. Of course, you’d never admit that as he was the king.

“Darkbell is amazing,” you said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He smiled, revealing straight, white teeth framed by pointy canines.

“I’m glad you think so,” he said.

He stood, crossing the room and lifting your hand.

“Has your mage taught you any magic?” he asked and you weren’t sure how to answer.

“Well not him exactly,” you admitted, “but his boss taught me how to access my own magic.”

He nodded, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with a smile.

“Can I teach you a spell?” he asked. “It’s not that difficult.”

“Oh yes! That’d be wonderful!” you gasped. “What kind of spell?”

“This spell is very special. It let’s you glimpse a memory of the person you touch,” he explained.

Suddenly you were standing in your old bedroom looking in the mirror. You were putting on earrings, singing some song, and dancing around as you dressed. You looked at your phone and there was a picture of a guy you used to know with the message.

“Is this good for a date? I have no idea how to dress! Help!”

“Looks good!” you typed. “You look handsome in anything you wear!”

You remembered this moment. It was right before you went on a date with your first boyfriend. Looking around, you found Khelvan standing next you.

“Ah, so you are a traveler. Pretty outfit,” he said winking, then glanced around your room. “What an interesting world you lived in.”

He looked at the phone in your hand.

“What fascinating magic,” he hummed.

You felt something like a rush of wind and you were back in his library.

“How did you do that?” you gasped and he chuckled.

“I’m going to teach you,” he said. “First you have to reach out to the goddess of time and ask for a trade. One memory of their’s for one of your own. That’s the reason you can’t use the spell too often, you’d lose lots of memories. It doesn’t have to be a special memory, just one you have a very clear vision of.

The goddess’s name is Edenta. Focus on her name and try to draw the memory you are willing to trade to your mind. Once you have them in your thoughts, touch your subject and ask for the memory you’d like to see. You have to be relatively specific or she will show you whatever is closest to what you asked for. You can experiment on me.”

You blinked at him.

“You’re sure you’re okay with me digging around in your memories?” you asked and he laughed.

“I can help you choose one if you like,” he offered.

“Yes, I don’t want to see anything too private,” you admitted and he gave you a soft look.

“So considerate and kind,” he murmured. “What about…? My first date, since I saw yours?”

Your eyes widened.

“Kings date?” you asked, making him laugh harder.

“It was arranged by my father, but yes,” he said. “Come on now, quit stalling. Close your eyes.”

You took a deep breath and did as Khelvan had asked. The moment your mind formed the goddess’s name, it felt like the air got cooler and the glowing shape of a woman appeared in your mind’s eye. It was impossible to focus on her directly, she seemed to be shifting between forms before your eyes.

“Greetings nymph, why have you summoned me?” she asked, her voice many different voices all at once.

“I wish to trade a memory for a memory,” you said, your words echoing in the space inside your head.

“What have you to offer me?” she asked and you focused your thoughts on an unpleasant memory you’d rather forget.

It was when that boyfriend dumped you for your friend. You felt Edenta’s derision.

“You offer such a miserable memory,” she huffed, “but it will pay the price. What do you wish to see?”

“Khelvan’s first date,” you said and the moment the words were expressed she disappeared.

Khelvan had never put down your hand, so you didn’t have to do anything else. You were suddenly in the very court where you’d been introduced. Khelvan was much younger and an older man, who looked very similar was standing with his hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to do this, father,” he grumbled, but his dad smacked the back of his head, causing him to stumble forward.

“Don’t be rude to Tria, her family has traveled far to organize this match,” he snapped.

You looked behind you to find the girl he was rejecting. She was a beautiful night elf, dressed in an elaborate gold gown. She looked no more pleased to be standing before him.

“Fine,” he grumbled, taking a few steps forward to give Tria a stiff bow. “Greetings Tria of Anore.”

She returned one just as stiff.

“I’m in your hands, Khelvan of Darkbell,” she muttered.

The moment was so awkward you wished to be anywhere else and blinked, finding yourself in the library again. You looked up at Khelvan, amazed it had worked.

“Did I do it?” you asked and he nodded.

“Yes, you completed the spell perfectly. Apologies my first date was not as pleasant as yours,” he said and you shook your head.

“Things are very different for you, you’re a king,” you said, pulling your hand away.

“They were,” he said, leaning against his desk. “But now that I am king, I can make my own choices as to who I make my Queen.”

“Why haven’t you found one yet?” you asked, then your ears burned at your stupidity. “Oh…ah…I’m sorry, you’re majesty, that was rude of me. I shouldn’t question your decisions.”

He shrugged and smiled at you.

“Perhaps I have found her,” he said. “I only need to woo her. Hopefully, more successfully than Tria.”

You offered him a genuine smile, at that.

“That’s wonderful,” you said. “I wish for your happiness.”

“Come,” he said, rising and holding out his arm for you. “Let me show you the garden. There’s no reason to stay cooped up in this dusty library while your changeling does his work.”

You were sure Clark wouldn’t like you hanging on another man’s elbow, but Khelvan was the king and you didn’t want to offend him. So, you looped your arm around his and followed him through the castle.

The garden was stunning. There were crystal fountains with sculptures that looked like they were made from ice. Flowers and fruit trees filled the space with color and sang to you a sweet song.

“It’s amazing flowers bloom in the darkness like this,” you commented, your hand hovering over a bloom.

“You can touch it,” he said, but you shook your head, standing.

“Trust me,” you laughed. “I’m still getting used to my magic. You don’t want to have to hack back the vines I create when I touch plants.”

He chuckled, tipping his head in thanks for your honesty.

“I’m very curious about your old world,” he said, waving you to a bench in front of a fountain shaped the like white fish you’d seen spitting water.

You shrugged.

“It was noisy, dirty, and generally…unpleasant,” you said. “There was not magic like here. There was science that made our conveniences, but every convenience had a cost.”

He nodded, thoughtfully.

“All magic has a cost, as well,” he commented.

You thought about this for a moment.

“Yes,” you agreed. “Channeling the whisperer can be…painful, but I’m working on it.”

While you sat in the garden, Khelvan spoke to you about the history of Darkbell and a few humorous stories about his childhood.

An hour later, Clark returned with his escorts. When he saw you sitting together he frowned, tugging you away from Khelvan and giving you a kiss.

“I missed you love, did you miss me?” he asked, trying to sound easy but you could tell he was annoyed.

“Of course I missed you. I always miss you when you are away,” you beamed, “His majesty has been telling me about the history of Darkbell. It’s very interesting.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat and glared at Khelvan.

“What are your impressions?” Khelvan asked, unmoved by Clark’s hostility. “Did you find the wraith?”

“Yes,” he said tightly. “From what I could garner your wraith is royalty. I tried to speak with it, using my methods to draw out its story. It has some vendetta, perhaps about the girl in the portrait. It’s bitter and vicious! Its presence is very concerning as I believe it will continue its activities as its goal is retribution for what it lost.”

Khelvan frowned.

“Can it be excorcised?” he asked.

Clark frowned.

“Possibly,” he said. “There is a method that we use for such creatures, but though it is well practiced it’s never a guarantee. Wraiths fueled by hate and revenge tend to be tricky. These feelings are strong and fuel dangerous magic.”

“What materials would you require to try?” Khelvan asked.

“A bottle imbued with magic,” he replied. “Wraiths like these cannot be killed, only contained. I will need to trap it and then the Mage’s Chamber will insist I return with it, as it can become a powerful weapon to the owner of the bottle.”

The King frowned, but Clark continued.

“You will have to trust the the Mage’s Chamber doesn’t use these creatures as weapons. They merely join our collection where they can be monitored. We don’t hoard weapons for nefarious purposes, as a practice we attempt to avoid political conflicts. We do a service to Ilirion, keeping them out of dangerous hands.”

“Hm,” he hummed. “Would you be able to go through with the exorcism in the coming days?”

Clark nodded.

“Of course,” he said. “There is some preparation but it won’t take much time.”

Khelvan nodded.

“Then my guards will escort you…and your lovely wife to guest chambers,” he said. “Please ask them for anything you may need and they will procure it for you.”

His eyes flicked to you.

“Don’t forget what I taught you,” he said, his gaze intense. “You may find it useful.”

Clark grimaced and pulled you under his arm as the guards led you to another part of the castle.

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itsabouttimex2 · 1 month

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My Alternate Universes

(AF) Primal Moon:

Twice a year; once in spring and once in autumn, a verdant moon rises to bring the bestial instincts of non-humans to light. Celestials and demons alike struggle to keep hold of themselves, something ancient welling up within them and shifting their thoughts and feelings to a more animalistic state.

The spring moon ends on the summer solstice, the autumn moon ends on the winter solstice.

Each week drives non-humans to feral or uninhibited states, leaving them struggling to control themselves. Violence and kidnappings spike during this time, humans as the usual victims. As a result of this, many people hold rather bigoted and fearful views towards demons and Celestials. Some even wish to oust them from society entirely.

(LMK) Monkie Glaive:

Long ago, monsters of terrifying might roamed the land freely. These beasts tore villages asunder and swallowed up the people inside, leaving naught but cinders of destruction in their wake. When a great Black Dragon came to wreak havoc upon humanity with wings spread wide, only one dared to stand against it- the legendary hunter, Sun Wukong! With his lightning-charged glaive held high, the Monkey King summoned a storm and forced the dragon down from the skies, where he overcame it in single combat! Today, in his honor, we hunters train monkeys as our partners to aid us on the field. With them, we overcome our opponents and forge a brighter future for all of humanity!

(Essentially, a Monster Hunter crossover.)

(LMK) Let’s Start Over:

It’s been years since MK’s story ended, and now yours is just beginning. Upgrading his nickname to ‘Monkie Knight’, he’s working hard to shape you into a worthy successor. As the new ‘Monkie Kid’, you are:

1. An everyday mortal, you were gifted a tiny fraction of MK’s power, allowing you to wield the staff and use his skills. Putting yourself in danger leads to the prompt removal of this privilege, and then you’re relegated to chores and stretches until MK thinks you’ve learned your lesson.

2. A Mystic Monkey in disguise, unaware of your true nature. If he finds out, he’s intent on breaking the news early, trying to keep you from having a breakdown like him. He considers you to be a kindred soul, and frequently offers to help with grooming and personal strife.

Given that MK still hasn’t overcome his trauma, he’s grown extremely protective of his successor, trying to force you down a safe and happy path. He dotes on you constantly, acting almost like a surrogate father. Instead of allowing you to explore and fight on your own, he tags along everywhere to keep you safe. He refuses to truly relinquish his responsibilities to you, instead vicariously living through the safety and security he forces onto you.

Until you get the chance to slip away and meet a resurrected villain that MK had hoped to never see again, allowing you to take the first step on your own journey.

(LMK) Taken Aboard:

Upon his visit to the sprawling Emerald Grove; a massive expanse of forest and rivers, Tang Sanzang finds a mischievous demon child living all alone- you. Taking pity on you, the Great Monk prays to Guanyin for her help, and receives two more tightening bands. Upon being ‘gifted’ these golden cuffs, you ask for the monk’s help to put them on- and are promptly dragged into a long and dangerous journey against your will.

Your fellow pilgrims come to view you as a mischievous little sibling, in need of both discipline and love. They won’t stop Sanzang from activating the bands, but are happy to help with the wounds and tears that come afterwards. They also engage in your tutoring, helping to teach you to read and write and perform basic arithmetic.

All the while, you try your hardest to escape and return home.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #Yandere RotTMNT #Primal Moon #Monkie Glaive #Let’s Start Over #Taken Aboard #AF means ‘any fandom’

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nerdraging4point0 · 3 months

Text

Power Play // Chapter Two // Hockeyplayer!Noah AU

Tropes and tags: RPF:AU hockey player romance, angsty romance, hidden relationship, forbidden relationship, smutty, MF, multiple POV.

Content Warning: angsty romance, hockey player shenanigans, locker room talk, smutty, aggressive hockey players, PinV, MF relationship, possessive male, protective male.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

Active taglist: @ladyveronikawrites @tearfallpixie @beaker1636 @circle-with-me @synthetic-wasp-570 @itsjustemily @thesazzb @vinyardmauro @cookiesupplier @concreteemo @mountains-to-move @sundamariis @caitcoreeeee @crimson-calligraphyx @letmeadoreyoux @starsomens @artificialbreezy @lma1986 @iknownothingpeople @lilrubles @shilohrosechicken @missduffsblog @jessicafg03 @thatchickwiththecamera @mysticdoodlez @chels3a-smile @sinkingteethinwhitenoise @deathblacksmoke @roley-poley-foley @ravieisunhinged @dethronetheveil @to-be-written @somewhere-diamond @somebodyels3 @sacredthefran @cncohshit @flowery-mess @graveatspeople @cncohshit @nerdywitch20 @sundamariis @srorgana1 @malerieee @bloody-delusion-expert @sammyjoeee @deathofpeaceofmiiind @hayleylatour @deadboltsblog @broken0mens

The Uber screeches to a halt outside the fortress-like walls of the Rooks' practice facility, and I scramble out clutching my visitor's pass. After a few tense moments convincing the stone-faced security guard I'm not a crazed fan, the gates swing open. I stride up to the front doors, emblazoned with the iconic blood-red chess piece flanked by two onyx knights - the Santa Monica Rooks logo.

Though they only joined the NHL a couple years back, the scrappy expansion team has already captured the hearts of LA hockey fans - including my dad, former assistant coach for the Kings. When the Rooks came calling, offering him the head coach position, we were over the moon. Now I never miss a game even if it’s just on the TV. I know the players by name, the chants by heart. This team is family.

And today, I got a glimpse behind the curtain.

The frosty air envelops me as soon as I step foot in the rink, sending a shiver down my spine despite my long sleeves. I cross my arms, bracing against the chill. As the team takes the ice to warm up, my eyes follow their every move with a nostalgic fondness. The sound of skates carving into the fresh sheet, the slap of pucks hitting boards - it all washes over me like a warm blanket. I let out a contented sigh, transported back to simpler times when I would gaze upon this familiar scene as a wide-eyed kid.

The players glide across the ice, circling each other in a blur of black and red during their warm-up laps. Legs churned in rhythmic strides as they maneuvered the puck through the cones. The only sounds were blades carving arcs and pucks slapping plastic. Every movement was executed with precision—their concentration evident as they tuned out the world, zeroed in on their drills. At the other end, some stretch and joke around, loose and relaxed. The heavy guitar riffs of AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" blast through the speakers—dad's preference, as always. I can't help but smile. This ice, this team, this music...it all feels like home.

From my spot high in the stands, I admire my dad's confident presence on the bench, his gaze intent as he surveys the players before him. Wearing the team's fleece zip up over his well-muscled frame, the dark fabric accentuating his rugged features. A beanie sat jauntily atop his artfully graying locks, complementing his trademark goatee, still as impeccably groomed as ever. He exuded an air of casual confidence - the easy charisma of a man who gets things done with style. Arms folded, he exchanges nods with Jack, leaning in to examine the clipboard that holds the secrets to today's strategy. Never did make it to the big leagues, but he just loved the chess match, the cat and mouse of setting up the perfect play. The thrill of that last second stretch pass springing the winger for a breakaway. The subtle joking with the refs, giving as good as he got. Win or lose, we lived for that locker room camaraderie. Yeah, he was born to bleed the colors, even if the pros weren't in the cards.

I make my way down towards the gleaming glass, the barrier between me and the warriors below, scanning the colorful jerseys for familiar names. There's number 42, Sanchez, the promising new center we acquired in the off-season. And McClain, number 18, our stalwart in goal, broad-shouldered whether in pads or street clothes.

Two skilled players glided smoothly across the ice, giving each other a friendly shoulder nudge and helmet tap as brothers in arms. Ruffilo sported jersey #22, zipping down the right wing with nimble speed and agility, always quick to jump on a scoring chance. Alongside him skated Sebastian, wearing #13. As right defenseman, he partnered on the blueline with the venerable Karlsson (#62). Together they formed the league's dream defensive pairing, scouted eagerly by rival teams year after year, yet steadfastly loyal to their coach through it all.

"Sarah!" My dad's voice thunders across the rink, making me jolt in surprise. I bolt toward him, nearly slipping over my feet in my excitement. Jack grabs my arm to steady me as we scramble into the box where Dad waits with open arms. I fling myself at him, breathing in the comforting scents of cinnamon and Old Spice that mean home. Though it's been months, as soon as his strong arms fold around me, no time has passed at all. I cling to him, my protector and hero, never wanting to let go.

“You're just in time,” he says with a glint in his eye. ‘We were just about to do a practice run. See how the team looks for the game tomorrow night.”

The sharp trill of the coach's whistle pierces the rink, all eyes snapping to attention. "Alright team, gather round!" Jack bellows, his commanding voice echoing off the cold walls. "We've got a big game tomorrow and it's time to show me what you've got!"

The players scramble into position with new urgency, skates carving trenches into the ice. McClain slams into the net, face set with determination. Sanders follows suit on the opposite end, glove hand twitching with anticipation. Sebastian and Karlsson take their posts, sticks poised for battle.

"Let's run this play again - I want to see crisp passes and quick shots. And remember..." Jack pauses, scanning the tense faces around him. "Leave it all on the ice."

He blows the whistle once more. A flurry of movement erupts as the puck drops, skates tearing over the frozen surface. Shouts fill the frigid air as the team throws themselves into their practice, driven by the coach's steely presence and the promise of tomorrow's game.

The players are focused as they glide across the ice, passing the puck back and forth. Karlsson taps his stick, signaling to Sebastian. They move into position, ready to intercept the other team's attack. The center charges towards the goal, but Karlsson swoops in, poking the puck away. It slides to Sebastian who spins and dishes it off to Sanchez. Sanchez pivots and streaks towards the other end, driving for a counterattack. The scrimmage is intense as the teammates coordinate, aiming to sharpen their skills. Their precise passes and defensive maneuvers showcase their dedication during this hard-fought practice.

Sanchez fires a blistering shot that beats Sanders, the puck rocketing into the net. Sanchez triumphantly throws his stick skyward, but Coach quickly shoots him a warning glare - "One goal does not win a game." As Sanchez skates by, his piercing hazel eyes scan over me for a brief minute, before nodding to my dad. All business, Coach commands respect on the ice. My gaze follows him to position, where I notice Sebastian also watching from his position, momentarily distracted until Karlsson’s stick slap grabs his attention. The intensity radiates as both teams bear down, hungry for the next goal.

The players scramble up and down the ice, sticks clacking as they chase the puck. "Stay in your lane, winger!" Coach bellows, face red. "Defense, keep that blue line secure!" Sanchez barrels through, shoving past his own teammates to get to the net. Coach fumes. That hothead is sparking fights even among his own guys. "Sanchez! Cool it or you're benched!" Coach yells. Sanchez seethes, eyes blazing beneath his helmet. That punk better listen, or this practice will get out of control fast.

Sebastian swoops in and makes a clutch block, gliding on his skates backwards around the net and back into position as smooth as butter. Celebrating with a hearty stick-slap with Karlsson as they criss-cross on their way back to their spots. Just another day at the rink for these puck-stopping pros.

“Karlsson and Sebastian are the league's top players right now,” my dad says, gesturing to the dynamic duo. “I’m fortunate to have them both.”

He goes on to provide insight into each player. Karlsson, a skilled Swede, transferred here a year ago and immediately found chemistry with Sebastian. As we discuss the roster, my dad analyzes each player's strengths and weaknesses. Ruffilo, for example, is quick and agile but weaker skating left. Sanchez has blazing speed but his ego can be a liability. Meanwhile, Sanders rarely sees ice time as McClain's backup. He remains quiet and reserved as a result.

My dad's wealth of knowledge about the team is clear as he gives me an in-depth scouting report on the players - their stats, records, backgrounds, and areas for improvement. His insightful descriptions provide a comprehensive view of the roster.

The boys look exhausted as they skate back to the bench, chests heaving as they try to catch their breath. Jack blows the whistle, signaling the end of the scrimmage. I take in their flushed cheeks and panting faces glistening with sweat. Sanders' sandy blonde hair is matted to his forehead, hazel eyes glazed over with fatigue. Sanchez wipes his brow, dark hair slick against his olive skin that contrasts sharply with his black and red jersey. Golden eyes meet mine briefly before glancing away. McClain rakes a hand through his unruly copper curls, mopped haphazardly on his head. Forest green eyes are ringed with dark circles beneath a smattering of freckles on his cheeks.

Ruffilo and Karlsson skate over to the bench, exhausted. Ruffilo’s shoulder-length black hair, normally pulled back in a tidy bun, is a mess of flyaways and frizz from his helmet. His piercing blue eyes stand out against his tan, sweaty face. Karlsson tosses his helmet aside, releasing his ash blonde hair which is only half pulled back after a grueling workout. Sweat drips down his forehead as he tries to catch his breath.

i'm so caught up staring at the team that I don't even notice Sebastian glide up next to me. He stops hard, ice shavings dancing around his skates. With his helmet off, I finally get a good look at his face. His dark brown hair falls loosely across his cheeks. His eyes are a soft brown too, and his slender nose and exotic bone structure give him an alluring look I can't place. His full lips are parted as he catches his breath, a barely-there mustache and goatee framing them. I'm transfixed, taking in every detail of his handsome face. Hockey has never been so distracting.

"Alright boys, tomorrow we face the toughest team in the league. They've got size, they've got skill. But you know what we've got? Heart. More heart than any team out there. When you step on that ice tomorrow, I want you to remember who we are. We're the Rooks. We never back down from a challenge. We never give up when things get tough. We pour our souls into this game because we love it. We play for each other, as brothers. Tomorrow when that puck drops, I want you to leave it all out there. Skate hard. Hit hard. Play your hearts out, men. I believe in each and every one of you. Now hit the showers and I will see you bright and early tomorrow."

The players glided by, tapping fists with my dad as they headed off the ice. But my eyes stayed locked on Sebastian. He leaned off the boards and skated backward, gaze still holding mine even as he spun and drifted after his teammates toward the locker room. There was something magnetic about him - an intensity that pulled me in and wouldn't let go.

My dad wrapped his strong arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close. "What do ya say we grab some dinner and chat?" he asked with a smile. I clung to his waist as we strolled out of the chilly rink, past the rows of locker rooms, to his cozy office. He rifled through papers on his cluttered desk, gathering his things before we headed out.

"Dad, why'd you want me to come down here today?" I asked. "You said you had something important to tell me."

He paused, keys in hand. "Let's talk over dinner," he replied, his eyes downcast.

I pressed further. "Why not now? Just tell me."

At that, my dad's shoulders slumped. His face fell. I knew then that this was big news - maybe as big as when he and Mom divorced.

"Well," he began slowly, "Jack's niece is going on maternity leave. We had another one lined up, but he took a position elsewhere. We're in a real bind trying to find a replacement nurse on such short notice to help care for the players."

He looked at me hopefully. I could tell this was difficult for him to ask, but nurse or not, I was ready to support my dad no matter what.

Noah's POV

The pads hit the floor with a thud as I stumbled back to the locker room, feeling about as graceful as a newborn giraffe. The boys were already going on about the coach's daughter, the new eye candy on the bench. Fiery red hair that melted into platinum strands, curves that went on for days - she had the boys drooling before she even opened her mouth.

"Dibs!" Sanders called out, grinning. "Maybe she can give me some one-on-one coaching after practice."

"You couldn't catch her if she was standing still, man," Nick laughed, peeling off his sweaty jersey.

"Let McClain take a shot," Pierce chuckled. "Red on red - I like those odds."

McClain just smiled and tossed his gear in his locker. Yeah, she was a distraction all right. Hard not to stare when she was sitting there looking like that. Had the boys fumbling more than usual out there today. But I gotta keep my focus. Eyes on the puck at all times, even with a smokeshow like her watching from the stands.

I fling my stick and helmet into my locker, peeling off my sweaty jersey and pads. Jolly plops down on the bench behind me, the team still chattering away about her.

"You know how it is, bro. The ladies, they always want a piece of the Jolly." He waggles his eyebrows and flexes, his accent making it sound more ridiculous.

I grab my towel and crack it against his back. "Yeah, yeah, keep dreamin' there, stud."

We were all a bunch of goofs when Naomi first started working here, even though she was Jack's niece. We'd give her a hard time and chirp her whenever we got the chance. But once we found out she was married and had been around for a few months, we eased off and let her be. I was sure this chick would be the same, if she stuck around. She didn’t seem like the hockey type.

The steam embraces me as I step into the showers, washing the sweat from my aching body. But the heat isn't enough to penetrate my sore muscles, throbbing from another grueling practice. My mind races, already on the ice for tomorrow's season opener on home ice. I know once I'm out there, stick in hand, the roar of the crowd drowning everything else out, the nerves will fade away. But right now, they're killing me. I close my eyes, let the hot water massage my shoulders, and visualize our victory.

We were so close last season - just two wins away. But this year, this is our year. I'm not settling for anything less.

That is, as long as Sanchez can get his head in the game. Don't get me wrong, the guy's got skills. But that ego of his just grinds my gears, you know? He's always showboating out on the ice when he should be focusing on the play.

It's gonna cause problems, I just know it. I gotta get him to tone it down and be a team player. Otherwise we can kiss that cup goodbye again. And I'll be damned if I let that happen. This is our time. I can taste it.

Nothing can distract me from that, not even her.

#bad omens cult #noah sebastian #bad omens #noahsebastian fanfic #bad omens band #hockey player noah #hockey #bad omens au #bad omens smut #hockey romance #hockeyomens

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ratlibrarian · 1 month

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I want to talk about The Elder Scrolls and its lore for a minute.

The lore is, officially, whatever you want it to be. (If you ask the only person worth asking.)

Do I enjoy the games that released after Morrowind? Absolutely. Oblivion is Janky Hilarity, Skyrim is Delicious Fantasy, ESO won't run on my PC, but I'm sure it's awesome too.

But to me, personally, there'll always be a divide. The Morrowind-Lore, and the rest of the lore. Because the Lore in Morrowind is so extra, so alien and weird and how it hints at weirdness in the other provinces, the other games feel like letdowns.

Cyrodiil was meant to be this expansive, unnavigable jungle, where one had to stick to the rivers to traverse it. Where the Imperial City was meant to house a thousand temples for a thousand religious beliefs. And beyond the civilized cities of the province, the jungles would hold mystery and danger. Would one be able to encounter an Ayleid? Or a tribal Nede? Who knows?

And we got...

Oblivion. A fun game. Hell, a good game, kind of. But not what had been built up.

Same, but different, with Skyrim.

The political machinations of the Nords. The struggles between local petty kings, the High King, and the Empire. The worship of the Nord pantheon, with Alduin, Herma-Mora, Kyne, Shor, etc.

Skyrim is a great game. It was my first taste of TES. It sparked my love for the series. But I play Daggerfall more often than Skyrim these days, and I barely ever get around to Oblivion.

I don't mean to strip away anyone else's fun or enjoyment of TES. As Micheal Kirkbride said, the lore is whatever you want it to be.

Mine is simply one where the was lore built by Kirkbride and continued by fans ever since. Where Hermaphroditic God-Kings rule through authoritarian Theocracy, where Men and Women and Elves and all sorts attain Divinity through Action, Cunning or Sorcery.

Where the Godhead's dream will Never End.

#the elder scrolls #morrowind #skyrim #oblivion #elder scrolls #also looking for an eso blog to follow!

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warderfromtheborder · 6 months

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Destiny: the year of Very Well Structured Things In Sets of 2

Defiance+Wish: The Sovs Mara and Crow, the Eliksni Misraaks and Eramis, and the Regular Ass Humans Devrim and Petra(PV counts as a regular-ass human she isn't a figure of prophecy or royalty in the reef she's a cop who's been promoted too much out of necessity)

Deep+Witch: The Truncated Heros Sloane and Eris, the Osmium OGs Xivu and Savathun, the Concerned Boss-Parents Zavala and Ikora, and the Wriggly Enablers Ahsa and Drifter (okay you got me) I mean the Nonhuman Guides Ahsa and Immaru

Lightfall: Osiris with no Sagira and Nimbus with no Rohan and Caiatl with no Recognizable Dad and the Witness with no Disciples and Chioma with no Maya and the Vex with no Chill the Living People of Neomuna with no Meatspace to live in. (The dreaming city curse will never end and the people on Neptune will never get to leave the matrix Im sorry but that's the way it is)

The story and themes for this year of Destiny are SO GOOD the writers have done SUCH A GOOD JOB. If making a tighter relationship between the expansion narrative and the seasonal narratives was one of the goals this year they fucking knocked it out of the park, I can't put any of these arcs into its own box because they have been knit together so sturdily. It's all one great narrative, one Very Big narrative, they haven't done it like this before!

(And Im so mad people couldnt stop shitting on Lightfall they are stoping themselves from seeing how good the WHOLE NARRATIVE IS they are probably gonna say come march/near TFS launch "uhh yeah the seasons were good i guees but maybe they shoulda worked harder on Lightfall I mean who even likes Nimbus" and for their Ignorance and Haterism I am sentencing them to reading part two of The Two Towers while they get attacked by Paper-Tube Ninjas and a broadcast system shouts at them 'YOU CANNOT HAVE THE VICTORIES IN RETURN OF THE KING IF FRODO AND SAM DIDNT KEEP WALKING ALL THE WAY TO MORDOR' for 100 hundred years.) (The link there is I didn't get the Point of that part of Two Towers when I first read it and assumed the whole would have been better without it. Obviously...I was wrong, and so are these clowns who think Lightfall has a bad story)

The name of the game this year is Resolution, Catharsis, Armistice, Acceptance. The structuring is so simple and so elegant and so well executed, the 2s, the 3s, the mirroring and the inverting and the unfathomable gloriousness of the victories personal and community and galaxy wide. There is no way to overstate the bitterness of Amanda's death, the relief of exhalation when Sloane retreats, the VINDICATION of Eris's vengeance.

You remember when Zavala 'discovered' Crow's former identity? How that was the crowning on-screen narrative jewel in destiny up to that point? What I am saying is EVERY ARC THIS YEAR IS AS GOOD OR BETTER THAN THAT BEAT AND DESERVES AS MUCH RECOGNITION FOR THE ARTISTIC ACHIEVEMENT OF SO MANY COMPLEMENTARY COMBOS PACKED INTO ONE EXPANSION STORY.

If Shadowkeep was the first sign of symptoms, if Beyond Light was trying to irradiate the disease, if Witch Queen was a tug of war with scar tissue, then Lightfall is the world after recovery and making peace with what will Never Be The Same, and the home and family that has been changed forever but is still Your Home and Your Family. We don't stop fighting but we also don't stop loving and growing and caring.

One last thing for my fellow Sjur copium addicts out there: Sloane's retreat was mirrored and inverted by Eris's victory, so for the complementary-ness of the story to continue, Amanda's death and Crow's subsequent emotional anguish over losing the person he fought with but who also saw him for who he really is will need to be mirrored and inverted by SOMEONE who Mara fought with but who also saw her for who she really is and I expect you will agree this is SCIENTIFICALLY ACCURATE reasoning that Sjur's comin back home.

#destiny 2 #season of the wish #obviously yeah Im calling the shot that Wish is gonna be very good narratively but im confidant on that given the track record now #and Im also confidant coupling it to Defiance like this. can't think of a good reason why it shouldn't be like this.#little russian nesting doll of a story about angy traumatized warriors resolutely taking care of each other #sjur's coming back! I wont belive she's not until TFS actually launches and she hasnt shown up yet.#sjur eido

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hitlikehammers · 4 months

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dearest-mine (until next)

a Fae-King!Steve/Human-Prince!Eddie fic for @thequeenofcarvenstone in the Steddie Valentine's Day Exchange ✨ ao3 link here

part i: until next

“Dearest,” Steve whispers gentle, ever-so, against the hidden space behind his beloved’s ear; “dearest-mine,” he exhales as a song, lilting; tender if not wholly devoid of the barest sorrow as he rouses his lover before the dawn as he must: “until next.”

With which he wakes his dearest, his Eddie, every morning he is blessed to spend wrapped around and within: he will not bid farewell, the parting already too raw; he cannot bear the heartbreak of permanence etched in harsher words. And yet: part they must; fae magic is firm.

The morning light seals the liminal space to solid. To remain beyond the dawn means to remain forever.

“What if I were to stay?”

Eddie’s voice comes itself like a song, though the words more a temptress; as if he hears Steve’s own thoughts tucked deep in his chest.

“You know you mustn’t,” Steve says it as he says it every morning, swallowing his own regrets and wishes deeper than his thoughts as he strokes fingertips delicate through his beloved’s hair, soft without need for Enchantment’s touch; “you have a kingdom which depends upon your kind hand in guidance,” and it is true: his beloved stands to inherit rule of the kingdom that curls east-and-north to the borders of Steve’s Realm, should the Realm be given space within the mortal plane. It is how they met, fortuitous by the hands of chance to other eyes but Steve: Steve believes otherwise.

He believed in destiny only for the fact of Eddie beside him; that after millennia now of feeling only passing warmth within him, and surface satisfaction of the flesh, he aches in perpetuity, now, for the expanse beneath his breast, the way Eddie sits on a wholly other throne beside Steve’s heart: Steve has lived and breathed beside Enchantment his entire life-length, and will for what remains, but he has never had reason to ponder and marvel at the true extent of its powers before this.

Infatuation is a lesser word by leagues, and yet: love too is so far beyond this feeling.

Though, for the immediacy of feeling: Steve stills when the touch of his lover slips lower, his lashes dancing, the blood high on the sculpt of his cheekbones.

“I believe,” Eddie whispers, near-devious: “my kind hand,” he echoes Steve’s words in a wholly other fashion, and Steve feels the desire that never fades with his beloved, he feels it stir to rising, to sprinkle the flesh of him up from the ends: “may better be suited to,” and he lays a palm at the join of Steve’s hips, lets the weight of his touch settles meaningfully, warm where heat is no matter, Steve already walks an inferno beside him:

“Other tasks.”

Steve’s blood whirls riotous between the chambers of his chest, a dancing ribbon on Lughnasadh in the blood of him, the life of him celebratory and yet—

“Darling-mine,” he forces his own hand to cover Eddie’s, and laments the way his fingers curl to lift that hand to his chest to feel the hum there, not-quite-human but not so unlike, simply broader, less predicable and more married to the whims of the World-Rhythm, and here beside his One-True—though he has not spoken such, and will not for the unbalance of thus speaking clear his own heart, should he stumble into tempting Eddie to move in kind; for where no consequence lies for Steve to bare his love within his own borders, for Eddie it would tempt Enchantments older than even Steve can fathom, laid by the crueler of his cousins long gone from these lands though the roots, the soils retain the memory, and deeper-still the danger. Yet Steve has known for some time the gravity of what he feels, of what this truly is—

“Your nation lays its demands upon you by daylight,” he presses lips against his beloved’s jaw, holds to feel his lifeblood and smile there for the fact of it: “my heart remains forever at the ready for your return by evenfall.”

For this is how it is, for them; this is how their worlds must spin: there is no more, and no less, nor should there ever be, for to quantify it on any scale, human or Deeper, is folly, and ill-fitted. What they are is this, in its unquakable wholeness. It can be no other.

“I miss you terribly in the interim,” Eddie says, the soft heart of him in his eyes as he confesses the depth of this in simple words that cut every time, that clench in Steve’s chest and make him wish…

Make him wish things he cannot wish. Eddie is a Prince, with a Kingdom that will await his ascension in due course. Eddie is a human, a beautiful mortal soul, perfect for all that he is and ever will be, just so. Steve could barely hold the notion of asking someone to forsake their homes, their lands, their families and peoples to join the world he reigns over: he cannot ask this man, the only one he would desire to pose the question, not when he holds in him a greatness of his own that Steve cannot presume to measure to, no matter what titles or powers he himself might offer in exchange.

“I misspoke,” Steve settles on, and draws Eddie’s hand to his lips to kiss soft, then his chest to press true: “my heart does not wait at the ready,” he breathes, and lets Enchantment swell in his veins to be felt and held for the touch:

“It goes with you, always, whole-of-my-heart,” Steve exhales the vow of it, the love of it, careful but long-kept and nurtured to be open, always, and wholly but safe, held mindful and meticulous and offered so as to have none of the ties of Fae-Kind that may sway Eddie’s mind, or his heart; that would unfairly, and unmeaning, ask for things Steve will not ask, sacrifices he will not so much as hint toward Eddie considering, no matter the outsized wanting within him.

“So there is no need for longing in these hours,” Steve breathes out, and wills the weight of what he gives between them swell with breadth and feeling, as he’s practiced long to master so that it skirts all wiles of his Winter brethren, and even his own sun-soaked kin—a magic here without twists save to hold as dear; an oath sworn that asks nothing in return: “never a need, dearest-mine, however long those mournful hours may deem fit to stretch.”

Eddie considers him, lips parted as he breathes in the warmth of evocation Steve is gifting into the space between them, with every exhale and pulse-flutter: the flush high on his beloved’s cheeks for it is all he asks for, if not all he desires—if he cannot claim the latter, he will treasure the former with all that he is.

“Impossible, though,” Eddie finally exhales, thready and awed as he slowly turns their twined-together hands and brings Steve’s to his own chest, now: there is no Enchantment singing beneath his breast save for the fact and marvel of him, but that could never mean it’s less a song, and Steve craves it wholly, the wing-beat of it so untethered, so free—Steve relishes it with his full being, even for the reminder that in its freedom, it is proof pressed into his hand of what he can never, will never even hint at mentioning, to choose and tot bind and to join Steve here but to lose far more: he will never so much as suggest the notion, lest his resolve crumble, or the worst of his nature take selfish tacks to keep.

“I leave my heart with you,” Eddie murmurs, and leans to rub his cheek to Steve’s, the gentle prickle of scruff delicious on Steve’s soft skin. “I question often, whether it remembers still how to beat without you near,” Eddie breathes as a confession and Steve own heart trembles for it, to be cared for so deeply in kind: a revelation. Novel beyond his ken.

“It is well-done then,” Steve can only whisper back, just as delicate; cannot break the gentle spell cast wholly of they two alone, and the beating of life between them, Steve’s for Eddie and Eddie’s…possible some proportion of him, too, for Steve: unfathomable—and yet.

“Of course there is not life without a heart,” Steve mouths now against Eddie’s jaw, soft and tender until he raises shivering; delicious; “and yet we endure through the cold hours,” and he fastens his mouth then to the delightful pump of the pulse at Eddie’s throat, a buoyant little wave of feeling: “safe in hand of hearts given,” Steve kisses there reverent and breathes: “happily so.”

“Joyfully so,” Eddie counters, reaching then to cup Steve’s face and meet his eyes with such weight in their fathomless gaze:

“You are dear to me in ways I never dared to dream,” Eddie tells him with his full chest, uncannily breathless for the strength he holds inside the sentiment, audible and tangible in the air as he speaks and it fills Steve to bursting just to be privy to it, let alone to be the intended recipient of such unutterable gifts.

“Take this then, beloved,” and Steve kisses him thoroughly, with all intention and his own choice gifts: “and be well in your journey.”

Eddie raises a brow at him, his lips quirking impish.

“What was it this time, then?”

And Steve meets him, smiling warm where he could not resist if he tried, and would not dishonor this moment or the depth of it all in his chest to make such attempts—of course his beloved has learned the sensation, now, of Enchantment working upon him, even in bare hints.

“Simply safe-keeping,” Steve smooths hands down Eddie’s arms, and kisses his lower lip so to coax the flesh just so into full-dark bloom: “it would do poorly should I fail to protect my heart in its travelings,” he adds playfully, though it may shoot afar its mark: too sincere, too much of heart in it by necessity alone.

“And?” Eddie forgives whatever undue weight Steve may have let dampen the tease, or else maybe he simply accepts it for all that it is; but he moves onward, and presses further—so bright, his dearest, so keen.

“Subtle fortune,” Steve admits, gathering his hands to hold, to squeeze: “your negotiations today,” for they had spoken: Eddie’s Kingdom seeks trade and alliance with their neighbors at the furthest reaching leyn-lines of Steve’s borders, and Steve would see it done for the best of both his own people, and Eddie’s in turn—though he would see it done no matter, were it Eddie’s wish.

“My uncle needs that more than I,” Eddie shrugs the sentiment a bit but pinkens, ducks his head and buries in the fluff of his curls, sleep mussed and wild and adored.

“Beloved-mine,” Steve feels himself compelled from the heart of him to speak it, to counter the hiding, however endearing; to banish so much as the hint of feeling less-than deserving, contexts aside, not least as the deep-dark of the sky starts to soften with bare hints of amber, their moments dwindling:

“You carry the whole of me as companion,” Steve frames his face and speaks true, feels the welling of his devotion, the depth of how much of himself is offered in his touch and in his words, and he suspects his eyes flash opalescent for the way it trembles as truth through his skin to bone, the whisperings of the Elders ebullient in his voice as he speaks: “and yet that is a trifling thing compared to the whole of you.”

Eddie stares at him as if he is a wonder, a true child of something rooted deep in the movings of being, in the seasons of the world and the glories no longer spoken aloud as the tongues are long lost but life on in the flesh of those like Steve, and that is a truth: but here. Here, before Eddie, next to Eddie, Steve is really but one thing alone: his.

Steve belongs solely and wholly, here, to him.

“You speak nonsense, my liege,” Eddie finally murmurs, eyes still stretched almost unfathomably wide, as if seeing Beyond: “of us two I am the one who wakes in your arms and wonders endless what heaven I’ve stumbled upon,” he reaches to cradle Steve’s face much as Steve had done in turn, and Steve has never learned before this man to feel adored, or valued for what he is, for who he’s grown to be, rather than what influence he wields, and what power he can enact, as if his rapport now with Enchantment is some coercive thing: no. No, Eddie sees Steve, not a King, not a Fae, not a means to an end. And the strength of his feeling is somehow palpable through the leaves, on the wind itself: for Steve alone, just as he is.

It is a heady revelation that has never yet grown old, or less miraculous.

“To be so blessed as to behold you,” Eddie toys idly at his hair with the softest curve to his lips, his pulse strong, full at his neck; “let alone—“ and his voice breaks a little for feeling, and Steve chest cracks open a touch to take it in safe, to wrap it around his own heart and covet it close, gifts-upon-gifts.

“Now who speaks nonsense, dearest-mine,” Steve teases, though he knows his eyes still glow with the world-craft of his birthing, its power awakened to press firm the truths deeper than his words: this man is all things, in Steve’s chest and in his blood and of his soul he is all things; “what wild notions you have, to think you are less the revelation,” he chides, and flips a thick tangle of Eddie’s hair to puncture the point before he leans close, catches Eddie’s hand again close to his chest to measure the significant in moments’-moving blood beneath:

“That you are less my heart entire.”

Truths. May well have been drawn in the roots of the world-tree at creation itself. And Eddie looks at him in such a way that he must, he must feel grasped and held to Steve’s heart under his palm, for the leaping and the drumming-divine that takes up its song through his chest as Eddie licks his lips and looks to Steve like he is unfathomable and immutable, like he is everything there is to be somehow; his eyes gleam bright and his lips part slow, near-worshipful:

“I love—“

And Steve leans to kiss him, to claim his lips and still his words, to keep them inside his lungs and deep near his heart because as much as Steve wishes them, he wishes nothing of what they may bind to, what they may be taken by Enchantment to mean: a debt. A claim. All that Steve strives with the whole of him to keep his dear one safe from: the dangerous edges that are axiomatic to all Fae is varied in their shape and magnitude; edges Eddie skirts by his nature, so fond of the risk to the point that it pricks often in Steve chest for fear, even as he knows he will never live to let harm visit upon this man, not a single curl upon his head will come to hurt under Steve’s eye, but this: this is not a mere hurt.

This is a sentence for all of time; a condemnation underscore in terms beyond forever. And he will not subject Eddie to such ruin; he would not leave such ends to this man who never needed to stake claim upon Steve to have the whole of him.

And Steve will never risk stealing the claim of eternity in return, no matter how his heart longs to hear those words.

“Sunlight hastens,” Steve moves his lips against Eddie’s; breathes protection into him soft so that he knows love in the motion, but caution in what Steve has sealed back into his lungs: safe and unspoken, risking none of the radiant humanity in Eddie’s precious veins as he cups that dear-held cheek:

“Hasten in kind, beloved.”

Until next, indeed.

✨ part ii: here✨

✨ ao3 link here

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#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #fluff #established relationship #established steddie #fae steve harrington #prince eddie munson #fae king steve harrington #soul-deep fae-magic levels of love #(you understand)#criminal levels of softness #steddievalentinesexchange #stranger things

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