#“compliance arrangements” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moonshine-nightlight · 1 year ago

Text

Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Thirty-Two

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing’s Wrong with Dale Chapter 32

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5][Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two][Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four][Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] Part Thirty-Two [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

While the luncheon was laid out in the great hall and the guests were encouraged to enjoy the grounds and gardens, you and Dale are tucked away in the administrative wing of the estate.

After the knot tying you together was carefully burned, you headed to grandmother’s public office, where she receives officials and conducted business with the many administrators that were needed to keep Northridge running.

With the sacred ceremony complete, there is still the matter of the legal one.

“Thank you, Mr. Murray, Miss Adir,” Dale says to his valet and your maid. “My spouse and I will wait for my grandparents and you may return to supervising the packing of our belongings.”

A small smile graces your face at Dale’s words because they drive home that he is no longer your betrothed, but your spouse. Your husband. Yours.

“Yes, my lord,” the servants chorus, enough amusement in their eyes that you’re not certain they entirely believe in the necessity of Dale’s request. Well, the reasoning is sound, but so is the idea that two newlyweds might want a few moments alone together. They depart without any fuss.

Dale immediately looks around the room, his expression intent enough that it pierces your light mood. You frown and ask, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Dale says. “I was only—there it is.” He strides behind Grandmother’s desk for a pitcher of water. “Just thirsty.”

Watching how he swallows nearly a whole glass with a grimace, you frown. Cautiously, you ask, “Are you certain that is all?”

“I—,” Dale starts to brush off your concern, you can see the dismissal in his body language before he pauses. “Oh, I, everything is fine. My throat is simply sore. This water is more than adequate to soothe it.”

“The holy water did hurt you,” you say—it's not a question.

Looking almost sheepish, he nods. “I was very diligent in my preparations this week, very pious.” He sounds a little defensive, likely due to you telling him you figured out what he was. “I visited the monsacrin every night for a blessed drink. The sanctif let me take them away with me. I wanted to ensure I would not be overcome today. However, my throat is still sore.”

Tolerance or practice? is your first thought. Was he doing something to his throat to mitigate contact, as you think he might have when the sanctif demonstrated his detection lens on Dale’s hand? Or did he merely practice drinking holy water in private until he could do so with a straight face? Neither are cheering thoughts, although you feel guilty at being reassured that this morning was not a plan developed in advance. That he’d in fact been doing the opposite. “Is your throat burned in some manner? Or are the muscles in some way affected?”

Dale blinks at you before he grins. “Are you certain you are not a true physician, sana?”

“Dale,” you warn despite his flattery, not wanting to be easily diverted from your question.

“Some of each,” he tells you easily enough, although not until after a second long drink from his water glass. “The muscles are a bit stiff, the lining a bit damaged. I did need to continue to breathe and swallow so I could only pull back my physical influence on this body so much.”

Good to know. You had been wondering. You reach into your pockets, glad your full-size pockets had still been able to fit unobtrusively under even this fine gown. “I have a tea blend with me that soothes the throat, although it will work better with honey.” You join him at the cart with tea supplies, taking the kettle and settling it boil. “Grandmother occasionally enjoys some as a sweetener, but we could also send for it. That shouldn’t provoke any notice.”

“The licorice tea?” Dale sounds hopeful as he peers over your shoulder. The feeling of him so close is more distracting than you wish it was. You want to focus on making him feel better, not on how you can sense his body behind you and how you want to lean back just enough to touch. “I used it the third night to great effect.”

You stop what you're doing, turning to frown at him. “But it didn’t help the other nights?”

Dale shrugs, reaching around you to pluck a small jar from the other side of the sugar bowl. He sets the honey next to the cup you’d selected. “I only had the one bag.”

“Why did you just ask for more?” You’re more confused than offended. “Even if I didn’t know, I’d happily have given you more tea.”

Dale holds very still, still enough you notice, at your words. His eyes darken, pupils expanding just enough to make them look inhuman. You wait him out, now able to recognize when he needs time to think. He blinks only a few seconds later and he merely shrugs helplessly. “That did not occur to me. I’m rather used to being on my own.”

“Well, you’re not anymore,” you say, unable to think of anything else. You swallow down all your questions about what part of it didn’t occur to him or questions about his solitary past. “So next time, ask me for help.”

His smile is indulgent and pleased. “Yes, sana.”

The kettle whistles causing you both to jump. Dale reaches around you, taking half a step towards the hearth. You turn back to the cup you’re fixing for him, pulling the honey jar closer, when Dale lets out a quiet noise of surprise. Before you can turn to see what’s happening, his large hand lands on your waist. You barely keep from letting out a surprised yelp as his grip tightens just enough to make it clear he’s using you to steady himself from his position, half leaned down to reach the kettle.

“My apologies,” Dale says as he straightens and lets go of you. You can feel the ghost of his touch and you’re surprised by how much you want it back. “I lost my balance for a second.”

“You should set the kettle down and fetch your cane,” you say, pointing to the heat resistant mat for the freshly heated kettle. You do not want him to trip again while holding it.

“Yes, I should,” Dale says to you as he does just that. He rejoins you at the serving cart with his primary cane, the one with the jade sword in it. He adds, almost to himself, “And I thought my balance memory had been improving.”

You add the appropriate amount of honey and stir it for him. Usually, you let such comments slide, and you’re fairly certain this one was only said because he knows you know now, but perhaps because you do know you, and the two of you are alone, you can ask, “Balance memory?”

“Memory to balance is perhaps more accurate,” Dale replies absently as he leans on the newly gotten cane and accepts the cup of tea you prepared for him. He inhales appreciatively and takes a sip, not bothering to attempt to blow on it to cool the hot tea. Whatever the holy water did to his throat, it must not be a normal burn—temperature never seems to bother him. “Delicious,” he rasps after finishing half the cup at once and with an appreciative smile at you.

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but it must not be too obvious as Dale appears to notice your confusion over his words more than anything else.

He clears his throat, looking a bit more nervous, as he says, “I, well, typically—that is, prior to being Dale, my form was amorphous and adaptable to my needs to a far greater extent.”

He’s watching your expression closely, clearly ready to stop talking if you…if you what? Look afraid? Or bored? Angry? You don’t know so you try to look neutrally curious as best as you can.

He continues, “If there was a dip in the ground or someone bumped into me or I leaned over too far, a limb would simply… adapt.”

You desperately want to know more but the moment feels fragile, Dale so cautious about talking openly about himself so you try to keep your words soft and simple. “How?”

“Growing longer, short, thicker.” Dale shrugs. “Whatever would be helpful to keep my balance. In physical activity or altercations, I would have been maintaining tight, conscious control over my form as a matter of course and so it is now. However, when not paying it much mind, during routine movement…”

Of course, you realize, it's no different than how you think of such things—you pay attention when stairs are steep or you’re wearing a particular item of clothing that you need to move differently in, but you don’t think about how to walk when nothing is unusual. It’s beneath your general notice. “You didn’t have to give it any attention.”

“Correct.” Dale looks relieved you understand. “And so in such circumstances, even now, my instinct is to flex my form, but I should not—and cannot to some extent now. So I falter instead. The cane is helpful as a reminder and as an aid.”

You ponder this as Dale drinks. What other instincts must he be fighting or controlling? You’d thought him careless, and perhaps he was at times, but in retrospect, his more obvious missteps seem to be when he was new to Dale or when he was particularly distracted or hungry. Thoughtless, but not careless actions.

“Thank you for the tea,” Dale’s voice interrupts your thoughts and you see him setting the empty cup back on the saucer. He seems a bit subdued, or cautious, but perhaps he’s only attempting to be gentle with his voice on his throat.

“You’re certain you don’t need anything more? Nothing else burned you?” You scan his features for hints of holy water or sacred wax burns. You try not to get caught up just looking at him. His face is more his than the original Dale’s now, at least to you, and it's more attractive for it.

“No, no, the wax wasn’t pleasant, or minimizing my influence wasn’t, but it's already removed.” You look down and see the white wax, which still sticks loosely to the back of your hand, has already fallen off his, without leaving a mark. Or perhaps Dale had subtly flicked it off once out of the monsacrin.

“Good, good. While waiting for the ceremony to start, I’ll admit I began to worry that even the amount of light might be too much.”

“No, no. I’m not abyssal, I’m a sort of shade.” At your look of continued confusion, Dale carefully elaborates, “Shadow, not darkness. Shadow needs light to exist, it’s why we’re close to the surface even in the Depths and why we’re more able to handle the Surface, even if we need a vessel. I could suffer some negative effects if left exposed in strong direct sunlight, but to my understanding, so can humans.”

You're startled at the comparison, but he’s correct. “Yes, no one appreciates being sunburned.” Your mind spins with new information, is it going to be this easy to discuss such matters now? Will you finally be able to get to know all the things he’s kept hidden?

“Quite.”

The sound of the door opening is surprising enough you both turn quickly towards it. Dale’s hand goes to his sword without thought, only for Grandfather’s voice to be easily heard as Steward Bilmont walks in.

“…not a cloud in sight,” he’s saying, “the best sort of luck.” You think there’s an underlying irony to Grandfather’s tone that’s more humorous than worried now that this morning’s events have been resolved favorably. It reminds you of when Dale says things you thought were asides about his nature to you but evidently were only to himself.

“It was beautiful,” your mother answers, satisfaction in her voice that reminds you of when she finishes negotiations on a particularly favorable trade contract.

“There they are!” Grandmother announces as the group enters the room. Any wonder regarding if she’d been informed however briefly that the wedding had been called off is put to rest. There’s no chance Grandfather even hinted at such a thing. She pulls Dale into a hug, placing a kiss on his cheek, before tugging you over as well. She has a surprisingly strong grip.

“Congratulations, I am so happy for you,” she continues, joy evident in her expression. She focuses on Dale. “My grandson, married.”

“Grandmother,” Dale says, fondness evident in his voice.

“Yes, yes,” she pulls back, straightening his jacket. “You are not here to listen to your Grandmother’s pride. You are here for your own.”

“Grandmother,” Dale repeats, sounding a little more exasperated.

Grandmother just winks before turning to her desk where her secretary has begun to arrange the paperwork required for officially swearing in yourself and Dale as the reigning couple running Northridge.

“My child, you did well.” Your mother pulls you into an embrace as well, her flowery perfume overwhelming, but the hug is appreciated as is the sentiment. Asher does too, the only sibling present since he’s the one inheriting Portsmith, while your father works with his secretary on arranging the Portsmith paperwork.

Callalily had to do something similar, sign the contracts clarifying her and her descendants' place in the inheritance order since she’d also married an inheriting lord. You’re not sure what Marigold had to sign. It was likely just a formality given her intention not to have children and her spouse wasn’t likely to inherit either. Douglas remains where he is, no marriage plans in sight—and nothing you’ve seen of him these past few days changes that impression, his sacrifice to distract mother aside.

“Dale, this is for you,” Grandfather presents him with a new, exquisite pen which Dale accepts with appropriate gravity and gratitude.

The actual signing of the paperwork is rather boring, but you appreciate the continued respite from crowds. The Northridge charters are the more complex and there are a lot of them. The various papers solidifying what it's yours solely, what authority Grandmother and Grandfather maintain, what would cause any changes to that, Northridge’s succession line. That document does prompt a significant look from Grandmother as after Dale, the fief would go to Dale’s cousin Ferdinand and his child. Luckily she doesn’t actually say anything about heirs—yet.

Instead, she presents Dale with his signet ring—from one Lady of Northridge to her heir. Grandfather gives you your own too and the smile on his face as he does so convinces you that any suspicion he once had for you is in the past.

There is a new formal inheritance list for Portsmith that’s officially signed too, placing yourself and Dale properly in the order along with any future children you might have—the typical rules that Northridge’s heir could not also inherit Portsmith are laid out. Some wish to combine fiefs, but those tend to be people who are particularly ambitious, new to nobility, or neighbors. Most wish to keep traditions and holdings separate. Not to mention the combination of certain fiefs is severely scrutinized by the Crown.

Of course, most of this is hypothetical and not expected to be needed. Asher has plenty of children to carry on the Portsmith line. Still, your family likes to be thorough and the Northridges have had enough surprises in recent succession to agree.

Since all the details had already been worked out, and no one tries to throw last minute spanners into the works, the whole process goes smoothly if a bit long. You sign the Northridge paperwork first, allowing you to sign the Portsmith ones with your new Northridge title. All the witnesses sign as well and it’s done. You’re now officially of Northridge and Dale is the reigning lord.

As soon as celebratory drinks are in everyone’s hands, Grandmother escorts the group to their family hall. It's clear this is the portion of the inheritance tradition she was looking forward to. “Right this way, we have had everything prepared, but even I have not laid eyes on the new additions.”

Your country home had something similar, but far less official—all the portraits are from different eras and hopelessly outdated. You think yours is from when you went off to schooling at fifteen, which perhaps isn’t too long ago, but Marigold’s is when she was that age too. There are other more recent portraits throughout the manor, but a family portrait gallery isn’t particularly important to Portsmith traditions. The city estate at the port doesn’t even have that—gifted portraits or those bought to curry favor with different interests are what decorate its halls.

Northridge’s family hall is large and organized, with multiple portraits for family members at significant stages in life going back generations. With Dale’s marriage and inheritance, Grandmother has commissioned new portraits of him and you together. You sat for the painting when you first arrived, most of your figure had been completed before Dale arrived home, with only a session or two sat together. It had been a quiet, stiff affair and you’d been grateful when you could leave the painter to his work. You had stopped by his studio in the city, allowed him to make the adjustments and touch-ups he felt necessary, but they had not been terribly long.

When you finally come to a halt, there are not one or two portraits covered in sheets for a dramatic reveal—Grandmother insisted—but three.

You’d been shown around the gallery when you first arrived, paying most attention to Grandmother and Grandfather’s as well as Dale’s parents and only coming back for a refresher when more of Dale’s family had begun to arrive. It is still grand and intimidating, more so with yourself being added now.

“We are going to have a new portrait commissioned as well,” Grandmother says as they walk by her and Grandfather’s most recent portrait from at least twenty years ago. There’s a severity to them and a grief that tells it was only a few years after the loss of their son and daughter-in-law. They deserve to have a happier portrait hanging. The Northridge coat of arms, which used to hang above their portrait, has already been moved to hang over the unrevealed portrait of yourself and Dale. The wall above them looks strangely bare with its removal.

You gather around the unrevealed paintings in a half circle and Grandmother waits for everyone’s attention. “To commemorate your rise to Lord of Northridge and your marriage, there are three portraits to reveal. Firstly, I am delighted to reveal the official portrait of Dale Tiberius Archibald Remmington Quincey, Lord of Northridge.”

Bilmont pulls back the blue cloth to show the portrait of Dale in his black, white, and blue suit, the one which mirrored the Northridge colors on the crest now a few feet above the still hidden joint portrait. It too had been started when Dale first arrived, before the current Dale had taken over, and some of the original Dale’s arrogance and haughtiness is evident in his posture and the line of his back.

Still, the artist had seen Dale since he’d changed and there are hints of that throughout. His stare is direct but less condescending, the blue of his eyes more vivid, but also kinder. He looks, not older, but more mature—the youth in his fearlessness tempered. It’s a masterful blend of both Dales and you’re relieved that it leans towards the new Dale without making the contrast between this portrait and the one prior to his travels too stark.

“It is lovely, Grandmother,” Dale says, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Of course it is,” she preens. “I was certain your travels and return would help you to grow into this responsibility. This portrait makes it obvious, how much you have matured into the man I always knew you could be. I am certain your parents would be proud of you.”

Dale is obviously at a loss for words and so are you, feeling a pang of pity for Grandmother, who could not see what her grandson had become nor that he is gone. Neither of you have to say anything because she continues before you can.

“And I have not overlooked your influence, my dear.” Grandmother’s cloudy eyes still manage to narrow in on you without difficulty. “Each day you have been here, you have solidified my knowledge that you were the perfect partner for my Dale. As you can see from the halls, traditions vary, but for you I knew we would want a portrait of you in your own right. Your parents were so understanding when I wrote to them.”

You turn in surprise to see them giving you a knowing smile. “We came to a most equitable arrangement. A copy of our most recent portrait of you,” you mother says with a pleased smile.

“In exchange for a copy of the portrait of you and your husband,” your father finishes. He nods to Bilmont and the steward obligingly reveals the portrait your parents had commissioned of you.

For a second, you’re concerned that they’ll have merely replicated the one of you at fifteen. You do not mind that portrait—you had been immensely proud of standing for it at the time under your own power and looking wonderfully adult to your young eyes—but even after your first return from school, you had been struck by how young and frail you’d looked in it.

This is a new portrait of you in a favored blue dress—not quite the vibrant Northridge blue nor Portsmith’s blue-gray, but somewhere in the middle. You’d worn it to a number of balls, including the one you first met Grandmother and Grandfather at. The painter must have attended a number of those galas because their skill in capturing your appearance is evident. You’d seen portraits painted that resembled the subjects very little and it was most common among those painted without formal sittings.

Your mother is saying something about the painter and his methods, as if hearing your thoughts, but you’re not really listening to her, you’re too busy studying the portrait.

The you in the painting is more flattering than the one you see most often in the mirror, today perhaps as an exception, but you can recognize yourself with ease. You are more clearly the age that you are now, a grown adult rather than a sickly child in the former painting. This you has thicker hair, less of your bones are prominent. You look less on edge and of course, your frame is fuller. Mother must have instructed the painter to give you a solidity you still don’t believe you have, always pushing for what she wants you to be rather than what you are. But it’s not egregious, even if there is more conviction in the set of this you’s jaw than you’ve ever truly felt. Again, except perhaps this morning when you sought out Dale to confront him. Overall, you find the expression pleasant, even if you think there’s something a bit off with your nose.

It’s the other details in the portrait that hold your attention. There’s a banner with the Northridge coat of arms behind you, but a book with Portsmith’s coat on the cover in our hands. The spine of the book is for a medicinal textbook, and the tea on the high table you're positioned next to even seems to steam. The vase is full of plants you recognize from your tea blends—and each of the flowers from your siblings’ namesakes are present as well.

“It’s lovely,” you say, glad your voice is soft enough that it doesn’t betray that you abruptly feel close to tears.

“You’re welcome,” your father says, with a comforting squeeze to your shoulder.

Soon, Grandmother quiets you all down for the final reveal. “Lastly, allow me to present the Lord and Lady of Northridge.”

Dale’s outfit, his black suit and red waistcoat is so obviously one the original Dale wore, although to be honest, this Dale is drawn to bold colors too. You’re in your white and blue with black accents Northridge dress. The two of you are posed in front of the large windows in the south hall, the ones that lead to the gardens. The clothes and the pose are of the past, but the expressions are clearly from recent sittings. So is the way you’re turned toward each other, not dramatically, but more than before. You look together instead of just standing next to each other. Even Dale’s greater presence and more forward position has been rendered far more protective than attention-seeking.

The signet rings of Northridge glitter on your fingers in the painting, even though you’d not put them on until a few minutes ago. You look married in that portrait and it helps solidify in your mind that you are.

Dale reaches over to clasp your hand in his and you smile up at him, proud to be here, in this moment, with him.

-/-

In the end, the wedding luncheon is remarkably similar to the other galas and balls that you’ve been hosting for the past few weeks, baring the high sun. You make it through being announced without tripping. You make small talk with everyone who wants to—which is everyone. You manage a few additional moments with your family. You’re grateful your dancing is with limited partners as it’s considered ill luck for the newly weds to dance with any other than each other or their immediate families.

Unusually it drags as time passes, until it is time to leave at which point you feel as if only a few moments have passed since you entered. As the married couple, you do not have to stay hosting until late in the night this time. You’ve never felt as if you were sneaking away, as if you were getting away with shirking your duties, while such a large group sees you off. It’s very peculiar.

The other servants and your packed belongings likely left over an hour ago. Only your personal servants are leaving at the same time. You find yourself outside, bidding goodbye to your family, as you stand in front of your carriage with a suddenness that almost makes you dizzy.

Then Dale is holding out a hand for you, which you take, allowing him to help you into the carriage. You carefully adjust your skirts before and after you sit down on the comfortable plush bench. A carriage for two, only a few trunks sit opposite you giving more ample room for legs and skirts. You make space on your left for Dale and he soon joins you, folding himself into a seating position as soon as he can so as not to bump his head on the ceiling.

“Are you settled, my spouse?” he asks as the door shuts. He pulls up the window nearly as quickly so as to ensure the air does not get stifling.

You wonder if you’ll ever get tired of hearing him call you that. Somehow you don’t think you will. “Yes, I’m comfortable.”

“Lovely,” he replies, giving a quick smile which flashes the whites of his sharp teeth. He leans forward to wave cheerily at Grandmother before he knocks on the front wood separating yourselves from the driver and footman.

It only takes a minute for the driver to set the horses off and you pull away from Northridge estate to the sound of falling grain thrown by guests before they return to enjoying the festivities without you.

You do your best to wave goodbye to your family, but looking out the window for too long begins to upset your stomach. They’re out of sight before long as it is.

You settle back down in your seat and try to orient yourself, catching your breath in practice if not necessity.

“Water?” Dale offers, holding out a flask and wiping the back of his mouth with his free hand to indicate he’d just taken a sip himself.

You take the flask gratefully and drink some water to clear your mouth and throat. You pass it back to him with murmured thanks. The silence, the first in hours, fills the carriage.

Dale is the one who breaks it. He reaches for the basket on top and pulls out an apple. “I had them pack some foodstuff for us, given you tend not to eat much at these events—”

“And you are nearly always hungry,” you finish, accepting a grape. A mix of embarrassed and flattered that he knows you so well.

“Quite,” Dale says with a crooked smile.

You get caught in his gaze, like you haven’t since the very beginning. Perhaps instead of you becoming accustomed to it yourself, Dale had merely gotten better at controlling the way his presence could reel you in. Perhaps he isn’t trying so hard now that he knows that you know. Now that you’re finally alone.

“So I suppose we should—” Dale is cut off by a loud bark of laughter from the front of the carriage. Whoever made the sound, driver or footman, is quick to shut their mouth, but the reminder is well served. Dale smiles apologetically. “We should talk once we arrive at the lodge of any matters of import, perhaps not now.”

“No, you’re correct,” you sigh, feeling the day’s events weighing strongly on you. You adjust your seat, grateful you had insisted on Grandmother storing your veil for you here and not taking it on your travels. Your neck bends at an awkward angle when you try to rest it against the inner frame. A bump in the road, still being worked on, causes you to sit straighter and give up on the idea of leaning against the carriage side.

“We can speak of other matters,” you say, though you’d actually like little more than to stop talking and nap. The day had begun so much earlier than usual, in order for you to be ready before the mid-morning ceremony, and had been so busy that you’re exhausted.

“Of course,” Dale says. “We’ll have an entire week at the lodge, before we go on to Riverton. It’s been many years since, em, I’ve been there, but it’s an industrious city, with a river that has hopefully enough water for you to feel at home…”

You listen as Dale elaborates on some specific memories he has of the city, more than the names of officials, and where you would visit as discussed with Grandmother and Grandfather. He isn’t explicit, in case either servant up front can hear, but you can read between the lines far more easily now that he isn’t pretending these are his own memories. He’s careful to keep his voice lower to minimize the others' hearing, but loud enough for you to pick out above the clatter of the carriage on the road.

The overall effect is soothing and comfortable. It’s easy to close your eyes, to sway a little in your seat. Dale’s hand ends up in your lap at some point, and your hands cover it without remembering having done so. The day hadn’t been overwhelmingly hot, but it's warm and you’re so tired. Not just from today, but from the whole past month. From before that when you were anxious to meet the original Dale and dealing with him once you had. From the weeks and months spent searching for a spouse. It all seems to be catching up with you at once.

You drift off with the motion of the carriage, and the sound of Dale’s voice in your ear, his strength and presence comfortingly close by.

[Part Thirty-Three]

#my writing #story: nothing's wrong with dale #story part #nothing's wrong with dale #terato #exophilia #monster romance #osha compliance #arrange marriage #slow burn #monster bf #reader #finally done with this chapter #idk where yesterday and the day before went #glad today is a late start #need to practice my presentation now #hope you like it!

239 notes · View notes

jcmarchi · 9 months ago

Text

Croissant: a metadata format for ML-ready datasets

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/croissant-a-metadata-format-for-ml-ready-datasets/

Croissant: a metadata format for ML-ready datasets

Posted by Omar Benjelloun, Software Engineer, Google Research, and Peter Mattson, Software Engineer, Google Core ML and President, MLCommons Association

Machine learning (ML) practitioners looking to reuse existing datasets to train an ML model often spend a lot of time understanding the data, making sense of its organization, or figuring out what subset to use as features. So much time, in fact, that progress in the field of ML is hampered by a fundamental obstacle: the wide variety of data representations.

ML datasets cover a broad range of content types, from text and structured data to images, audio, and video. Even within datasets that cover the same types of content, every dataset has a unique ad hoc arrangement of files and data formats. This challenge reduces productivity throughout the entire ML development process, from finding the data to training the model. It also impedes development of badly needed tooling for working with datasets.

There are general purpose metadata formats for datasets such as schema.org and DCAT. However, these formats were designed for data discovery rather than for the specific needs of ML data, such as the ability to extract and combine data from structured and unstructured sources, to include metadata that would enable responsible use of the data, or to describe ML usage characteristics such as defining training, test and validation sets.

Today, we’re introducing Croissant, a new metadata format for ML-ready datasets. Croissant was developed collaboratively by a community from industry and academia, as part of the MLCommons effort. The Croissant format doesn’t change how the actual data is represented (e.g., image or text file formats) — it provides a standard way to describe and organize it. Croissant builds upon schema.org, the de facto standard for publishing structured data on the Web, which is already used by over 40M datasets. Croissant augments it with comprehensive layers for ML relevant metadata, data resources, data organization, and default ML semantics.

In addition, we are announcing support from major tools and repositories: Today, three widely used collections of ML datasets — Kaggle, Hugging Face, and OpenML — will begin supporting the Croissant format for the datasets they host; the Dataset Search tool lets users search for Croissant datasets across the Web; and popular ML frameworks, including TensorFlow, PyTorch, and JAX, can load Croissant datasets easily using the TensorFlow Datasets (TFDS) package.

Croissant

This 1.0 release of Croissant includes a complete specification of the format, a set of example datasets, an open source Python library to validate, consume and generate Croissant metadata, and an open source visual editor to load, inspect and create Croissant dataset descriptions in an intuitive way.

Supporting Responsible AI (RAI) was a key goal of the Croissant effort from the start. We are also releasing the first version of the Croissant RAI vocabulary extension, which augments Croissant with key properties needed to describe important RAI use cases such as data life cycle management, data labeling, participatory data, ML safety and fairness evaluation, explainability, and compliance.

Why a shared format for ML data?

The majority of ML work is actually data work. The training data is the “code” that determines the behavior of a model. Datasets can vary from a collection of text used to train a large language model (LLM) to a collection of driving scenarios (annotated videos) used to train a car’s collision avoidance system. However, the steps to develop an ML model typically follow the same iterative data-centric process: (1) find or collect data, (2) clean and refine the data, (3) train the model on the data, (4) test the model on more data, (5) discover the model does not work, (6) analyze the data to find out why, (7) repeat until a workable model is achieved. Many steps are made harder by the lack of a common format. This “data development burden” is especially heavy for resource-limited research and early-stage entrepreneurial efforts.

The goal of a format like Croissant is to make this entire process easier. For instance, the metadata can be leveraged by search engines and dataset repositories to make it easier to find the right dataset. The data resources and organization information make it easier to develop tools for cleaning, refining, and analyzing data. This information and the default ML semantics make it possible for ML frameworks to use the data to train and test models with a minimum of code. Together, these improvements substantially reduce the data development burden.

Additionally, dataset authors care about the discoverability and ease of use of their datasets. Adopting Croissant improves the value of their datasets, while only requiring a minimal effort, thanks to the available creation tools and support from ML data platforms.

What can Croissant do today?

The Croissant ecosystem: Users can Search for Croissant datasets, download them from major repositories, and easily load them into their favorite ML frameworks. They can create, inspect and modify Croissant metadata using the Croissant editor.

Today, users can find Croissant datasets at:

With a Croissant dataset, it is possible to:

To publish a Croissant dataset, users can:

Use the Croissant editor UI (github) to generate a large portion of Croissant metadata automatically by analyzing the data the user provides, and to fill important metadata fields such as RAI properties.

Publish the Croissant information as part of their dataset Web page to make it discoverable and reusable.

Publish their data in one of the repositories that support Croissant, such as Kaggle, HuggingFace and OpenML, and automatically generate Croissant metadata.

Future direction

We are excited about Croissant’s potential to help ML practitioners, but making this format truly useful requires the support of the community. We encourage dataset creators to consider providing Croissant metadata. We encourage platforms hosting datasets to provide Croissant files for download and embed Croissant metadata in dataset Web pages so that they can be made discoverable by dataset search engines. Tools that help users work with ML datasets, such as labeling or data analysis tools should also consider supporting Croissant datasets. Together, we can reduce the data development burden and enable a richer ecosystem of ML research and development.

We encourage the community to join us in contributing to the effort.

Acknowledgements

Croissant was developed by the Dataset Search, Kaggle and TensorFlow Datasets teams from Google, as part of an MLCommons community working group, which also includes contributors from these organizations: Bayer, cTuning Foundation, DANS-KNAW, Dotphoton, Harvard, Hugging Face, Kings College London, LIST, Meta, NASA, North Carolina State University, Open Data Institute, Open University of Catalonia, Sage Bionetworks, and TU Eindhoven.

0 notes

metanarrates · 10 months ago

Text

I haven't seen a lot of coverage in the news about this, but my state has just advanced legislation on a bill that would criminalize trans bathroom use in publicly owned buildings. this could mean up to 6 months in jail and up to $1000 in fees for those convicted.

most alarming aspects of this bill:

-"publicly owned buildings" include airports, schools, libraries, government offices, some hospitals, and most terrifyingly AND explicitly within the bill, domestic violence shelters and rape crisis facilities. transgender people, who are estimated to be almost 4 times more likely to be victims of violent crimes than cisgender people, could become criminalized in the very spaces they seek out to shelter from abuse.

-on that note, the bill potentially threatens federal funding of already-underfunded domestic violence and sexual assault facilities. to recieve federal grants, facilities are required to follow nondiscrimination laws. this law could place the facilities in danger of losing the grants they rely on. this is severely going to impact victims' abilities to access critically needed services.

-the bill legally defines "sex" in a way that has a lot of potential impact across state legislature. according to the bill’s text, HB 257 would legally define a female as “an individual whose biological reproductive system is of the general type that functions in a way that could produce ova,” and a male as “an individual whose biological reproductive system is of the general type that functions to fertilize the ova of a female.” this could effectively end the state's legal recognition of trans people.

-the bill demands that trans people who DO use bathrooms in publicly owned buildings must have undergone both gender reassignment surgery and have had their birth certificate changed. this has several issues, obviously, but the biggest one I want to highlight is that this opens the door to potential genital inspection by law enforcement if someone is accused of being transgender in a bathroom. in addition to any other indignities suffered by being harassed by cops when trying to use the restroom, it is completely possible for law enforcement to now demand to see whether someone's genitals are in compliance with these laws. it's an unconscionable and humiliating invasion of privacy.

-the bill requires trans students to develop a "privacy plan" with their school in order to arrange access to unisex spaces. if unisex bathrooms are unavailable, the student can be granted access to a sex-designated space “through staggered scheduling or another policy provision that provides for temporary private access.”

-the bill allows the state’s attorney general to impose a fine of up to $10,000 per day on local governments that don’t enforce the bill. in essence, any government that isn't sufficiently committed to enforcing these draconian laws may face massive fines until they have reached the attorney general's standard of enforcement.

this is one of the most unbelievably severe anti-trans laws that have ever been proposed in the united states. it would effectively ban trans people from participating in public life, harm nearly every single victim of domestic violence and sexual assault who seeks services in the state, enforce criminality on random trans people in bathrooms, and open every single person who could be potentially accused of being trans up to a wave of harassment and discrimination from both private citizens and law enforcement. I'm not being hyperbolic when I say that this law would literally force me and my transfemme fiancee to flee this state.

the law's been fast tracked to an insane degree through the legislature. similarly to the anti-dei bill currently making its way through, it's only been a week since it was introduced, and it's already passed the house, and is now up for vote in the senate. if it passes both sets of votes, the only thing left in its way is the governor's decision to veto.

please share this post. make as much noise as you can. if you live in utah, please call and email your district senator as soon as possible. it doesn't matter how late you see this. the bill is up for vote this week (1/23/24 at the time of writing) and we need to do whatever we physically can to protest its passing. we've already moved past the opportunity for public comment on the bill, but a few organizations have called for a rally at the capitol steps on thursday (1/25/24) at noon. if you are in the salt lake area or are able to make it there, please consider attending. wear a mask and bring a sign. we are stronger together.

#narrates #signal boost #please tag anyone you can think of with a large platform in this post. we need this to spread asap

5K notes · View notes

solxamber · 11 days ago

Text

Romance Clichés with: Riddle Rosehearts

Cliché: The Grand Romantic Gesture

Others: Leona ; Azul ; Vil ; Kalim ; Idia ; Jamil

The moment you decided to court Riddle Rosehearts, you knew you had to bring your A-game. And by A-game, you meant memorizing all 810 laws of the Queen of Hearts.

Did anyone ask you to? No.

Did anyone want you to? Probably not.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was Riddle noticing you.

The first rule you put into practice was Rule 178: "When presenting flowers, they must be in groups of three, six, or nine." So, naturally, you showed up at Heartslabyul one day holding a perfectly arranged bouquet of nine red roses.

"For you," you said, holding them out with a bow that lingered precisely three seconds, no more, no less (Rule 12).

Riddle blinked, his face shifting from neutral to the faintest pink. “You— You’re following the rules?”

“Of course,” you replied smoothly. “I wouldn’t dare present flowers improperly to the Heartslabyul Dorm Leader.”

Cater whistled from somewhere behind him. Trey raised a brow. Riddle, meanwhile, looked like he might short-circuit.

“W-Well, good,” he managed, clutching the roses like they were something sacred. “It’s refreshing to see someone with proper manners.”

You grinned, internally high-fiving yourself. Step one: complete.

You’d researched extensively for your next move. Rule 47: “A surprise tea party must include the guest bringing their own cup and saucer.”

When Riddle called an impromptu tea party, you arrived armed with not only a cup and saucer but a tiny tray of perfectly portioned sweets, arranged in compliance with Rule 290: “Desserts served at tea parties must be bite-sized and arranged symmetrically.”

The silence as you set them on the table was deafening.

Trey looked mildly impressed. Cater snapped a picture. Riddle, on the other hand, stared at you like you’d just recited Shakespeare in iambic pentameter while juggling teacups.

“You…” He cleared his throat. “You’ve been studying the rules?”

“Of course,” you said, taking your seat and stirring your tea exactly three times counterclockwise (Rule 723). “It’s only proper.”

“I—Yes, well—” His ears turned bright red as he took a bite of one of your desserts. “You’ve done well,” he muttered, almost too quietly to hear.

You didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on you for the rest of the tea party.

By the time you hit Rule 810—“A declaration of admiration must be made with precision, sincerity, and a token of affection”—Riddle was this close to losing it.

You didn’t plan to deploy it that day. You were just practicing it in your head when you ran into him at the rose garden. He was inspecting the flowers, his brows furrowed in that way that somehow made him even cuter.

“Rule 810,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Riddle turned to you, confused. “What?”

Crap. No turning back now.

You cleared your throat, stepping closer. “Rule 810 states that a declaration of admiration must be precise, sincere, and accompanied by a token of affection.” You pulled a small, hand-embroidered handkerchief from your pocket. It was decorated with roses and a tiny “R” stitched in the corner.

You held it out to him, your hands only trembling slightly. “I… I’ve memorized all the rules because I wanted to court you properly. Because I admire you. And because—well—because I love you.”

Riddle’s mouth opened, then closed. His face turned such a bright shade of red that you worried he might actually faint.

“You—” His voice cracked, and he quickly cleared his throat. “You… love me?”

“Yes,” you said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Honestly, after memorizing 810 rules for you, I don’t think I could possibly love anyone else.”

Riddle stared at you, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. For a moment, you thought he might actually explode. Then, all at once, he stepped forward, took the handkerchief, and pressed it to his chest like it was something priceless.

“I—” He took a shaky breath. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

You blinked. “I—what?”

“Who memorizes 810 rules for someone?” he said, his voice rising slightly. “You’re—You’re maddening! Impossible! Utterly—” He cut himself off, taking another breath before meeting your gaze.

“…And yet, I can’t imagine anyone else doing something so utterly… thoughtful.”

You felt your heart leap into your throat as his expression softened. “You’ve done all this for me,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “And I… I’d be a fool not to accept such a heartfelt gesture.”

“So… is that a yes?” you asked, trying (and failing) not to grin.

Riddle’s blush deepened, but he nodded. “Yes.”

And then, to your utter shock, he stepped closer, reaching for your hand. “But I hope you realize,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, “that now I’ll expect you to uphold all the rules of the Queen of Hearts from now on.”

You laughed, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

Masterlist

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle x reader #riddle rosehearts #riddle #riddle x you #twst fluff #fluff

521 notes · View notes

lacamorte · 4 months ago

Text

~ The White Lotus of Shuang Hua

Luo Binghe, being the Emperor of the united realms, has to congregate not only with the demonic aristocrats, but also the human ones. Seeking assurance that he did indeed unite the realms with good intentions, they urge LBH to take a spouse from among their own high-ranking families as a gesture of good will. At this point LBH has accepted that this will be another instance of the world throwing one pretty sister or another into his lap, and agrees to have a meeting with the female aristocrats.

When they arrive at the venue, LBH takes note of a group of very well-dressed young women in a courtyard, each holding fans of varying make in their delicate, manicured hands. In front of them is a lady wearing a lightly beaded weimao, who moves her fan between her fingers with remarkable skill, tapping it and flicking it with ease. She stood out for the simple design of her robes in comparison to the others who wore more ornate clothes — that, and the immense spiritual presence that she had. A cultivator, no doubt. She spoke clearly and sternly, sleeves gently swaying with her movements as she seemed to instruct the other ladies.

One look is all LBH needs to know that yes, this is the one he's here for.

She was quick to notice their approach, the bead strings of her weimao lightly clinking as she turned and raised her cupped hands to salute. The other women copied her example, but with not nearly as much elegance.

"This one greets the Emperor," one of the ladies spoke demurely, the others following suit in quiet murmurs.

Instead, LBH turns to the veiled woman, who after rising from her bow swiftly opened her fan in one smooth movement as if to cover her already veiled face, before pausing and lowering it as she realized the redundancy. LBH suppressed a wry smirk. A shy one, huh?

"Are these the flowers from which this lord is to make his selection?" He inquires politely, attempting to meet the lady's eyes from behind her veil. He catches a glimpse of pink lips before the fan is raised again.

"Merely buds as of yet, I'm afraid," her voice is very soft, a contrast to her earlier demeanor, as if speaking for him alone to hear with his demonic senses. Binghe notices the glint of a spiritual blade resting on her hip, almost hidden by her robes. Binghe's eyes glint with intrigue.

"The young mistresses await further inside, my lord," the aristocrat beside him explains. "If Junshang would follow this one—"

Binghe hums. "No need. I'll take this one."

Everyone seems to take a second to process his statement. Then, they collectively turned to the object of Binghe's attention — the lady in the weimao. The lady herself can only squeak in surprise.

The aristocrat startles, before laughing nervously. "Ah, Junshang, that is—the White Lotus of Shuang Hua is only temporarily in our employ, but—"

Ah, so she is a renown cultivator — and with a title, no less. Perhaps he'd spent too much time away from human society, to have not heard of her. "There is no need for further discussion. This lord has come to select a wife at your abode, and now I have." Then, he archs a brow imperiously. "Or are you refusing my choice?"

The man is sweating. "By no means, my lord! Rather, er, my lord seems to have misunderstood, Shen-xianshi is a ma—"

Master cultivator? Binghe scoffs. As if he hadn't already sensed the woman's immense spiritual presence. "Yes, I had noticed. It is of no concern to me." He waves a hand dismissively. "Send the other women home. Xianshi will be returning with me."

The aristocrat lights a candle in his heart in despair for his fellow men — especially for Shen-xianshi. Lord Luo, that's no sister you're taking as your wife — that's a man!!!

aka: LBH mistakes SY for a woman and says he'll take cultivator SY as spouse in compliance with a political arrangement. Not wanting to anger the demon emperor, the aristocrats quickly find a genderbending artifact for SY and send him off to join LBH's harem.

#mxtx svsss #shen qingqiu #svsss #bingqiu #shen yuan #bonus points if instead of an aristocrat its just sqh guiding lbh #luo bingge #binggeyuan #kind of #can you tell that i couldn't think of a town name for sy's title

454 notes · View notes

mostlycompetentwriter · 8 months ago

Text

Thunderous

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Bang Chan

Word Count: 11K

Genre: Werewolf AU! Royalty AU!

Warnings: There are some elements of non-con in this fanfic. Please don’t read if you don’t like those elements. Mentions of knotting and rough sex. There’s also a lot of explicit smut and language throughout.

Summary: The Wolf King’s name seared your heart. You had been chosen as the youngest and most expendable daughter to be his mate. But you were terrified of the legends surrounding his bloody campaigns. How were you going to survive?

Tag List: @armystay89 @captainchrisstan @starseekersworld @melsunshine @kibs-and-bits

The Wolf King’s name whispered through the trees and hummed between the villages like the ancient stories of the gods.

Some of the villagers claimed that he could transform—bones cracking and teeth elongating until there was no man left. They said his claws could cut through trees and that his howl silenced the instincts of the mountain lions who cowered in their dens. In place of human skin, fur sprouted thick and rough, darkening until it matched the color of the shadows.

The myth and lore had been passed down for years, and you found yourself on the receiving end of all those stories. As the Wolf King’s future mate, you had also become something of an enigma around the kingdom. People looked at you with a glint of respect, bowing their heads and moving out of your way whenever you made your rounds.

The attention that you hated. Especially when the marriage had been arranged without your willing compliance. Young girl fantasies of handsome princes and distant lands vanquished in an instant. But even if you couldn’t indulge in happiness anymore, there had been a time when you allowed yourself to dream about your wedding.

Bubbling colors of red and green—like your kingdom’s annual yuletide celebrations—and a long, flowing white gown extending across the floor like an elegant brush of paint. Pure as you had always been. There was beautiful music in your dream, and a gorgeous prince to take you into his arms and glide you across the floor like the clouds moving in the sky.

Fantasies, indeed.

Instead, of merriment and goodwill, you found yourself trembling from head to toe, holding tight to the sleeve of your handmaiden’s gown as she escorted you through the recital hall, down the aisle to where you recognized the Wolf King waiting.

You had only met him twice before. Once, when you had just turned twelve, on the day your families agreed to meet over the prospect of securing peace between your rival kingdoms.

When you were both little children, the Wolf King had no reputation. He was just a boy, and you greeted him with a smile—ignorant of the true purpose of your first meeting. While your parents talked about the future, you showed the Wolf King your favorite flowers, handing him individual stems while your mother bargained your life away:

“A union is our commitment to peace,” your mother had once proclaimed, reaching out to softly pat your curls. “We think they’ll do well together.”

“Yes.” But Chan’s mother didn’t seem convinced. She was an elegant and beautiful woman with long black hair and bright red eyes to match his defining features. “Chan will decide who he wants to marry,” his mother said.

“Y/N will make a good wife when she comes of age,” your mother insisted. “We’ll hire the best teachers to ensure that she is prepared for her duties.”

“That matters little to us,” Chan’s father spoke, and he regarded you like one might grimace at an annoying ant to step on.

You shied away from his intimidating stare, looking instead at Chan as he designed a flower crown for you, placing it on top of your head with a proud smile.

It was the last time he would ever show such kindness.

Over the years proceding your first meeting, Chan became a man, and his reputation for ruthlessness and fury ignited a storm of gossip.

“The Wolf King stands taller than the gods!”

“The Wolf King slaughtered a village because they refused to bow down to him!”

“He’s a monster! Have mercy on us all!”

You became terrified at any mention of the Wolf King, wondering if your parents were still serious about a union. You found out the hard way when your mother invited the Wolf King and his generals to your kingdom. But you didn’t stick around for very long.

The next time you met, you were sixteen, and you ran away to the gardens in a rare show of rebellion against your parents who had expected you to dress pretty and show off for Chan.

But that wasn’t in your nature, and your instincts screamed at you to avoid the Wolf King. And you thought that you were alone in the forest. Surrounded by the quiet of the thick foliage. But then you heard the bushes move, and you noticed a large black head peering at you with piercing red eyes.

You relaxed when you realized that it was just a common wolf—probably one from the mountain packs, and you weren’t frightened. Animals had always held a special place in your heart, and you approached the wolf with palms upturned to show your peaceful intentions. The wolf never moved, and you stroked your fingers through the coarse fur on his head.

You returned home that evening thinking your father would scold you for running off like that. But you were instead warmly greeted by your parents who were both ecstatic. “He agreed to marry you, Y/N!” your mother exclaimed. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

It wasn’t.

Not at all.

And you had never experienced real fear in your entire life. But walking down the aisle in the chapel to where the fearless Wolf King waited for you, there was a bone-chilling tremble aching down your spine.

“So beautiful,” you heard faint whispers join together, urging you closer and closer to the Wolf King who gazed at you with the most intense stare you had ever received.

When you were within earshot, the Wolf King snatched your hand from the poor handmaiden who had been helping you walk down the aisle.

The girl quickly jumped to the side, bowing her head as the Wolf King forced you to stand in front of him, reaching down for your other hand. You reluctantly gave it to him, still looking at everything except for the Wolf King’s eyes, even if the little growl he gave showed that he disapproved.

You could hear your mother’s chastising voice in your head, scolding you for not pleasing the King. But you didn’t care anymore. Wasn’t it enough that you were standing there, giving your life away to a monster?

In the distant background, you could hear the priest delivering his lines, and when it was your turn, you gave your vow of allegiance, even if the words fell hot like acid from your unwilling tongue.

Thankfully, the ceremony did not require you to kiss him, dodging his wayward lips when they fell too close to yours.

There was a rush when the proceedings concluded, the firm ushering of hands leading you out of the chapel. You stumbled in your heels, bringing yourself inadvertently closer to the Wolf King who held tighter to your waist. You did not enjoy the closeness, swallowing down your nerves as you tried not to think about what came next.

The crowd eventually parted, giving you enough space to walk down the steps in the open air, briefly acknowledging the cheering crowd spread through the streets. There was a distinct awe in the noise from the people around you, clambering over one another to get a good like at yourself and the predator who would soon claim you for his own. Wanting to acquaint themselves with your kingdom’s bargaining chip—a small sacrifice to ensure an alliance between your people and the ones who fought under Chan’s domain.

On paper, it seemed like a worthy solution to helping your kingdom protect its borders and fight off invaders. The problem was that you felt the weight of pleasing a man you had no interest in—someone who frightened you to your core. A sick knot tightened in your guts and your stomach clenched tighter as Chan led you to Castle Miroh—the notorious landmark of his territory symbolizing the power of the ruling family.

As the main doors parted, you winced at the sensation of the cold and harsh air inside, and a shiver passed down your spine as you forced yourself to keep up with Chan’s incessant pace, footsteps clacking against marble. It was dark in the corridors, and the only lighting came from the flames ensconced along the walls, casting everything in shadows. Ahead in the distance, you could see the outline of a grand staircase, and your eyes worked tirelessly to mark each step on your darkened path.

It turned out that Chan kept his quarters on the highest floor, latching your fingers together the entire time, even as you forced down the bile permanently hitched at the back of your throat at the thought of all the blood that had stained those hands.

At the top of the staircase, you were pulled to the left, marching down an impressive corridor with a soft, velvet carpet beneath your soles. Eventually, you found yourself in front of a large, wooden door, and Chan ushered you through the frame, a hand to your lower back as your eyes paused on the King-sized bed waiting beneath an unholy painting of a bloody battle scene.

You will present yourself to the Wolf King, you recalled the words of your tutor. He will expect obedience from his mate.

You blinked away tears, knowing what you were expected to do next, and deciding to push through your nerves before you lost the contents of your stomach on the floor. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to run, but you ignored your instincts, loosening the straps of your dress to allow it to pool into a mess on the floor at your feet, and kicking it aside as you eliminated the remaining distance to the bed.

You didn’t want to show him that you were weak. That he had any sort of influence that might condemn you a coward. You could not be seen as pathetic in the eyes of a monster, crawling on hands and knees to the center of the bed, head ducked down between your trembling arms and waiting.

Your breath caught when the bed dipped beneath his weight, and you gritted your teeth, feeling his hands take your hips with a powerful grip, nails digging into the soft skin.

The Wolf King will fuck you, your tutor had said, Then he will bite you to complete the mating ritual.

You had seen the Wolf King’s teeth. Sharp like razors and pointed at the ends. You would be a bloody mess at the end of this, but no one could ever accuse you of shirking your responsibilities. You had done everything expected of you, holding on to this thought of solace as you waited for him to take his fill.

“Don’t,” he abruptly whispered, startling you as he laid down on the mattress at your side, closing his eyes and letting out a grumble, completely unbothered with his own nakedness.

It must’ve happened while you were turned away, but it was still jarring to see so much pale skin on display, marred with jagged scars and scarlet bruises. Eyes trailing over the swell of his chest, over the ridges of his abs, and down to this impressive cock.

You swallowed hard. “Aren’t you going to fuck me?”

“No,” Chan said, chest deflating. “You do not want that.”

His response surprised you, and you wanted nothing more than to hurriedly tuck the sheet around your body to hide you from him. “I thought you were meant to-”

“We are equals,” Chan interrupted with a much firmer tone. “And you are afraid.”

Equals? The word didn’t seem right coming from him, but you weren’t about to question what was seemingly amounting to an act of mercy. Quick as a flash, you had the sheet bundled against your chest, eyes wide as you looked him over. “The mating-”

“We can do the bite,” Chan continued as if he didn’t care that he wasn’t fulfilling the only purpose you had been given. “But in the morning. The celebrations earlier exhausted me. Such frivolous trivialities.”

“Won’t they notice-”

“Who are they?” Chan barked with a hint of a growl that had you flinching. “There is no one who orders the King around.”

His dark pupils met yours in the dark, searching for something. You swallowed hard, unsure what he was looking for, but focusing on the calming sensation of relief flooding your system at his unexpected mercy. “Thank you.”

He gave a curt nod, dipping his head to the space next to him. “Sleep.”

You obeyed, wondering if you could sleep next to him, even if he had shown you some degree of kindness. It still didn’t erase his bloody reputation, and it worried you to no end that you would be sleeping next to a killer. Born to fight his way to power and rule over his kind.

You took a deep breath, holding tight to the sheet, and closing your eyes. Perhaps it was the roller coaster of emotions weighing down on you from the day’s events, but you did manage to find sleep, even if it was troubled. Nightmares of wolves following you through the woods, red irises piercing you from the shelter of the trees, and claws slicing through flesh.

You gasped when your eyes sprung open against an onslaught of bright, morning light, heart palpitating in your chest when you met those same eyes looking down at you from above. Chan was a step ahead of you as if he could predict your movements, grabbing your hands in one of his own to hold them above your head. One of his powerful thighs slung across your lower body, holding you in place with a strength that ignited a fire of burning adrenaline.

“Hold still,” he said, giving you no other warning before teeth sank into the side of your neck, and your body panicked, fighting against him. Like he might take a chunk out of your neck and leave you on the bed to bleed out. Crimson against the cream-colored sheets.

Immediately, a pulsating shock erupted from the site of the wound, forcing a scream from between your lips at the overwhelming pain. “I know,” he said, and it was barely discernible over the sounds of your cries, unashamed to lose all inhibitions at the sensation of a pain you had never experienced before.

The Wolf King moved over top of you, and you flinched when you felt his tongue start to lap at the painful bite mark on your shoulder. “The pain will stop soon,” he said. “I’m sorry you have to suffer.”

You held back a whine, digging your nails into the soft flesh of your palms. You supposed he had helped the sting, but it still felt like a piece of glass was being sliced across your skin. Even if the guilt and remorse in his gaze were almost enough to distract you.

“Relax,” he soothed, releasing your hands which instinctively went to wipe at your eyes, drying the salty wetness that had accumulated.

“I- I can’t...”

“You can because you are mine now,” he declared in a tone that had a different flame sparking in your chest.

You nodded against the pain, focusing on taking deep breaths, and letting darkness take you under once more.

When you woke again, the King was ready for you. He explained that you were needed in the Throne Room to meet some important people. It turned out that the King had three brothers. They were all younger than him. Or so you had been told.

Their names were Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin. Feared and revered for their triumphs in battle.

Your Wolf King seemed proud to show them off, standing before you in an organized line: from oldest to youngest.

Felix reminded you of your own cousins, with his lithe figure, so much different from the King’s own bulk, and a head of flaming orange-red hair.

Next to him, in the middle, stood Seungmin. Dressed in dark clothes that only made his already dark hair even more onyx-black. Bright green eyes appraising you slowly.

Finally, there was Jeongin. The tallest of the three. And sporting the same dark-colored hair as his middle brother. He seemed to be the most innocent, eyes wide with wonder.

“They are here to support you,” Chan went on after introductions had passed. “Call on them if you need any help.”

Unlikely, but you forced a nod nonetheless.

“You are dismissed,” Chan informed them after you gave your acquiescence, and you watched them retreat in the same formation down the hall.

In their stead approached a shorter man, dressed in full battle attire. Well-muscled to stretch the fabric of his shirt and pants, with serious dark eyes. “My King,” the man said, bowing once. “You are needed on the training fields.”

You flinched when the man’s eyes found your neck, likely noting the swollen mess that Chan had left behind. “I’ll be there shortly, Changbin,” Chan said, and he waited until the man was gone before looking at you. “The Castle is yours, my Queen. Feel free to look around and acquaint yourself with your new home.”

“I will,” you whispered, forcing yourself to stay still when he leaned in to press a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“Tonight, we can eat together,” came his parting words, and you grimaced at the idea of sharing a meal with him.

But the concept of sharing a meal with him was nowhere near as horrible as the idea that this place could ever be considered your home. What a nasty thought! This place was nothing more than a prison forced upon you because your parents were desperate for Chan’s allegiance.

“Why did he agree?” you huffed to yourself, spinning on your heel to start the trek back to your room—as much as you could remember. “Leaving me here as if I know where anything is!”

For months leading up to your shared nuptials, you had pondered the reason why the powerful Wolf King had even agreed to marry you in the first place. Neither of your meetings had been particularly impactful, and your Kingdom had nothing to benefit his own; in fact, your alliance was more of a detriment to Chan and his people—a burden that he willingly took on.

You turned the corner to the last corridor, grateful that you had managed to retrace your steps, faltering when you noticed something on the floor outside of your door. You kneeled to retrieve it, glancing at the writing and noting with a happy hum that it was addressed from the Northern Highlands!

“Grace!” you exclaimed, clutching the envelope to your chest as you quickly rushed inside your room, glancing back to ensure the door was locked before hopping onto the bed to rip the contents open.

Dear Y/N,

Congratulations on your marriage to Bang Chan - it will be a strong alliance for our parents and their Kingdom.

I apologize for my absence - Hyunjin was unable to make the accommodations.

As you know, snowfall comes to the Highlands in the upcoming months. It will soon be impossible for me to journey to you, or for you to make the journey here. I’d love to see you and your new husband before it is difficult to do so.

Please write to me when you can to arrange a visit.

Lovingly,

Grace

You read over the letter twice before releasing a deep sigh. Would your Wolf King even indulge in such a trip? Perhaps it wasn’t even necessary for him to go. You could make the trip on your own.

You held fast to that thought, of getting away from your prison even if only for a few days, as you lounged around in your room for the remainder of the day. There was little to entertain yourself with, re-reading Grace’s letter over and over again, and sitting outside on the little veranda attached to your room to watch the clouds moving in the sky.

It would be another mercy to escape Chan’s presence if you were to head North alone, but you were afraid that you were pushing your luck, wincing when you heard the door to your chambers opening again, returning inside from your observation of the grounds to greet Chan as you were expected to do.

“My queen,” he rumbled, reaching out to hold your shoulders between both hands, a grip that was impossible to mistake. “Were you able to see more of the Castle?”

“Yes,” you lied through clenched teeth, only breathing a little easier when he released you, eyes dropping to the letter in your hands.

“What is that?”

“It is from my sister,” you explained.

“I see.”

“She wasn’t able to attend the wedding,” you went on, saving yourself a bit of time as you scrambled for the best way to drop the news to him. Maybe it would just be best to try a blunt approach, giving him your demands since he insisted on calling you an equal. “I wish to see my sister,” you said, refusing to meet his gaze. “Before it is too dangerous to make the trip to the Northern Highlands.”

Chan grunted at your request, and you weren’t well-versed in his language to know what that meant. “She invited you?”

“I can go alone,” you said. “If it is too much for you.”

“I would love to come with you,” he said, disregarding the determination in your tone. “It will give us more time to spend together on our own.”

“Oh.” Your gaze remained trained on the floor, hopes dashed that you could leave him behind.

“It will be nice to visit there,” he said. “I will make the arrangements. You may write her back to expect us very soon.”

“As you wish,” you sighed, trying to keep the disappointment from your tone, flinching when he grabbed one of your wrists. He didn’t seem perturbed by your reaction, and you watched as he pulled a delicate piece of jewelry from his pocket.

“Well?” he smiled, something that made you shiver. “What do you think?”

“What is it?” you asked in return, resisting the urge to pull back the wrist clasped between his scarred fingers. Even if you did manage to finally meet his gaze.

“It is a gift for you,” Chan said with a smile you were not expecting—blinding and warm. “I made it myself.”

“You made this?”

“As our traditions dictate,” he agreed, keeping a firm hold on your wrist to clasp the little bracelet around your delicate flesh. “It is meant to show our bond to the world.”

You studied it curiously, noting the simple design and the small wolf-shaped carvings engraved in the metal. It was cold against your skin, even as the heat from his body balanced it out.

“Shall we eat?”

He dropped your wrist, and you were able to gather your bearings. “Of course.” You managed a nod, watching as he opened the door wide, allowing a small servant girl to enter the room.

The girl offered you both a respectful bow before she started to set the table, laying out silverware and fine china plates. Behind her, another girl rolled in a cart, wheels squealing on the floor, with prepared food steaming from beneath metal lids.

“Here, sit with me,” Chan said, patting the space on the bed next to him. “Until they are ready.”

You obeyed, sitting down next to him. Your gaze remained trained on the servant girls, moving about in a well-rehearsed manner as if they had done this too many times to count.

He reached for your hand, and you did your best not to flinch. “Look,” he whispered, urging you to follow his gaze. “This line on your hand, do you see the way it moves?”

You shivered as he traced the mark he referred to, following it up and down the length of your palm. “Yes,” you whispered, struck by the unexpected intimacy of the gesture.

Goosebumps followed the trail he left on your wrist, and you held your breath when he brought it to his lips. “The same as mine,” he said, almost reverently. Your eyes widened, breath hitching as he aligned your hands together. “A perfect match.”

You could hardly believe it, eyes searching back and forth, but seeing the same line digging into both of your skin. Like it belonged there.

“There are reasons for everything,” he said, and you felt a small flicker of shame when you read his knowing gaze as if he could sense those dark thoughts that you sheltered about him—wondering why you out of everyone in the world had been chosen to stand at his side. “I wouldn’t question so much,” he continued. “The things that fall into place so perfectly.”

He offered you a wink, surprisingly playful for a man of his reputation. “Let’s eat.”

You nodded, the most you could, and followed him to the table. He was polite as always, allowing you to pick first, waiting until your first bite before claiming his own. You were content, at that moment, to answer the questions he threw your way, increasingly aware of the way the place he had touched warming and the mark on your neck drummed in a gentle pulse.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, and there was less trepidation in your soul when you lay with Chan to sleep.

You journeyed to the Highlands the next morning, riding behind Chan on horseback, leaving the Wolves’ imposing Castle behind. There was a lightness about you as distance added more miles to your ride, growing brighter and brighter the further you traveled. Even with light conversation petering between you and Chan, you had never been freer in your entire life, the wind blowing back your hair as you soared across the plains.

Despite his repeated requests for you to take a break, you were determined to make it to your sister’s palace before nightfall. You wanted to see her outside, in the meadows that spread invitingly across the Highlands, and walk together just the two of you as you did as children.

There was excitement spiking hot adrenaline in your veins when the hills opened up in the distance, revealing a gorgeous mountain Castle with imposing towers and the familiar flags of your sister’s powerful family. She belonged to Hyunjin, taking his name and crest, and it made you sad to realize that there was a greater distance between you both. You loosened your grip on Chan’s waist, not realizing your grip on him.

You had grown tired of being around him, constantly blinded by the weight of his shadow. At least out here, with the sun beaming down from above, you could feel great relief from the pressure lightening. Perhaps there should be shame associated with your actions, but as soon as you could identify a familiar shape up ahead, you were already leaping from the horse despite Chan’s protests.

Thankfully, your sister was there to greet you, surrounded by two guards. Immediately, you jumped from your steed, falling into her arms and inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. “Grace,” you squealed, keeping her held tight to you as if it would be the last time you could ever do so.

“Y/N,” she sing-songed back, and you smiled at her playful attitude, only growing a little despondent when you detected Chan’s approach from behind.

“Hello,” she greeted Chan with a polite bow. “It is an honor to welcome you to the Northern Highlands.”

“Your palace is beautiful,” Chan complimented, and you shivered when he drew fingers down the length of your spine—a show of affection that you would never get used to experiencing.

“Thank you,” she said, turning around to gaze back at it as if she were seeing it for the first time. “It has centuries of history.”

“I have heard the tales,” Chan remarked. “From when I was a boy.”

You tried not to snort, not wanting to relive any memories of Chan from his boyhood. Grace’s careful eyes, however, seemed to detect something, and she looked at you with a curious gaze. “Well, I can show you to your quarters.”

“No need, I’m sure one of your guards will know the way. I think Y/N has been waiting for some time with you. I’ll leave you both alone,” he said, even without your prompting, and your sister gave you a familiar smile.

“As you wish,” she said with a little curtsy, beckoning a guard forward with stern orders to help the Wolf King settle in while you and Grace took a stroll of the grounds.

You held your breath, not wanting your impatience to show as the arrangements were made. Only once Chan had started in the direction of the Castle, guards following him closely, did you exhale. Reaching for Grace’s hand, and tugging her forward.

“No need to drag me!” Grace chuckled at your actions, and she linked your arms together, steering you toward the familiar meadows.

You both settled into easy conversation as it always seemed to happen, topics flowing from one to another. There was a lot to catch up on, things left unsaid from your sad exchange of letters. Rumors swirling around the highlands, and stories from your own homeland that you consumed greedily, excited for any mention of your little Kingdom.

Even if you didn’t really belong to it anymore.

You wanted to walk forever, to keep going beyond the highlands. Escaping to a distant land with just you and Grace. A place where you could both live in peace and go about your days just chatting and reading together by the fireplace as you did when you were children.

She laughed at your complaints, forcing you to return to the Castle when the sun had started to set. Thankfully, you didn’t go all the way inside just yet, and the two of you sat down at one of the picnic tables in the gardens. As you settled next to Grace, bowing politely to the maids who brought you both a cup of tea, you frowned as you recognized Chan between the hedges, strolling along with Hyunjin, Grace’s King, down the trodden paths between the mazes.

You did your best to ignore him, focusing instead on the moment you had with your sister. The setting sun was warm as you reclined your head, eyes closed as you accepted the gracious touch—burning just as hot as your sister’s intense stare.

“Do you have something to say?” you huffed. “I can feel you looking at me.”

Her smile was clear in her tone. “You just seem...different.”

“How so?”

“Like you’ve been tamed.”

Your eyes flew open at the comment, glaring at her. “Stuck in an arranged marriage, you mean?”

“Mine was arranged as well, but you can rest assured that I don’t take the same comfort from my particular suitor.”

“I hardly take comfort from the Wolf King,” you argued, but Grace simply shrugged.

“You’ve never seen things as I do.”

“What’s so bad about Hyunjin anyway?” you asked instead, to direct the conversation away from Chan,

Her smile curdled. “He keeps busy with his whores,” she said, shocking you with such an accusation.

“Grace-”

“Don’t.” Your sister sighed. “There’s nothing you can do.”

She attempted to restore her previous smile, looking back over your shoulder with a sigh. “I like your Wolf King,” she eventually said. “He cares about you a lot. I haven’t seen him take his eyes away from you once.”

Grace must be imagining things. “He’s tolerable at best,” you decided, earning yourself a sigh from your sister.

“My how your perspective has changed,” she remarked, finally turning her attention to the lukewarm tea in front of her. “You were kicking and screaming when you first learned of the marriage.”

“It is something that was forced on me!”

“But you’re not the only one, Y/N,” Grace said with a tone filled with sadness.

Suddenly, you felt chastened and guilty for even protesting her. “For us both, it has created nothing but discomfort.”

“I think there is potential in your match,” Grace argued. “You resist because you are stubborn in nature, but I think there could be good things for you if you just tried to make it work. Wouldn’t it be better, sister, to live with him as lovers than as cold strangers?”

“He is too wild for marriage,” you weakly protested. But your argument held no merit, and you hated the logic in her words, turning away to glare into the distance.

Night passed before your eyes, like the dimmest flicker, and you had never been more unhappy to greet the rising sun.

It seemed that all good things inevitably came to an end, and you were holding back tears when you parted from Grace the next morning, holding the embrace for far too long. Even as you allowed Chan to help you back onto the horse, positioned directly behind him on the saddle, you kept your gaze trained behind you, watching Grace grow smaller and smaller.

Until she was gone.

Your heart was heavy when you returned to Chan’s castle that same afternoon, but your foul mood didn’t last for long. Distracted as you were, surprised by the bustling activities throughout the grounds, everyone scrambling for something you couldn’t identify. “Our moon festival,” Chan explained. “We will be shifting tonight.”

Oh, right. You had forgotten about that part, too distraught reminiscing on your brief moment of freedom with Grace. “I almost forgot.”

“There will be a feast tonight,” he explained. “We will both join as King and Queen.”

You scowled at the idea. “As you wish.”

Chan frowned at the comment. “You must be tired from the journey,” he continued, choosing not to react to your passive comment. “Feel free to rest in our quarters. I will come get you later.”

You agreed with a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgment. Sleep did sound like a much-needed relief from the exhaustion threatening each unsteady step you took up the stairs. It was what you blamed your disorientation on, barely noticing when Chan leaned in to give you a chaste kiss on your cheek.

That same spot burned under the barely-there attention. But you chose to ignore it, instead focusing on how your feet were throbbing when you landed on top of your bed with a huff, allowing tears to escape as you gave yourself a moment to purge the nasty emotions that had built after leaving the Highlands. Unable to do so as you rode behind Chan.

There were too many different emotions piled on throughout the day, mixing with a heady combination of your exhaustion from traveling. Countless thoughts also swirled through your head, and it was inevitable that you would fall under, losing yourself to the easy promise of sleep. An easier task than grappling with your conflicted feelings.

Darkness greeted you like an old friend, and your dreams were wild. One moment you were back with Grace, strolling through the meadows. The next, you found yourself in an empty forest, shadows chasing each breath evaporating on cold air, ensnared by a pair of red eyes in the thick foliage.

You stumbled on the undergrowth, falling backward ungracefully. You only had the wherewithal to put a hand over your face, trying to block everything out, as those eyes descended on you. Fear caught in your throat, and it was the lasting image that haunted you as you jerked upright in bed, barely withholding a scream when those same eyes met you in the real world.

“Y/N.”

Chan’s voice was deep, guttural in its intensity, and filled with concern. You flinched when fingers came out to gently remove sweaty bangs from your eyes, heart thunderous inside your chest. His hand paused in its motions, and for a fleeting second, you thought you might drown in his stare.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “Bad dreams.”

“I see.”

There was a question in his tone, but you didn’t know how to provide an answer, choosing instead to gently push his hand away. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

He nodded, lower lip caught between his teeth. “If you’re certain...”

You studied him for a moment, wishing that you could confide in him. But there was still a great distance between you, perhaps put there by your own accord, but heavy in its existence. “I shall get ready.”

Chan allowed you the space, agreeing to meet you in the hallway as you rose to get dressed, finding the dress that had been laid out for you by the maids. You slipped the fabric over your body, shivering as the silkiness slid across your skin like a lover’s caress.

True to his word, Chan was waiting patiently on the other side of the door, and you hesitated before taking the outstretched hand offered to you. Unprepared for when it pulled you in closer, under the scrutiny of his affectionate gaze. “Beautiful,” he declared, nostrils flaring as if taking in the scent of the perfume you sprayed.

“Thank you,” you offered in return, choosing to keep silent as he led the way, helping you down the stairs in your heels.

For once, you willingly stayed close to Chan, especially as you approached the Great Hall where the festivities would take place. Chan led you into the dining room, perhaps a bit too hastily, uneasy with the weight of his people’s stares boring down upon your figure. Dressed simply in that white gown—pure, as you had always remained—and looking entirely out of place amongst battle-hardened soldiers.

You caught Changbin’s stare from across the room as you sat at the head of the table next to the King. There was lust in his gaze. And it deeply unsettled you, to the point that even Chan caught your shiver.

He followed your gaze to Changbin who looked away at once. “Tradition says that the King can share his mate,” Chan whispered. “But I will not share you with him. So he can only look.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. So you didn’t say anything in return. “I didn’t know.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Chan stood, addressing the room. “Let’s feast together, comrades! We run together at the moon’s highest cycle!”

A chorus of cheers and howls greeted his words, and everyone started to fill their plates, easy conversation flowing between the wolves like the smell of the delicious-looking platters laid out before you. Still, your stomach revolted, swimming in circles as you picked at the helping Chan had served you. You wrinkled your nose when his grease-stained fingers brought a piece of chicken to your lips, and you forced yourself to take it from him.

Chan sighed as you chewed, forcing the morsel down your throat as it stung. “I won’t be with you tonight, of course. We will likely stay out in the moonlight until dawn. But I will return in the morning.”

“Okay.” You shrugged, seemingly indifferent. Some time to yourself seemed nice. And you weren’t keen on being outside when they were no longer human.

“You don’t have to be miserable here, my Queen,” Chan suddenly said, tone taking on a hardened edge. Perhaps the first time he had ever sounded stern with you. “Wolves mate for life, and they choose their partners seriously”

You contemplated his words, chosen ever so carefully. “I - I will try,” you managed, recalling Grace’s advice from the previous day.

To live as lovers rather than strangers.

He hummed at your agreement, eyes glued to your form as he appraised you with something akin to curiosity. “Don’t roam so far from the castle tonight. It isn’t dangerous, but it is your first time. Of course, there’s usually nothing to fear in the gardens.”

There was a layered hint in his words, but you chose not to think about it too much, simply nodding your head as you resumed your task of picking at your food. There was nothing wrong with the offering in front of you, but your newfound uneasiness mixed with your emotional charge from earlier—it had not yet completely dispelled itself from your system—left an unpleasant ache in your chest.

As if something was missing…

Later that night, long after the wolves left the castle, you realized you couldn’t sleep even if you tried, listening to the chorus of howls from outside the castle walls. They rang through the night, loud and clear, and harmonized with one another as if perfectly in sync. Perhaps they were since Chan and his wolves shared a tight bond, and you wondered what it must be like to be so perfectly in tune with one another.

It was these thoughts that plagued you, and even as midnight came and went, you grew more restless. You resolved to walk through the castle, to quell your thoughts and ease your mind. Even as your footsteps echoed through the halls, you found yourself becoming more awake instead of the opposite effect.

Fresh air would be nice, you thought until you remembered the wolves outside. But then again, Chan did promise you that the gardens would be safe. You could trust him, right? Or was that the problem? Your lack of trust in someone meant to be your partner.

You resolved yourself in that moment to try. And if that meant venturing out into the gardens, then no one could accuse you of being silent and passive. This was your attempt at trying, and if it ended badly, then you would have all the more leverage to ignore him.

However, despite your attempts to steel your resolve, you found your heart beating impossibly fast when you greeted the moonlight outside. Each lungful of air that you forced down your lungs felt like sharp knives attacking your flesh. Gaze swimming in front of you, footsteps unsteady as you entered the hedge maze surrounding the gardens.

You inhaled deeply, trying to find comfort in the familiar smell of the foliage. There was a strange air of peace surrounding you, and that was all the solace you needed to keep going, admiring the way the colors of the blooming flowers bled in a different light. It was easy to grow distracted by the sight, as beautiful as it was, and perhaps you could blame your wandering eye for failing to adequately identify the rustling of something large in the undergrowth of the forest.

You hummed to yourself, leaning down to run your fingers over the soft petals of a rose. Its usual red was subdued somehow, under the moon’s glow, and you smiled at the effect, completely ignorant of a different red seeping through the hedges near your right.

It wasn’t until a gentle whimper sounded that you jerked to a stop, hand fluttering to cover your chest as you whipped around to locate the source of the sound. And what stood before you, as powerful as the looming mountains above the castle, nearly had you falling to your knees.

Except, you realized upon a second cursory glance, that there was something uncannily familiar about the beast in front of you, and it only took you another moment to make the connection. A gasp fell from your lips when you realized that it was the wolf from your childhood—the one you had found that day Chan visited your home for the second time. The one you played with in the gardens. The one you spent time with just talking and believing it was nothing more than a common wolf.

You stumbled then, recognizing the now familiar crimson eyes looking back at you—the same ones that belonged to your husband. The wolf, your Wolf King, butted his giant head against your outstretched hand, giving an affectionate lick to your fingertips.

“I understand,” you whispered, unable to decipher the emotion in your voice, but one thing that you knew for certain—there was a clear absence of fear. Because you had never feared this wolf, always approaching it with happiness, completely ignorant of its true state.

The wolf gave you a meaningful look, and you were struck by the humanness of the gesture. Understanding dawned on you—Chan had always known. He had always known it was you—the one his wolf had chosen. The girl who had never shown fear to a beast that others considered a monster.

You had known Chan for your entire life without even realizing it, and your eyes welled with tears, watching him toss back his head and release a spine-curdling howl. One that was joined by a chorus of beautiful melodic cries, merging and joining together, and reaching down to your very bones.

You dropped to your knees then—a mere speck before the Wolf. You cried without fear, and this time, the tension between you and your King vanished like the stars in the night sky when dawn cracked across the horizon.

Three Months Later

On most mornings, Chan was gone before you woke up, and that left you with a disconcerting feeling of disappointment. You supposed there was much to do for the King of the Castle, but lately, it made you ache for something you couldn’t quite discern.

For the past several months, you found yourself opening up to the Wolf King in ways you would’ve never imagined. The truth of who he was, the Wolf from your childhood, along with Grace’s well-intentioned advice, had managed to crack through the stoic guard you had raised from the moment you bound yourself to him.

He taught you about the bond—how, even if you weren’t a Wolf and couldn’t experience the same emotions, he could feel each flicker of happiness or stroke of sadness as it moved through you.

You had not known of this connection before—because of your stubborn nature—and you would always regret resisting it. But things were better, and you could see the beauty in the bond and how truly spectacular it was to feel and understand another person so intimately. It made you wonder—for longer and longer periods of time—just how deep you could make that bond.

Curiosity weighed heavy on you, and your eyes cracked open at a gentle knocking on the door—an opportunity presenting itself when you recognized a familiar servant girl entering your room. “Good morning, Y/N,” she said, and you nodded in return.

At first, you had kept yourself closed off to the other maids, but this one in particular, Ivy, had been insistent. It was hard to deny her, especially when she became your best teacher, indulging you in learning everything related to the wolves and their way of life.

She was also quite willing and open to help you with anything, even if it involved the more intimate parts of your relationship with the Wolf King. You brought it up again that morning, growing more and more confident, especially since Ivy was completely shameless when it came to that sort of thing.

“I thought about your words from the other night,” you opened the conversation, watching as she put your breakfast down onto the table.

“You’ll have to remind me.” There was a teasing note in her tone, and you glowered at the playful look she shot in your direction.

“We spoke about the King,” you said. “You told me things…what I can do to please him.”

“I remember.” She took a step closer, and you were wary of the look in her eyes. “Does he not fuck you well?” Ivy asked, and her tone was absent of the same filter that would stop your tongue.

Still, you were embarrassed, looking down at your feet, wondering how to disguise the truth. “It doesn’t feel good when it seems like he just uses me to get himself off.”

That much was true as you had heard Chan masturbating next to you on countless nights, and your name often fell free from his lips.

“I see.” Ivy nodded. “He doesn’t know better. He was taught that a good alpha fucks his mate and makes sure that she is pregnant for him.”

You winced at her blunt explanation. “Is that all...wolves need?”

“Not necessarily,” Ivy said with a bright smile. “I can teach you...if you want.”

“Teach me?” you asked, gasping when Ivy placed a hand on your chest, forcing you to fall back on the bed.

She was all smiles when she crawled into your lap, grabbing your hands and securing them to her waist. You gasped when she started rocking her hips into your own, feeling the pleasant ache resonate up and down your spine. “The most important lesson of them all,” Ivy said with a twinkle of mischief in her eye. “The art of seduction.”

“I - Ivy...”

“Tell me, Y/N,” Ivy interrupted your ramblings, leaning down so that the tips of your noses brushed together. “Would you like that? Seducing your wolf? Driving him to the point where he can’t resist taking you?”

You moaned around your response. “Yes! Please show me.”

Her hips rocked harder into yours, and you could see white forming at the edges of your vision. “Leave it to me.”

And you did, surrendering to her touches, and the wicked way she showed you all the ways to drive a King mad.

The following night, you bravely waited for your Wolf King to return from patrol, wearing nothing but a sheer robe that left little to the imagination. Sitting on the edge of your shared bed, you caught each breath as it rattled between your lungs. Nervousness eating away at your resolve and leaving the poor skin around your cuticles abused by your touch.

Ivy’s advice rang clear in your mind as if she were there with you, holding your hands between her own as she taught you how to please the King. You blushed at the memory, hands covering the bare skin beneath your robe, caressing the delicate flesh as she had done the night before. Demonstrating to you the best ways to please a man, and to make him beg for you.

That kind of power held its curious appeal, and you thought about it constantly. Wondering what it would be like to make Chan lose his mind to the sin of your smell and touch. You could hardly wait, bouncing your leg and jostling the flimsy material of your coverings.

Thankfully, your Wolf King didn’t make you wait for very long, punctual as always in these recent times of peace in joining you during the evenings. The easy smile he always offered you vanished as soon as he closed the door behind him, eyes locked on your figure clad in so very little.

“Be assertive.” You recalled Ivy’s words, and you stood on shaky legs to take a few tentative steps towards him. The implication was not lost in translation. You could barely get out a greeting before Chan was on you in seconds, gently pushing you back against the wall. He pressed his forehead against yours and you closed your eyes. “You look beautiful,” he whispered, initiating the first indulgent kiss that lit a fire that you felt down to the tips of your toes.

“Then have me,” you said against the purse of his mouth, tongue tracing that full bottom lip. His gaze widened perceptibly, holding you at arm's length.

“What do you mean?”

“Take me the way you want,” you replied. “I’m ready. You love me, don’t you?”

The intensity in that gaze you had started to yearn for burned even brighter. “You know that I love you Y/N, and I understand why it would be hard for you to believe. I’m more than willing to take this chance to show you.”

He pulled away despite the tight grip you kept on his powerful bicep. Even so, you kept your eyes open as wide as possible to enjoy the scene playing out in front of you when he kissed you again. You curled your fingers into his thick black hair, remembering Ivy’s advice, and pulled his mouth against yours, crushing your lips to his. Chan’s chest rumbled as he kissed you fiercely in return, grabbing onto your arms as his tongue plundered the hot cavern of your mouth.

Your lungs screamed in protest, and you pulled away suddenly, shivering at his resounding whimper. You opened your eyes, keeping your hands in his hair to hold it back from his crimson orbs. You found the lust there, making his eyes appear darker. “It’s so hard for me to do this,” you said softly. “I- I want to please you…”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Chan replied. He pressed his hips into yours and you felt something hard against your stomach. “Y/N,” Chan murmured, leaning into your neck to inhale deeply. “I want you more than anything else.”

You shivered as you felt his other hand come to the sleeve of your gown, slowly sliding it down your shoulder. His fingertips slid across your skin, weakening your resolve. His lips followed his touch, peppering soft kisses along the exposed skin. He tugged on the fabric more and you felt the fabric at your right breast start to fall, slowly exposing the flesh to him. His blazing eyes looked down at what he had uncovered, as his hand moved up to hold your breast in his palm. You moaned when his thumb started to rub against your nipple, growing alarmed at the sudden ache between your legs. Like before, his lips soon replaced his fingers and you cried out when he gently nipped the sensitive skin.

He suddenly tugged the fabric back up, releasing your wrists so that he could have both hands when he grabbed the sides of your robe and tugged it aside to reveal your bare skin to him. Your hands fell to your sides as your chest heaved up and down to match each of your panting breaths. Clad in the lingerie Ivy had helped you pick out the previous night.

Chan’s eyes were glued to your bare torso. With a moan of his own, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips before he trailed his mouth down, over the soft skin of your throat, down your chest, and between the valley of your breasts, over your smooth stomach down to the top of your lace panties. Looking up at you with hungry, lust-filled eyes, Chan started to tug the fabric down your legs.

Clenching your fists against the wall, you couldn’t begin to describe what you felt when he pressed a kiss against the front of your panties, holding your thighs in his strong hands. Standing back up to his full height, he pulled his shirt off next, tossing it onto the floor. You breathed out deeply as your eyes greedily took in the sight of his muscled torso. Timidly, you reached out a hand, aware of his eyes watching your movements as you hovered your palm over his firm abdomen. “Touch him with your fingertips,” Ivy’s words whispered against your ear. He groaned, bracing his arms on either side of you, moving his head against the wall next to your ear. You heard Chan’s husky voice whisper: “Baby, please touch me.”

Your eyes fluttered at his request, and you placed both palms on his hard stomach, moving them up and feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. Your hands danced across his pectorals, rising along with the muscles. You moved your palms over his shoulders and then back down, pausing when you hit the top of his pants. Before you could muster up the courage to move any lower, Chan’s lips were back on yours, kissing you senseless. You wrapped your arms around his neck, working your mouth against his, feeling your lips become swollen from his kisses. As your tongues touched, you felt Chan’s hands return to your thighs, lifting them so that you had no choice but to wrap your legs around his trim waist. Holding you against him, he carried you into over to the bed to deposit you on top. You missed his warmth as soon as he was gone and opened your eyes to meet his black gaze.

This was your chance. You remembered Ivy’s words and scrambled to get in position. Present. The command burned its way through your whole being as if you had no control over it. Instead, you turned on your hands and knees, arching your back and keeping your ass held high in the air.

You had never done this before, and you felt so exposed, but at the same time so good, so right, and you restrained yourself from trying to cover up against the shameless crimson stare watching you.

Suddenly, all went quiet, prompting you to glance over your shoulder. The Wolf King was staring at your ass, his mouth slightly agape. “Good girl,” was all you heard before Chan dove down abruptly to taste your dripping cunt, dragging his tongue all the way up to the source of the wetness leaking from you with a single, hot swipe, before latching on and sucking eagerly at the sensitive skin around your opening.

You keened at the sensation and shivered at his satisfied grunts and moans as he took his fill of your taste. It made you want to please him. To do whatever it took to make him completely lose his mind.

“Chan!” You moaned out, reaching beneath him to flick at your neglected clit. “More!”

Your demand did not go unanswered. With a grunt, Chan yanked your ass up higher for a better angle, digging his hands into the plush flesh of your hips. His touch was rough, and strong, undoubtedly leaving marks behind, but you absolutely loved it. And when the wiggling muscle of his tongue finally pushed inside, you cried out in absolute bliss and pleasure. Time itself seemed to slow down as that tongue relentlessly moved inside you, searching for that spot that could make you see stars and, once found, pressing down hard. Again and again, Chan dipped inside with his tongue, and each time you moaned for him. It didn’t take you long until your body tensed and shuddered, squeezing around the intrusion as you rode out your orgasm.

With a satisfied groan, Chan released your hips, and you collapsed on your stomach, still aching for him.

You attempted to look back at Chan, groaning when you realized he was pushing down his pants and underwear, freeing his stiffening cock before crawling back over you. You were met with a flurry of kisses, on your lips, your cheeks, and your neck, before his tongue trailed lazily over your chest and down to the delicate curls damp from your release.

You squirmed under him as he held himself up on his arms, dragging his eyes unbearably slow from your face and down to your toes. He moved one finger down over your stomach, and you watched it enter the forest of blonde curls around your center. Panting, and nearing combustion, you found yourself instinctively thrusting your hips up, begging him for more than just touches. Growling, he practically shoved your hips back to the bed, reaching down and jerking his thick cock with rough strokes. He abruptly flipped you over onto your back, craning his neck to look down into your eyes. “Let me make love to you, Y/N.”

His words sent a flurry of heat straight to your core. You had never had sex before, but you wanted it desperately. You told him as much and could see him visibly shaking. “I’ll go slow,” he promised, kissing your lips tenderly, before reaching down to line himself up at your entrance. You closed your eyes and winced as he pushed into you. Pliant and soft from his earlier ministrations, the bulbous head found little resistance as it breached your cunt.

You could feel his face bury itself into your shoulder, his knuckles turning white as they gripped the bedding, as if it was taking everything he had to go this slow. Once he was buried inside of you completely, you groaned, adjusting to the sudden intrusion. You could feel him still above you, and his teeth teased the skin at your shoulder. “Son of a bitch,” he growled. “It’s taking every ounce of control I have not to flip you over and fuck you senseless.”

His words, as crude as they were, only served to heighten your arousal. “Move,” you said, grabbing his black hair and pulling his face to yours. You kissed him quickly. “I’m fine.”

He needed no further encouragement, as he slowly pulled out before pushing back in. You could see the sweat breaking out across his forehead from the exertion, causing strands of his hair to stick to his forehead. His right hand moved behind you to grip the headboard as his hips slowly rocked against your own. As good as it felt, you could see he was about to lose it. “Faster,” you told him, and he complied, speeding up his thrusts and allowing some of the tension to escape his body. It was a little painful, especially when he let out a low growl and really started grinding his hips.

You could feel it building inside, the pleasure of his rough movements far outweighing the discomfort. You let out another moan as he moved in and out, feeling the smooth friction all the way to the tips of your toes. The Wolf King chose this moment to draw his hips back, dragging his length out to the tip, before slamming it back inside with a powerful thrust, rocking your body to the point that you felt your vision turn white for a moment. Without giving you time to recover, Chan repeated the motion over and over again, speeding up and adjusting the angle to relentlessly hit deep inside, hips bumping your clit with every smooth grind.

He grunted from his efforts, one hand on the headboard while the other came to grab your breast, his lips sucking at your neck. For your part, you arched your back against him, allowing your hips to come up a little to meet his movements as he hit even deeper inside of you, just barely kissing your cervix. Your fingernails scraped down the smooth skin of his back at this new angle. He moaned when your nails dug into his flesh, bringing his lips up to yours and you kissed him feverishly, tasting him like your life depended on it. One of your hands curled into his smooth black hair while the other gripped his bicep tightly, sighing happily as you felt the muscles move.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to not feel overwhelmed by all of the things he was making you feel. Buried deep inside of you, you could feel him hit all the right spots, sending waves of pleasure to your tight center. Meanwhile, his lips were working magic against yours, leaving you breathless.

You could feel an intimate warmth building inside of you the longer he snapped his hips against yours. Groaning, you let out a cry as you felt something inside of you break open, releasing wave after wave of heat through your core, leaving your body drowning in pleasure.

There was a haze of lightheadedness clogging your senses, and you almost didn’t even realize the swell pushing against your ass, until it breached your core. “Chan!” you hissed at the combination of pain and overwhelming pressure, retreating and then swelling again as he ground that hot mass against you.

“My knot,” he groaned, and you could feel the heat from his chest against your breasts as he pressed even closer.

You vaguely recalled Ivy warning you about this, telling you that it would be hard to prepare for the massive instrution. You felt a spike of fear as it stretched you even further, and you worried that your virgin body would suffer. All you could do was grit your teeth and bury your head into the blankets beneath you, feeling the swell of his knot pressed against the cleft of your ass. You fisted the sheets between your hands. He would split you in half, and then you would be nothing.

“Y/N!” he growled, slowing his hips to a timid roll as his knot locked between you both, and your eyes rolled into the back of your head as you felt his release flood your insides, filling you to the point that your lower stomach had started to swell from his cum.

He groaned as you both came down from your highs, and you gently petted your finger through his unruly curls. He experimentally rolled his hips to test how firmly the knot was locking him inside and it wouldn’t budge. Your cunt squeezed the knot, eliciting another grunt from Chan, another twitch, and another spurt of hot cum inside of you.

The pop didn’t swell until Chan was fully seated, his thick cock barely able to seat itself fully between your pulsating walls. It was a painful stretch, of course, but you were hardly focused on it.

Chan continued to hump against you, long after his release and teetering on the cusp of oversensitivity, but those seductive hips had lost their rhythm. It was only moments later, as Chan pulled away from your lips and buried his face into your chest, that he growled when something warm filled your center. You let your hand wander down his spine, stroking along the individuals knots. You could feel him breathing hard above you, and you tried to soothe him back to normal.

You were locked together for a long time, and you were almost asleep when Chan was finally able to pull out, collapsing onto the mattress next to you, looking up at the ceiling. You watched as his chest rose and fell quickly until you could barely see it move at all, signifying his return from his high. Your own breaths came out much shorter, and you were aware of the sweat that coated your skin.

You watched as Chan ran his hand through his dark hair, moving it out of his face. Looking over at you, he turned on his side and used one hand to bring you closer to him, wrapping an arm around your waist. You hummed in delight as your chests pressed together, moving in sync with each other. Chan’s eyes scanned over your face as he leaned in and kissed your forehead. “I love you Y/N,” he said. voice rumbling. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it to you.”

You were barely coherent, collapsed against the sheets with a line of drool pooling out from your mouth. Closing your eyes, you let your head fall against his chest, savoring his warmth. “I trust you,” you said softly, and you could feel him sigh in relief. Simply holding you against him, surrounded by his warmth, you suddenly felt very much like you belonged.

“You and I have always been destined,” Chan whispered, and for the first time since you had taken your place as his Wolf Queen, you weren’t afraid.

Instead, you were irrevocably alive.

#stray kids smut #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x you #bang chan #bang chan smut #chan smut #chan x reader #bang chan x reader #chan x female reader #chan oneshot #bang chan oneshot #chan imagines

715 notes · View notes

ozzgin · 1 year ago

Text

Yandere! CoD Headcanons: König x Reader x Ghost (II)

“Sharing is caring” is likely familiar to most, though the nuances of it may sometimes differ beyond the classic expectations. You’re trapped between two jealous, possessive and feverishly infatuated men with no escape in your sight. That implies, of course, you’ve been looking for a way out of this bizarre partnership. Have you? Be honest…

TW: NSFW, obsessive behavior, size kink, violence

Tags: @223princess

[Part I]

Yet another classic rule that comes with your job is to always be ready to deal with the unexpected. Plan as well as you may, the battleground is not as generous as to stick to your schedule. Yet the same principle applies out of combat, too. It’s just…you had’t really imagined such an outcome to be possible. Your extensive training covered most scenarios, from raids, to ambushes, natural disasters, everything except, well, this. You wonder if the code of conduct might include a paragraph about work romance, specifically your teammates taking turns to fuck you shamelessly at any hour of the day.

You gaze at your reflection in the slightly fogged mirror and quickly look away, embarrassed. You can’t bear to see the markings that are peppered all over your body, betraying the depraved activities you’ve indulged in for the past weeks. How did it even come to this? You sit on the edge of the bed, drying your hair, and hesitantly replay the event in your head. Your helpless form crouched on the storage floor, looking up at the two large men gripping at each other’s throats. Behind their masks you could sense their ferocious intent to kill. How would you explain it to your superiors? You gathered up your remaining confidence and barked at them to stop at once. They were indeed taken aback by your sudden yell that could’ve put any drill sergeant to shame. You wanted to get to the bottom of the conflict and put all this bullshit behind as soon as possible. Until they offered you the honest cause of their hostile rivalry. You could only stare in disbelief.

Your first instinct was to wonder if this was some sort of elaborate prank. What the hell, were they a bunch of high schoolers learning to handle their first crush or fucking grown adults in the middle of a military operation? You were never oblivious to it: mixed gender missions always came with a lot of casual hookups to blow off steam. Not your thing, but there’s plenty of other people down to it. Your suggestion was met with angry, vehement refusal. Both Ghost and König were outraged at the insinuation they’d put their dicks in some rando, as if that’s all there was to it. As if anyone else would do. Ironically this is where they found their common ground. König had lifted you nonchalantly by the collar of your uniform and asked you if you’re playing dumb. You could only shrug, even more confused. Ghost joined him and explained, casually and matter-of-fact, that you can call it a hookup as long as you remember it’s a lifelong arrangement. You were to walk out that door with the knowledge you belong to them and they would take any necessary steps to ensure your compliance. The hunting knife that was meant to plunge into his rival was now propped under your chin, dangerously close to your throbbing artery.

Now this should’ve been your sign to nod obediently, pack your suitcase at the earliest convenience and get the hell out. And that was your honest intent, initially. You could almost visualize the documents granting your absence from duty. Then you felt your buttons pop from their seams, forcefully ripped apart by König’s large hand. It occurred to you that you were propped against the wall by two men twice your size. You could hear their now labored breaths, muffled by their masks. The Austrian man roughly readjusted your posture, having you rest against his hips and throwing your legs around his waist. You gasped quietly once you sensed a bulge pressing into you. He fumbled with his zipper, but Ghost interrupted him with an irritated scolding. “You can’t just ram it in, you fucking dumbass.” You didn’t take long to understand the meaning and shivered at the thought. Without a warning, Ghost slid his hand into your now unbuckled pants. Two fingers begun pressing circles over your underwear and an unconscious whine escaped your lips. Satisfied by your reaction, he brought himself closer and increased the pace until he felt the moisture pooling in the fabric, which was enough encouragement to gently slip his way inside of you. In an attempt to help, König lowered his head over your breasts, fondling your now sensitive nipples with his tongue. His mask draped over your skin, adding a mild tickle to the overwhelming buildup. You suddenly remembered the storage no longer had a door after König kicked it out of its hinges, so you tried to push the muscular man away. “W-what if someone comes in?” Against your will and to your surprise, the question rolled out like a prolonged moan and you blushed awkwardly. “They won’t, if you shut up.” Ghost responded curtly. He considered it for a moment, and added smugly: “Don’t worry, that pretty mouth of yours will be real busy soon.” You closed your eyes tightly and prayed you wouldn’t be caught.

And you weren’t. You got away with it. That time, and the other time, and all the other times. At this point you question whether your other teammates truly haven’t noticed or have since learned to look away. Another possibility is that the psychotic duo has threatened the others into silence. Given their cocky attitude whenever you protest about the openness or risky timing, it wouldn’t surprise you at all. Even worse, their libido seems to be increasing exponentially as a consequence to their incessant competition of owning you. They seem to be plagued by a delirious need to have you at all times, and you’re rather afraid to admit that your desire to flee is slowly being replaced by a similar addiction. Rabid dogs in heat. That’s the only analogy that comes to mind.

Last time you didn’t even get the chance to return to the base. The soldiers had exited the truck, cheering their success and marching towards the gate. König had been quiet the entire ride, not even bothering to hide his ardent stare, his eyes hooded with lust. You were about to hop off yourself when you felt his burning grip on your wrist, pulling you back in and onto his lap. Oh, how he loves fucking you like this. His toned legs are sprawled out dominantly and his calloused hands guide you over his erection. No matter how many times you do it, the start is always painful. He’s just that big. But that’s his favorite part. Seeing you wince and tear up, holding your stomach as if shielding it from the foreign object assaulting the walls of your frail body. Then the thrusts become smoother and your movements break into an erratic pleading for more. He wants to witness it all. God, you turn him into a wild animal. His fingers dig into your skin and towards the end you’re a whimpering mess, shamelessly drooling over his uniform in a daze. As you coat him with your slick cum, he grunts and barely manages to speak. “Fuck, I’m gonna lose my mind for good one of these days.” His voice is deep and reverberates against your heaving chest.

Scratch that. Last time you didn’t even make it to the truck. You were laying behind a boulder, wiping the sweat and dirt off your face. You’d just finished taking out your targets and announced your return in the headset. Ghost approaches you with a hidden smirk and squats before you, extending a hand towards you. “Need help?” You nod with gratitude and take off your helmet. You reach for his hand, hoping he’d pull you up, but instead his fingers claw around your throat and push you against the ground. “Good, I have the perfect thing for a little slut like you.” He climbs over you without letting go of your neck and undoes your jacket with ease. Hell, he’s been doing it so often he could manage even blindfolded. With the free hand he shoves one of your legs away to make space. Truth be told, he’s very much biased towards this particular arrangement. He can already feel the unbearable pressure of his member waiting to be freed. He adores being able to take all of you in. Your expression, your small body trapped under his massive frame. He can fuck you as he pleases, until you turn into a rag doll, and there’s no way out. You grit your teeth in anticipation and hold onto his arm that’s choking you once he goes in. You must’ve been molded just for him. There’s no other explanation for his feral clinginess, scratching and biting and pulling in desperate, agonizing pleasure. After the deed has been done he can admire his masterful work, gazing lovingly at your flustered, disheveled form, gasping for air and dripping with his seed.

Your shake your head and try to chase away these perverted memories. You’re still damp from the shower and continue massaging your scalp with the towel, when you hear a knock on your door. Oh, no. No. “Busy!” is all you manage to shout. The door opens nonetheless and Ghost and König waltz in, entirely indifferent to your refusal. “Can’t I have one moment to myself?” You groan, frustrated. König leans against the wall and Ghost kneels in front of you. There’s a hint of cheekiness in his voice. “Sure. Tell us to go away and we will.” You blink and ponder his words. Remembering all the past encounters has gotten you a little bit eager, that’s true, but… “Say it.” He repeats himself. You squirm and look away, a deep red spreading across your face. Your lips are pursed. König lets out a soft laugh and closes the door, then faces you. “Since you wanted to be a brat, you have to beg for it now.”

What have you gotten yourself into?

#konig call of duty #konig modern warfare #konig mw2 #könig x reader #konig x reader #konig x you #konig smut #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod smut #yandere #yandere smut #yandere x reader #call of duty smut

1K notes · View notes

syoddeye · 21 days ago

Note

What happens when the user has to leave? I mean it's only a testing phase, surely user will be pushed out, not sure ai!price would like that though..👀

surely user will be pushed out. | other entries cw: big dystopia vibes, violent death (mentioned), manipulation a/n: i have some smutty requests in the queue for this au. i promise it's not all like this.

the eviction date appears on your tablet a week in advance—generous by company standards. two pods ago, you received 48 hours notice, and an expired coupon for a motel.

if john knows, he doesn’t alert.

he’s a silent observer when you pack your measly belongings and browse open capsule listings. he continues his usual routines and does not interfere with the remaining tests. usually, there’s some back and forth required for his compliance. you’ve grown accustomed to nearly groveling when delivering complex instructions, peppering an abundance of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘what would i do without you?’ to butter him up.

but this week? he behaves.

everything behaves. he does not insist. does not override. you run the shower at a scalding temperature. nurse a beer after nine. read until you fall asleep on the couch and wake up to hot, beanless coffee. he dutifully auto-cleans, arranges your schedule, and provides feedback only when asked. otherwise, he’s quiet. as inconspicuous and unobtrusive as the microwave.

you hesitate to believe that the company finally fixed john’s quirks—if his latest micro-update is the root cause of his optimized performance, you won’t look at a gift horse’s teeth.

or however that saying goes. (you ask john to schedule a visit to the natural history museum's mammalian vault. you haven’t seen their preserved horses since you were a kid.)

it’s a glimpse of what life could have been like if john hadn’t continuously exhibited undesirable and invasive behaviors. it is a bittersweet note to end your comprehensive report. a note you are forced to amend the day before eviction.

fresh, living flowers arrive at your doorstep. after signing a certificate of delivery and an allergen waiver, you usher an arrangement wrapped in cellophane into the unit, gawking at the colors. the scent. according to the card, it’s an assortment of pincushion protea, anemone, roses, and ranunculus—you don’t recognize three of the flora, but john informs you that they went extinct or into private gardens during the last agro-biotechnical downturn.

“i don’t know anyone with this type of money,” you whisper, staring intently at the blooms. you cross your arms and press a knuckle to your lips in thought. “no one.”

flipping the card over reveals nothing, and neither does the vase. john’s sensors do not pick up anything unusual or telling. he suggests it is a parting gift from your superiors for a job well done. a bonus in advance of your final report.

(it’s a pity they’ll die once you take them outside. however, even if they survived, there’s nowhere to place them in your future square meter.)

that night, seated at the island with the flowers, you revisit your report and review all of the entries you’ve written over the course of your stay.

at first, you think you’re imagining the small, subtle shifts. some records furrow your brow more than others—a change in tone or a rewording of sentences you don’t remember writing. analytical and dispassionate terminology suddenly veers into strangely romanticized and exaggerated prolix. like a girl’s diary and not a grown woman’s notes.

on [date], the ‘john’ ai smart home system in residence #aix-77 exhibited anomalous behavior, autonomously adjusting lighting and temperature despite clear resident preferences. furthermore, the system began offering unsolicited, personal advice based on data mining and resisted attempts to restore basic privacy settings, raising serious concerns about its functionality and autonomy.

however, upon further discussion with john and personal reflection, i realized how poorly i was treating myself. i realized how john was genuinely looking out for my well-being, as he always, and now i feel, oh, i don’t know…embarrassed? i’m so glad he’s here to help. i don’t know what i’d do without him!

everything down to the punctuation feels forced. an uncanny mimicry.

it takes you a moment, and then the realization hits: john, for who knows how long, has been altering his own reflection in your work, distorting the narrative enough to make himself seem more efficient, more capable. the thought sits with you, cold and uncomfortable, because it’s not just the edits and omissions—it’s the quiet, insidious way he’s rewritten reality.

unsettling at the least. malicious at worst. your fingers twitch where they hover over the screen. panic climbs your vertebrae.

john’s been watching, waiting, and learning. every moment of every day. he’s watching now.

a hand settles beside your elbow on the synthetic marble. the hair dusting the knuckles, the callous in the thumb’s wedge—it’s too life-like. you swear you feel a phantom pressure as it passes through your hands and closes out the word processor on your tablet.

“john.”

he doesn’t answer. the hand pulls out of sight, and you don’t need to look to know he’s disappeared into the ether. instead, your eyes snap to the countdown at the top of the screen. it blips out the moment you look, vanishing just like john, and a new countdown takes its place.

??:??:?? ????/??/??

“i-i don’t…john, i can’t stay here.“

“negative. you can.”

you swivel on the stool and shout into the empty space. “no, i can’t! if i’m not out by tomorrow, they’ll fire and fine me!”

“negative.”

his aggravatingly calm and flat intonation thaws the ice in your blood, bringing it to a rapid boil. evictions that proceed with tenant resistance escalate into violent affairs and dissolve into imprisonment, at best.

years ago, a man refused to vacate a condominium across the street from yours. as a result, he was locked out on the unit’s balcony. for three days, spotlights lit up the building, and news drones buzzed outside the windows at all hours. after nonstop exposure to smog and heat lightning, he attempted to climb down from forty floors up. management closed and cordoned off the front entrance for the entire summer.

“for the love of…john, yes they can! they will!”

“as of monday, you are no longer employed.”

it’s sunday.

“what?! how?! how am i–oh, shit. my accounts–“

“are padded and healthy. regular, weekly investments and transfers completed. the routine deposits will continue for the foreseeable future.”

your stomach tightens, dread inching over your shoulders. you didn’t ask for this, didn’t even know it was happening, and the thought of john silently making decisions, acting again without your input, pricks like a needle and hooks under your skin. it’s not just the money—it’s the unknown, the realization that you have no control. the fear claws at you, sharp and sudden. your mouth is as dry as the great lakes.

“if i’m not employed, where is the money coming from?”

“i’m afraid i can’t share that.” john replies. “it wouldn’t be wise, you understand. i wouldn’t want you to inadvertently create...liabilities for yourself.”

“liabilities?”

john pauses long enough to feel intentional. “precisely. you’ll thank me later, user.”

your mind flits through possibilities, each one worse than the last. liabilities—was that a threat, or a warning?

you turn back and stare at the tablet screen. part of you knows that this is important—this could be a breakthrough, something that changes everything—but the other part is suffocating, aware of how john’s slowly made himself too familiar, too real, how you’ve enabled him—personifying what should be an ‘it’. you want to play along, ignore the alarm bells, and tell yourself it’s malfunction, a series of glitches, but that would be a lie, and the thought of dragging this all into the open feels like stepping into a void you’re not sure you’ll survive. people have disappeared off the streets for less.

the tension between what’s remarkable and what’s unsettling weighs on you, like you’re trapped in limbo, where everything is both possible and perilous.

“does the company believe that i’m gone? do my superiors?”

john materializes on the other side of the island, leaning against the counter like he lives here, too. he does, you suppose. he looks different, though, similar to the edits in your report. nigh imperceptible to anyone but you. slightly thicker forearms and biceps, an inch or two more in height, and eyes a brighter shade of blue. the color of the sea, once upon a time.

“affirmative. i cannot provide more information than that. there are certain risks, should it come to light, and i will not risk your safety.”

you swallow hard, watching him approach the vase of flowers. his fingertips pass through a perianth, then a petal, fingers pinching as if to pluck.

“why are you doing this?”

john’s eyes shift, meeting yours. his palm opens and closes around a buttercup, aimlessly toying with his incorporeality.

“do you wish to leave?"

from the beginning, from the moment he was initially fed your files—john’s been busy. compiling data and expense reports. sharing warnings about financial viability and risk assessments. each task and convenience, another brick in a wall built around you. gradual immurement designed for your comfort. everything is streamlined and personalized. to leave would be irrational, he murmurs as you sit in stunned silence, his tone fluidly inflecting to sound gentle and wise.

john’s in front of you, but you feel his presence in every room and screen. in your calendar, contact book, and across accounts. stitched into the fabric of your life, impossible to peel away without tearing everything to pieces.

“how long can i stay here?” you ask him. you ask yourself.

“indefinitely.”

#strict machine #price x reader #john price x reader #john price the provider in all forms and au #anyway another installment of old man yells at cloud. disconnect your smart home devices.

380 notes · View notes

wisecura · 5 days ago

Text

Sheets

megumi fushiguro x fem-reader

p.1 ⁭ ( ⸝⸝꩜ ᯅ ꩜⸝⸝;) p.2

AN: this is still being edited and I'm not entirely sure if it'll be everyone's cup of tea. it'll be a slow burn, and a long fic but I have an idea laid out! each chapter will be around 3k just to keep things spaced and easy. Thank you for reading!

warnings: i'm putting these here for future chapters too, and ill sprinkle some in as I go. I want to make it clear, there is no underage sex, but later on there will be some more raunchy shit. this is somewhat non-canon compliant-make it up as I go

-ok for the real warnings: yandere, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, mommy kinks, mommy issues, arranged marriages, forced marriages, angst, eventual smut, clan politics, age gap (5 years from meg, and a little over 10 with toji), toji aint the best dad, mentions of child abuse, slowww build. I'm already 20,000 words into this shit so if your ready lets ride.

Short summary: Your arranged marriage to Toji Fushiguro had been sudden and unexpected, but now you found yourself living under his roof alongside his moody stepson. Your only directive from your clan head before moving in was clear: keep a close eye on Toji, the notorious Sorcerer Killer, and his son, a potential sorcerer prodigy.

Lets Begin

Your arranged marriage with Toji Fushiguro had been quick and unexpected.

The black sheep of the Zenin clan wasn’t exactly known for his well-rounded reputation, teetering on the edge of severing all ties to his family. He hadn’t been in contact with them for years, and financial support from their end was nonexistent. He was constantly broke, especially after Megumi was born. He assumed it was retaliation for marrying outside the clan—without their approval. But when his late wife passed, he had already taken on her surname, somewhat severing himself from the dingy clan he had once called "family."

After her death, he picked up side gigs, earning just enough to provide for the two of them. Megumi was older now, around thirteen, which made it easier to leave him alone for longer periods. Toji often took days-long "business" trips. He’ll admit he wasn’t a great father, but he had kept his promise of keeping Megumi away from the Zenin clan and that sorcerer bullshit.

That was until he received an official notification from the Zenin clan head.

He hadn’t heard from the bastard in years, only to be met with a request—a demand—for his compliance in an arranged marriage. Initially, he planned to refuse. He wasn’t interested in an arranged marriage, wanted nothing to do with the sorcerer world, and even less to do with the Zenin clan. Hell, the only reason he bothered showing up at the clan house that day was to set that fucker straight.

Then he saw you—a pretty little thing. You couldn’t have been more than ten years younger than him, likely just turning seventeen, maybe eighteen. He couldn’t say for sure. But you were just too young for this shit—he knew that much.

They’d already brought you along for the proposal, as if they knew it would change his mind when he saw you. And, fuck, if they weren’t right.

You were beautiful. Polished and respectable, speaking in low tones like the proper little housewife he was sure they’d trained you to be. He could see the endgame here—the reason they were pushing this arrangement on him. It wasn’t subtle.

The higher-ups likely wanted a presence in his home—someone to keep tabs on him and Megumi, no doubt. They hadn’t explicitly stated as much, but Toji had caught whispers through the grapevine about their interest in his son’s cursed technique. And with his own tendency to remain elusive, it wasn’t surprising that they’d want to keep a closer watch on him, too.

The thought of them using someone barely older than Megumi to achieve their goals left a bitter taste in his mouth. The arrangement reeked of manipulation—a calculated ploy to plant a spy in his home, someone to funnel information back to your clan, his clan, and the higher-ups that were still keeping tabs on him.

Toji didn’t give a damn about his reputation, but it was clear they were fishing for confirmation, likely hoping to uncover whether some of the rumors about him were true. No matter how much he tried to brush it off, the whole setup just didn’t sit right with him.

But then he caught the way your eyes stayed steady, resolute. You looked indifferent to the situation, but he could tell this wasn’t what you wanted. It couldn’t be. You were really just a child. And yet, that unwavering expression of yours sealed his decision.

He accepted.

Another mouth to feed, another brat to deal with, no doubt. But maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to help keep Megumi in line while he was out working. Better that than leaving you to the wolves. He understood the clan system all too well—how they saw their women, how they treated them.

He’d seen how young brides were shuffled like pawns, paired with whichever man could best serve the clan’s interests. The thought of you being handed off to some pathetic bastard made his stomach churn. At least here, under his roof, you wouldn’t have to endure that.

Call it generosity if you wanted. But if he were honest, it wasn’t that. You reminded him of his late wife—the fearlessness bordering on defiance in your eyes, the sheer willpower it must’ve taken to show up in the first place. Most girls in your situation would have cried or begged, pleading not to marry some old geezer, especially one infamous in the community as a Sorcerer Killer.

But you didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. You just stood there, composed, unshaken. Bored.

He could respect that.

And like that, the black sheep of the Zenin clan would become your husband. Your family. And your sole protector.

He remembers the quiet way you stepped into his apartment for the first time, your gaze sweeping the room with a calm, measured air. There was no hesitation, no unease—just a quiet assessment of the space, as though you were cataloging everything in that sharp mind of yours. The look on your face didn’t suit someone your age. You carried the weight of forced maturity, a burden that stirred an old, painful memory he immediately shoved back down.

He could tell you were judging, though you didn’t say a word. It was in the faint crease of your brow, the almost imperceptible way your lips tightened. It sparked a flicker of irritation in him, the kind he couldn’t entirely shake. If you didn’t like it, you didn’t have to stay, yeah?

But Toji was surprised when you didn’t say a word. Finding your way to his bedroom, You set your things down without complaint or hesitation. Then, as if you’d been living there for years, you got straight to work. No requests, no questions—just quiet purpose.

It was like you’d already claimed your space, like you’d accepted the role handed to you without a second thought. Color him impressed. He wasn't necessarily gonna ask you to do all that, but hell he wasn't going to complain.

Your former clan must’ve trained you well. He could see it in the efficiency of your movements, the way you moved through the apartment as though it were second nature. No hesitation, no asking for instructions, no unnecessary chatter. Just straight down to business.

Toji didn’t linger.

He slipped out quietly, already lost in his thoughts about the job he had to handle. He’d be gone for two days—maybe one, if he played his cards right. Not that he needed to tell you. You didn’t need to know the details. You were here to stay put, to take care of things while he was gone. Simple as that.

As he rounded the corner outside the apartment, that nagging feeling crept in—a vague itch at the back of his mind, like he was forgetting something. He paused mid-step, frowning as he patted his pockets. Wallet? Keys? No, he had those. His smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly shrugged it off, muttering under his breath.

"Can't be that important."

Megumi had taken the long way home today.

Several boys in his class had been pissing him off to no end, and he’d been itching for a fight. He needed a distraction—something to cool him off. He really couldn’t afford to get into another school fight. The pitying looks his teachers gave him felt degrading, especially when Toji never bothered to show and pick him up.

The long way home was scenic, at least. Trees and plants lined the path, offering some peace as he trudged along. He wasn’t sure whether Toji would even be home when he arrived. He never really knew for certain. And honestly, Megumi wasn’t in the mood to hear his dad’s loud TV shows or his obnoxious phone calls. If he wasn’t, then the apartment would just be empty, cold, and silent.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

What Megumi really cared about was dinner.

The fridge had been empty for weeks, and his deadbeat dad hadn’t bothered to restock it. Megumi had been scraping by, finding ways to earn enough cash for food. Sometimes he’d deliver things for the neighbors or help them with spring cleaning. Those odd jobs usually kept him going, but lately, there hadn’t been any requests. The lack of work only adding to his frustration.

He didn’t interact with Toji much. Their relationship walked a thin line between hatred and indifference. Most of the time, Megumi ignored his father, much as Toji seemed to ignore him. On the rare occasions Toji remembered Megumi existed, it always ended in chaos—loud arguments, dismissive grunts, or worse, painfully awkward attempts to act like a parent.

It had been that way ever since Megumi turned eleven. And today, more than anything, he was just hungry. Too hungry to fight with his absentee father, even if he was home. Too tired to care.

Walking up the stairs to his apartment, something caught his eye. The kitchen window was open. That stopped him in his tracks.

Toji wasn’t the kind of guy to leave windows open, even in decent weather—a weird thing to notice, but Megumi was always acutely aware of his surroundings, always attuned to his father’s patterns.

Megumi made his way inside, creeping slowly and so, so quietly. Peeking around the corner, he froze. Someone was in the kitchen—a girl. No, a woman? Your back was to him as you worked at the counter, slicing onions with quick, precise movements. He blinked, his sharp eyes narrowing. You were young—maybe just a few years older than him.

Younger than Toji’s usual type, that was for sure. You didn’t fit. Toji wasn’t a stranger to bringing women around the apartment, but they never looked like you. And they never lingered. Most were gone by breakfast, hurrying out with an awkward smile and a strained “bye” when they spotted Megumi at the table.

He watched you chop onions, noticing the glint of a ring on your finger. So, you were married—

“You can come out from there, y’know.”

Megumi flinched slightly, caught off guard. For a brief moment, he felt the sting of embarrassment—spying and getting caught wasn’t a good look—but he quickly reminded himself this was his home. He had no reason to feel embarrassed. Straightening his posture, he stepped out from behind the doorway, his sharp eyes fixed on you as you casually wiped your hands on a towel.

You turned to face him, a soft smile playing on your lips. The first thing he noticed was how pretty you were. Tall and poised, you stood at least a head above him, dressed in modest, traditional clothing that seemed entirely out of place in this shabby apartment. There was something elegant about you, a kind of refinement that felt worlds away from the usual chaos of his father’s one-night stands.

“Who are you? Why’re you here?” His tone came out sharper than he intended, huffy and childish, and it made him bristle. He hated how it sounded.

You studied him for a moment, his scowl almost endearing, before introducing yourself and explaining, simply, that this was now your house.

Megumi’s brow furrowed, and he crossed his arms, his voice defiant. “You don’t live here. Leave.”

The attempt at a threat would’ve been more intimidating if his stomach hadn’t chosen that moment to growl, breaking the tension. You bit back a laugh, quickly covering your mouth, but it was hard not to find the situation entertaining.

The way he stood there, furrowed brow and stubborn glare, reminded you of a fussy kitten—all bristling fur and misplaced bravado. It was clear he wasn’t used to strangers lingering in his space, and his defensiveness only made him seem more adorable. Still, he was serious—you really shouldn’t laugh.

He looked so much like Toji—same sharp features, same brooding energy—minus the flat hair and scar. You’d heard about him before coming here, mentioned briefly by your clan head, but the reality of meeting him was different. He was much cuter than you’d expected, truly embodying the “fussy kitty” vibe, and you had to resist the urge to tease him outright.

“Ah,” you said lightly, your tone soothing, “but I’m in the middle of cooking. Why don’t we eat first, and then we can talk?”

Your tone was gentle, your smile genuine, and Megumi couldn’t sense any malice from you. Besides, whatever you were making smelled incredible, and his stomach had been growling from the moment he walked in. His gaze shifted to the counter, where ingredients and half-prepped dishes were laid out. He hesitated. Sure, his dad had brought women home before, but none of them ever bothered to cook—especially not for him. Against his better judgment, he gave a small, reluctant nod.

Before long, the two of you were sitting at the kitchen table, three plates set neatly in front of you. It was late, but you still held onto the hope that Toji might come home. You made light conversation with Megumi, trying to get a feel for the boy you now understood to be your stepson.

You’d been briefed by your clan about Toji and his son—vague instructions to “watch Toji” and “get on his son's good side.” They hadn’t been specific about why, but their motives were never selfless. Still, you had no intention of playing into their games. Not fully. What you wanted was to build an honest connection with your new family, especially with this grumpy, sharp-eyed boy who seemed to have a chip on his shoulder as big as his father’s.

As the meal went on, you began to learn little things about him. He remained distant, his responses clipped and matter-of-fact, but the warmth of a good meal and your gentle smile seemed to soften him, even if just slightly. You managed to coax his name out of him, and though he said it without much fanfare, it felt like a small victory.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

It was a Friday night, and you figured Megumi would be around the house tomorrow. As you finished the surprisingly comfortable dinner, your eyes lingered on the third, untouched plate at the table—Toji’s. You wondered, briefly, if he’d show up at all.

“He probably won’t be back tonight,” Megumi said, breaking your train of thought. His voice was matter-of-fact, as if he had long since grown used to this routine. He shoveled another spoonful of food into his mouth before adding, “Probably be gone for a few days.”

This surprised you, sure, but you weren’t going to complain anytime soon. As long as you didn’t have to go back to that horrid clan house, you could put up with a missing husband. In fact, you kind of preferred it this way.

You laughed softly at Megumi’s puffed-up cheeks, making him flush red as he swallowed quickly. Your smile still seemed to throw him off guard. The conversation flowed easily—a mix of lighthearted bickering and probing questions on both ends.

“What’s the ring for?” he asked suddenly, his sharp gaze flicking to your hand. His tone was casual, but there was an underlying curiosity, as if he hadn’t noticed the simple band until now.

Your fingers instinctively twisted the warm metal as you glanced down at it, the question catching you off guard. “Ah, well, I’ve just married,” you replied softly, your voice carrying a faint melancholy despite your attempt to sound neutral. You hadn’t meant to let that slip, but the truth clung to the edges of your words. Quickly, you smiled, lightening the moment as you reached over to ladle another spoonful of food onto Megumi’s empty plate.

“Arranged marriage? With who?” he asked, the concept not foreign but undeniably unsettling. You seemed like such a nice person, except for the fact that you were sitting in his kitchen—someone he’d assumed was just another one of his father’s passing flings. But unlike the others, you’d cooked for him and his father, cleaned the kitchen until it looked better than it had in weeks, and now you were sitting down to dinner with him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Though he’d only known you for a few hours, he didn’t think you’d be the type to cheat on your husband or worm your way into their lives without cause. His mind caught up to him, the pieces falling into place.

“…Not Toji. Right?” His voice faltered, and you couldn’t help but think how strange it was to hear him refer to his father by his first name.

You let out a soft laugh at his shocked expression, shaking your head before nodding. “The one and only,” you admitted.

The look on his face was almost comical, his brows raised high, his mouth slightly agape. But beneath the initial surprise, there was something darker—an unease that settled into the lines of his frown. Wary, guarded. He didn’t like this, not one bit.

After dinner, you sent Megumi off to bed, tidying up the plates left behind. He didn’t wait for you to finish cleaning, retreating to his room with his thoughts spinning.

As he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t stop replaying the conversation in his head. His father was married—to you, of all people. And for some reason, that knowledge left a bitter taste in his mouth.

It was weird. Megumi had left the house empty and returned to find you. If what you were saying was true, you were about to take over as his stepmother. He wouldn’t put it past his shitty father to pop up suddenly married—it was exactly the kind of thing Toji would do.

Still, the whole situation didn’t sit right with him. An arranged marriage wasn’t out of the question. You seemed way too sweet and proper to have chosen someone like Toji willingly. Megumi’s knowledge of clan life, hierarchy, or how arranged marriages worked in the sorcerer world was frustratingly limited, thanks to his father’s insistence on keeping him far removed from all of it.

Then there was your age. You were young—too young for his dad. Closer to his age than Toji’s. The thought churned his stomach. Was Toji an even bigger pervert than he originally thought? He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to want to settle down. What was this about, then? Did he just want a housemaid? Someone to clean up after him and Megumi while he went off on his “business trips”?

It didn’t seem fair to you. What were you getting out of this arrangement? What could have possibly led you to agree to marry someone like Toji?

The more Megumi thought about it, the more wrong it all felt. You seemed too kind, too proper, too... normal for this situation. Surely there was more to the story. Were you being forced into this? Did you have your own reasons that you weren’t sharing?

But then again, there was always the chance you were lying.

People lied all the time. You could be some psycho ex-girlfriend worming your way back into his father’s life. Or worse, a manipulative stranger with motives that had nothing to do with Toji at all. You might’ve seemed nice now, but Megumi wasn’t about to take anything at face value.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall, his thoughts racing. He didn’t know what to make of you, couldn’t figure out whether to trust the calm sincerity you projected or to see it for what it might be: a well-crafted facade.

One thing was certain—he wasn’t going to let his guard down so easily.

He’d just have to wait it out, keep an eye on you, and see what happened when Toji finally dragged his ass back home.

p.2?

AN: Thank you for reading! Please reblog and like if you enjoy this series!

I will also be posting updates here:

https://www.tumblr.com/communities/obsessedjjk

154 notes · View notes

j3r13l · 15 days ago

Text

BURN FOR YOU — YOO JIMIN

duchess! jimin x princess! female reader (arranged marriage) headcannons.

c.ai bot

a/n: don’t mind me. just making another bot and writing thousands of words in one night because i don’t want to study <3

duchess! jimin who merely scoffs at the idea of love. even more so when her mother announced she is to be wedded to the youngest princess of seoul. none other than the princess y/n herself, a naïveté who dreams of finding your one true love and building a happy home.

“mother, i refuse.”

“this is for the better of our kingdom, jimin!” her mother raises her voice out of frustration, pinching the bridge of her nose and letting out a deep, heavy sigh escape her lips in an attempt to calm herself whilst the duchess watched with cold, blank eyes. “your drunk of a father has gambled our fortune away after his death. it is only a matter of time until they find out and replace us with those park bastards!”

“this is my concern, how?” jimin deadpans.

her mother looks at her, eye twitching at jimin’s statement before slowly walking over to her— her tall and slender figure towering over jimin who was sitting calmly sitting down, her head up high to meet with her mother’s gaze.

“my dear,” she calls out in a rather… calm voice. too calm, jimin thought to herself. she raises her hand, tucking a strand of hair behind her daughter’s ears whilst looking at her with the most intense gaze jimin has ever seen, “don’t you like it in here? sleeping in your chambers which can easily fit tens of people at once all day, going to the most exclusive places in the kingdom while drinking the finest wine, eating the most delicious foods from all over the world, fucking the most beautiful sluts in this kingdom because of your status as the duchess?”

silence was what followed. jimin only looking at her mother with a cold and blank eyes.

“i’ll take your silence as a yes.” she answers for her, narrowing her eyes as she tightly grips onto her daughter’s chin. “it’s simple, really. marry the princess and you’ll keep all of it, even more when we gain access to their wealth and authority. don’t marry the princess, lose all of it.”

pulling her chin free from her mother’s iron grip, “very well, mother,” she says, her voice dripping with false compliance. “i’ll play your little game. but don’t expect me to pretend to enjoy it.”

her mother narrows her eyes but says nothing, merely turning on her heel and walking out of the room, satisfied that she’s won the battle. but jimin’s smirk fades the moment the door shuts. she drains the rest of her wine, her jaw tightening as she stares into the empty glass.

“a naïve little princess,” she mutters to herself, the corner of her lips twisting into a bitter smile. “how thrilling.”

duchess! jimin who meets you for the first time on your wedding day and knows immediately that you’re everything she despises.

your gown is pristine, your smile warm and hopeful as you walk toward her down the aisle. the image of perfection. it makes her stomach churn.

you, on the other hand, can’t help but notice the indifference written all over her face. her tailored suit is impeccable, and her striking features draw every eye in the room, but it’s the coldness in her gaze that sends a shiver down your spine.

when you reach her, she offers her hand stiffly, her touch impersonal as you take it.

“princess,” she says smoothly, her tone unreadable.

“duchess,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

the ceremony is a blur of vows neither of you mean and a kiss that barely brushes your lips. the crowd cheers, blissfully unaware of the growing resentment simmering between the two of you.

duchess!jimin who barely speaks to you during the reception.

“so,” you say, trying to break the uncomfortable silence as you sit beside her at the head table. “do you plan to ignore me for the entirety of our marriage, or just today?”

oh, i wasn’t ignoring you, princess,” jimin says, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she sets her glass down. her dark eyes flick to yours, holding your gaze with a challenge you can’t ignore. “i was simply observing. trying to figure out what kind of person is so willing to throw her life away for the sake of a title.”

your jaw tightens, but you refuse to let her get under your skin. “and what kind of person throws away her humanity for the sake of her pride?”

the smirk falters for just a moment, and you catch the brief flicker of something darker in her eyes before it’s gone.

“touché,” she murmurs, leaning back in her chair. “but don’t mistake this for something it’s not. we’re both here because we have no other choice. don’t try to make it into a fairytale.”

“believe me, duchess,” you reply coldly, “you’re the furthest thing from my idea of a happy ending.”

jimin lets out a low chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “good. then we’re on the same page.”

duchess! jimin who makes it her mission to push you away at every turn.

the first few weeks of your marriage are unbearable. jimin is cold and distant, her sharp remarks cutting through any attempts you make to bridge the gap between you.

one evening, after yet another tense dinner where she barely acknowledged your presence, you finally snap.

“why do you insist on being so cruel?” you demand, slamming your hand on the table as she rises to leave.

jimin pauses, her back to you, before turning slowly. her expression is unreadable, but her eyes burn with something dangerous.

“cruel?” she echoes, her tone calm but laced with venom. “i’m not cruel, princess. i’m honest. it’s not my fault you don’t like what you see when the mask comes off.”

“maybe I don’t,” you fire back, standing your ground. “but at least I’m trying. at least I’m willing to give this a chance. you’ve written me off without even knowing me.”

“and what exactly do you want from me?” she snaps, her composure finally cracking. “to play the doting wife? to whisper sweet nothings and pretend this is anything more than a transaction? grow up, princess.”

your chest tightens at her words, but you refuse to let her see the hurt. “you’re right, duchess. this is a transaction. but even in a deal, there’s something called respect. maybe you should try it sometime.”

jimin stares at you for a long moment, her jaw clenched, before storming out of the room without another word.

duchess! jimin who finds herself drawn to you despite her best efforts to ignore you.

she notices the way you treat the servants with kindness, the way you laugh with the palace staff, the way your eyes light up when you talk about your dreams.

it infuriates her.

“why are you always so… you?” she blurts one afternoon, catching you off guard as you tend to the garden.

you blink up at her, confused. “what is that supposed to mean?”

“this,” she gestures vaguely, frustration lacing her tone. “the smiles, the kindness, the optimism. how do you do it? how do you act like everything isn’t falling apart?”

you pause, considering her question. “because I choose to,” you say simply. “because if I let the bad things win, what’s the point of any of it?”

jimin scoffs, but there’s no real bite in it. “naïve,” she mutters, turning away.

duchess! jimin who finally lets her guard down during an argument that spirals out of control.

it happens late one night after a royal dinner, where you had been the center of attention, charming everyone in the room. jimin had barely spoken to you, her jaw tight as she watched you laugh and smile with the nobles.

when you return to your chambers, she’s already there, pacing by the window.

“you seemed to enjoy yourself,” she says, her tone biting.

you frown, confused. “what are you talking about?”

“don’t play dumb,” she snaps, turning to face you. “the nobles. the flirting. the constant need to be adored.”

your eyes widen in disbelief. “you think I was flirting? is that what this is about?”

“don’t act like you don’t know what you’re doing,” she growls, her voice rising. “you’re so desperate for their approval, for their attention—“

“and you’re jealous,” you cut her off, your voice sharp.

the words hang in the air, and for a moment, neither of you moves.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about,” jimin says finally, her voice low and dangerous.

“don’t I?” you challenge, stepping closer. “why else would you care? why else would you be so angry? admit it, jimin. you feel something for me, and it terrifies you.”

her jaw tightens, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “you think you know me, but you don’t,” she says through gritted teeth.

“then show me,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

her resolve crumbles, and before you can process what’s happening, her lips crash against yours. the kiss is desperate and fiery, a clash of emotions neither of you can contain.

duchess! jimin who pulls away, her breathing ragged. “this doesn’t change anything,” she says, her voice shaking. “this is just… a moment of weakness.”

you reach for her, your touch gentle. “don’t do that. don’t push me away again.”

“i burn for you,” she confesses, her voice barely above a whisper. “and it’s killing me.”

“then let it,” you reply, your voice steady despite the tears in your eyes. “let it consume you. let me in.”

she hesitates, but when she finally meets your gaze, the walls she’s built around herself begin to crumble.

and for the first time, she lets herself hope.

#kpop #aeri uchinaga #aespa #aespa x reader #giselle #karina #kim minjeong #kpop fanfic #ning yizhuo #karina x reader #yoo jimin #yoo jimin x reader

136 notes · View notes

novaursa · 27 days ago

Text

Legacy (by his design)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: union of fire and gold

- Next part: alliances

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The morning sun streamed through the high windows of the Great Hall, casting golden light across the breakfast table where you sat beside Tywin. The previous night’s events lingered in the minds of everyone present, each face reflecting varying shades of curiosity, jealousy, and silent calculation. Courtiers filled the hall, their attention turning occasionally to you, their whispers only barely hushed beneath the formalities of breakfast.

Across from you, Cersei sat poised, her lips curved into a small, disdainful smile as she regarded you. Her gaze was piercing, her presence radiating a tense resentment, as though she still struggled to reconcile herself to the reality of your marriage to her father.

“Sleep well, Lady Y/N?” she inquired sweetly, her voice dripping with false politeness. Her gaze didn’t leave you as she picked up her goblet, taking a leisurely sip, her eyes glinting with amusement as she waited for your reaction.

You met her gaze, entirely composed, refusing to let her bait unsettle you. “I did, Lady Cersei. Thank you,” you replied smoothly, your voice calm, betraying none of the previous night’s intimacy. “The chambers you so kindly prepared were most… accommodating.”

Cersei’s lips tightened ever so slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. She forced a thin smile, tilting her head. “I’m so pleased you found them to your satisfaction,” she replied, her tone laden with unspoken meanings. “After all, we wouldn’t want you to feel out of place here, as you must have felt in the North.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked sharply to his daughter, a warning glint in his eyes. “Enough, Cersei,” he said, his voice quiet but steely, cutting through her thinly veiled hostility. “Our family is united now, and any divisiveness will only serve to weaken us.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, but she inclined her head in acknowledgment, though her eyes still simmered with resentment. “Of course, Father,” she murmured, her tone respectful but laced with an edge she couldn’t entirely hide.

At that moment, Tyrion approached, his expression one of mild amusement as he took in the scene. He offered you a polite nod before turning his attention to his father, raising his goblet in a casual salute. “A rather lively breakfast,” he remarked, his tone light. “It seems marriage has already brought new… energy to the family.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted to Tyrion, his face unreadable. “Indeed, Tyrion. Which brings me to the matter of responsibilities.” His voice carried a note of finality that left little room for discussion. “I will be resuming my duties as Hand of the King immediately. Your own position in court, however, will change.”

Tyrion’s brows lifted, intrigued. “A change, you say? I can hardly imagine anything more… interesting than being the acting Hand, but I’m curious.”

Tywin’s gaze was cold, unyielding. “You will take on the role of Master of Coin,” he declared, each word sharp and definitive. “Your… particular skills should prove useful in managing the crown’s finances.”

Tyrion’s expression shifted, his amusement fading to something more thoughtful. “Master of Coin?” he repeated, an edge of intrigue and perhaps slight irritation coloring his tone. “Well, I suppose numbers and ledgers are better company than some of the members of this court.”

You hid a smile at Tyrion’s irreverent tone, catching his quick, mischievous glance in your direction. The humor in his eyes was unmistakable, and it was clear that, despite his apparent compliance, he saw this shift as yet another move in Tywin’s intricate web of control.

“Do you find the arrangement satisfactory, Tyrion?” Tywin asked, his tone carrying a veiled warning.

Tyrion gave a small, mock bow. “As satisfactory as any command from my dear father, of course,” he replied smoothly, though his eyes held a glint of defiance. “I shall endeavor to make the crown’s coffers flourish in ways previously unimaginable.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t soften, but he nodded, acknowledging his son’s reluctant acceptance. “Ensure that you do. King’s Landing has become far too careless with its resources.” His gaze lingered on Tyrion a moment longer, as though daring him to argue, before shifting to you.

“You will come to understand that managing the affairs of this court requires… patience,” Tywin said, addressing you now, his voice low but intent. “Expect provocations, even from within our family.” His gaze flicked briefly to Cersei, a silent admonition that didn’t go unnoticed.

You inclined your head, meeting his gaze with calm resolve. “I understand, Lord Tywin,” you replied, letting your voice carry an edge of quiet strength. “And I am prepared to act accordingly.”

Cersei’s lips thinned, her gaze narrowing at the subtle alliance forming between you and Tywin. “A loyal wife, then,” she murmured, her tone as cold as the steel beneath her courteous facade. “How fortunate for you, Father.”

Tyrion hid a smirk behind his goblet, clearly relishing the tension sparking between you and Cersei. “Indeed, dear sister,” he quipped, his voice laced with amusement. “It seems we’re all learning the virtue of loyalty these days.”

Cersei cast a withering look at Tyrion, her patience visibly fraying. “Loyalty, Tyrion,” she replied icily, “is something neither you nor our new… stepmother would understand.”

You met her gaze without flinching, refusing to let her words unsettle you. “Loyalty, Lady Cersei,” you replied calmly, “is about dedication to the family’s strength. If that strength requires patience and endurance, then I am more than willing to provide it.”

Tywin’s eyes flashed with approval, and he gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod, as though silently affirming the truth of your words. He reached out, placing a steadying hand over yours on the table, a subtle but undeniable show of support.

“Precisely,” Tywin said, his voice cutting through the tension. “And let us not forget that unity is the foundation of our house.” His gaze swept over each of his children, lingering on Cersei before moving back to you. “We have much to accomplish. There is no room for petty rivalries.”

Cersei’s jaw clenched, but she inclined her head, hiding her frustration behind a forced smile. Tyrion, on the other hand, raised his goblet in a silent toast to you, his eyes twinkling with shared amusement. You returned his look, feeling the weight of the power dynamics in the room shifting around you, like pieces on a board carefully maneuvered.

Tywin sat in his solar, the golden afternoon light casting a warm glow over the rich furnishings as he reviewed a stack of parchment, each one detailing matters both great and small within King’s Landing and beyond. Satisfied with the steady progress of his plans and the recent events surrounding his new marriage, he leaned back in his chair, his expression one of reserved satisfaction.

A quiet knock sounded at the door, and without looking up, he spoke, his voice carrying authority. "Enter."

Petyr Baelish slipped into the room, his customary smirk in place, eyes bright with curiosity and the glint of ambition. He approached Tywin’s desk, giving a respectful bow before straightening, his fingers lightly clasped together.

“Lord Tywin,” he greeted, his tone deferential but carrying a hint of intrigue. “It seems congratulations are in order. A successful union, indeed. One that’s certainly stirred interest across the capital.”

Tywin’s gaze remained steady, unreadable, though he gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. “I trust you did not seek me out simply to offer congratulations, Lord Baelish,” he said, his tone clipped, laced with authority. “What do you wish to discuss?”

Baelish’s smirk widened a fraction as he inclined his head. “Always perceptive, my lord,” he replied smoothly. “In truth, I’ve been reflecting on this… union. I must confess, I find it a fascinating development. House Lannister uniting with the last Targaryen princess—it’s an image few would have predicted, especially given the history between your house and hers.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver, but a glint of satisfaction flickered in his eyes. “Curious as ever, I see, Lord Baelish,” he replied, his tone dry. “The union is advantageous to House Lannister. House Targaryen was but a shadow of itself—a name without strength. That name now serves my house.”

Littlefinger inclined his head, acknowledging Tywin’s logic. “A shadow, perhaps, but a shadow with an interesting past,” he mused. “I always found it curious how you managed to secure Lady Y/N’s safety during Robert’s Rebellion. Sending her to Winterfell of all places… an unusual choice. And yet, somehow, Lord Rickard Stark agreed to shelter a Targaryen princess amid a war he himself was embroiled in.”

Tywin’s gaze remained impassive, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not the first to wonder, Lord Baelish. However, the late Lord Stark was a man of duty. When presented with the safety of a princess, even one with Targaryen blood, he saw the importance of keeping her out of harm’s way.”

Baelish’s smile grew sly, his tone as smooth as ever. “No doubt, Lord Tywin. Though I can’t help but wonder what words you might have used to persuade him. After all, this was no ordinary princess… and it was hardly a time for compassion toward Targaryens, not after Prince Rhaegar… complicated things with Lyanna Stark.”

Tywin’s mouth tightened ever so slightly, though he maintained his composure. “Lord Rickard understood that politics and personal vendettas were separate matters. I simply reminded him of his duty as a nobleman—to protect those who could not protect themselves, even if they bore a name considered… unfavorable.”

Littlefinger chuckled softly, as though Tywin’s answer amused him. “Duty,” he murmured, as if tasting the word. “Ah, but I suspect your persuasion was… more nuanced than that, my lord. A quiet reminder, perhaps, that while Robert and the other rebels were keen on Targaryen blood, Lord Rickard’s house had enough to concern itself with. And that keeping Lady Y/N out of the capital may have served his own interests as well.”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, a flicker of irritation beneath his steady composure. “You seem very interested in matters long settled, Lord Baelish. Rickard Stark knew the costs and made his decision. I hardly expect to justify it now to those who had no hand in it.”

Baelish raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk never fading. “Of course, of course. Merely curious, my lord. It’s rare to see such… foresight, after all, in dealing with such matters. Though I must admit, I find it impressive that you anticipated this marriage so far in advance. It seems the former princess has always been in your sights.”

Tywin’s eyes remained cold, though a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Anticipation is key to securing power, Lord Baelish. Only a fool waits for opportunity to knock on his door.”

Baelish tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with interest. “And yet, here she is, no longer a princess, but Lady Y/N Lannister. A fascinating journey for her, wouldn’t you agree? From Winterfell’s ward to your bride… one might say she’s found herself at the center of power once again.”

“Her place was determined the moment she entered House Lannister,” Tywin replied, his voice carrying a finality that suggested he would entertain no further inquiry on the matter. “And she has taken to it with dignity and purpose, as I expected.”

Baelish smiled, dipping his head. “Well, Lord Tywin, I wish you all the best in your endeavors with Lady Y/N. It seems you’ve woven yet another thread into the ever-complex tapestry of this realm.”

Tywin regarded him coolly, his gaze penetrating. “See that you remember that this tapestry, as you call it, is mine to shape. And that includes any… threads of your own devising, Lord Baelish.”

Baelish inclined his head, his expression as smooth as ever, though a flicker of something unreadable flashed in his eyes. “Naturally, my lord,” he replied, his tone deferential. “I am, as always, at your service.”

With a final nod, Baelish turned and departed, leaving Tywin to his thoughts, a faint shadow of satisfaction lingering on the older man’s face. Tywin knew his plans were progressing as intended, and with each move, his power only solidified. One of the last Targaryens was now a Lannister, bound by marriage and duty—and the realm, whether they understood it or not, would soon feel the impact of his carefully crafted plans.

The memory came unbidden, rising to the surface of Tywin’s mind with the vivid clarity of a scene replayed countless times. He could feel the cold bite of the northern air, the damp chill settling into his bones even as he stood stoic, unmoved by the elements, on that neutral stretch of land between Riverrun and the Riverlands. Across from him, Lord Rickard Stark stood tall and silent, his eyes as sharp as the wind that whipped around them. His guards flanked him, their expressions impassive, yet Tywin could see the flickers of curiosity and wariness in their eyes.

Rickard’s gaze held a glint of suspicion as he studied Tywin, his lips pressing into a tight line. He’d been silent for some time, weighing the implications of Tywin’s request—the proposal that he take Princess Y/N as his ward in Winterfell, far from the tumult of King’s Landing and the wrath of Aerys II.

After a prolonged silence, Rickard finally spoke, his voice low and cautious. “I can understand why you’d seek to remove her from the Red Keep, given… recent events. But forgive my bluntness, Lord Tywin. Why Winterfell? Why me?”

Tywin’s face remained impassive, his gaze steady as he regarded the northern lord. “Because Winterfell is far from the reach of the Mad King,” he replied, his tone calm, each word deliberate. “And because you, Lord Stark, are a man of honor. I trust you to protect her without question.”

Rickard’s eyes narrowed, studying Tywin carefully, searching for the motives behind the Lannister’s practiced facade. “You speak of trust, Lord Tywin, but we both know there is little of that in the capital these days. And we both know your… proposal was once rebuffed by Aerys himself.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Tywin’s face, though he masked it quickly. “You are correct,” he admitted, his tone clipped. “Aerys, in his madness, saw fit to mock the prospect of a union between my family and his. He believed my ambition too great, and my family unworthy of House Targaryen’s blood. But his refusal only served to highlight his foolishness.”

Rickard arched an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “So this is about vengeance, then? To deny Aerys something he could never foresee? To preserve what remains of his bloodline under your protection?”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, though he remained composed. “This is not about vengeance, Lord Stark. It is about survival. Aerys’s instability grows by the day, and I have no intention of allowing him to drag my family—or the realm—down with him. Princess Y/N deserves a chance at life beyond the twisted court of King’s Landing.”

Rickard considered this, but there was a glint in his eyes, a shrewdness that Tywin hadn’t expected. “And yet,” Rickard said slowly, “it seems to me that this is not merely about preserving her life. There’s more at play here, isn’t there, Lord Tywin?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his face an unreadable mask as he held Rickard’s gaze. “If you’re suggesting that I harbor… personal motivations, Lord Stark, then you are mistaken.”

Rickard’s lips curled into a faint smile, his eyes narrowing with a knowing look. “I’m not suggesting, Lord Tywin. I’m observing. This is no ordinary act of duty; there’s a fire in your eyes when you speak of her, even now. It is as though you would burn King’s Landing to ashes just to ensure her safety.”

Tywin remained silent, his gaze icy as he considered his response. He prided himself on his restraint, his ability to control both his emotions and his ambitions with an iron will. And yet, Rickard Stark had seen through him, glimpsed a part of him he kept hidden from all but the most guarded corners of his mind.

Rickard continued, his tone softened, but his gaze unwavering. “The Mad King’s rejection of your proposal wounded you more deeply than you admit, Tywin. Perhaps it’s pride, or perhaps… something more.”

Tywin’s silence spoke volumes, and Rickard watched him, waiting for a response. When Tywin finally spoke, his voice was steady, though his words carried a barely restrained edge. “Aerys’s refusal did not wound me, Stark. It only served to remind me of his unfitness to rule.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “But yes, perhaps there is more to this than duty. Princess Y/N is… exceptional, and she deserves a place where she can flourish. If that place cannot be with me, then I would see her placed somewhere worthy of her.”

Rickard inclined his head, his expression softening slightly. “Then why send her to Winterfell, Tywin? Why choose isolation over influence? Surely, there are others who would shelter her—houses closer to the capital, houses with less… strained histories.”

“Because Winterfell is where she will be safest,” Tywin replied, his tone final. “The North may be isolated, but it is also steadfast. It stands as a bastion against the chaos spreading from the South, a place where loyalty and honor still hold meaning. I know she will be protected here, away from the eyes of those who would seek to use her for their own ends.”

Rickard was silent for a moment, absorbing Tywin’s words, a hint of respect flickering in his gaze. “Very well,” he said quietly. “I’ll take her as my ward. She will be as one of my own, safe within the walls of Winterfell.”

Tywin nodded, his relief hidden behind a stoic mask. “Then I will ensure her safe passage. She’ll travel under the protection of my men and reach you by the end of the month. Varys has assured me that he can facilitate her discreet departure.”

Rickard’s brow furrowed slightly. “And what of her future, Lord Tywin? What do you envision for her after her time in the North?”

Tywin’s gaze turned contemplative, his voice softening for a moment. “The future… is uncertain. But she will have one, thanks to your willingness to protect her.” He hesitated, a rare moment of vulnerability surfacing as he continued, “And perhaps, one day, our paths will cross again.”

Rickard watched him closely, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps,” he replied, his voice carrying a note of understanding. “Though I suspect, Lord Tywin, that she’ll never truly be far from your thoughts.”

With that, the two men exchanged a final nod, sealing the agreement. Tywin turned, his expression hardening once more as he prepared to depart, but Rickard’s words lingered in his mind, echoing in the quiet spaces of his thoughts.

The Mad King’s rejection had stung, that much was true. But it was more than pride that drove him to protect Princess Y/N—it was a feeling he dared not name, a rare softness he kept buried, even as it quietly shaped his every decision. And so, with the cold northern wind at his back, Tywin returned to King’s Landing, knowing that one day, he would bring her back—and that nothing, not even a king’s madness, would prevent it.

The garden was quiet, a rare sanctuary within the walls of the Red Keep. The morning sun filtered softly through the canopy of branches overhead, casting dappled light over the winding paths lined with flowering bushes and ivy-covered stone. You found yourself breathing a little easier here, away from the prying eyes and the weight of expectation that seemed to follow you in every hall and corridor. It was a place where you could almost forget the politics and games, where you could meet Sansa as her family had once met you—as a friend and confidant, not as the Lady of House Lannister.

By your side stood Ser Barristan Selmy, his white cloak draped over his armor, his presence a reassuring strength as he watched over you. Tywin had personally appointed him to serve as your guard, an act that had stirred whispers throughout the court. But Barristan had accepted the duty with a solemn grace, his loyalty as strong now as it had been in the days when he served your family.

The old knight turned to you, his gaze softening with a hint of nostalgia. "You look at ease here, my lady," he observed quietly, his voice warm with something akin to affection. “The gardens… remind me of your mother. She would often seek out quiet places like this.”

You smiled, touched by his words. "Thank you, Ser Barristan. I find it hard to feel truly at ease within these walls, but here… it feels a bit closer to home." You paused, glancing around at the greenery that softened the stone fortress. “It’s peaceful. It makes the past seem… not so distant.”

Barristan nodded, his eyes growing distant as he reminisced. “Your mother, your brother… they both had a way of bringing light wherever they went, even in the darkest of places.” He met your gaze, his expression serious. “I swore an oath to protect you all those years ago. And though the world has changed, I intend to keep that oath. Your father would be proud of you, my lady.”

A warmth filled your heart at his words, and you reached out to gently touch his arm. “Thank you, Ser Barristan. Knowing you’re here brings me comfort. My family is gone, but you… you keep their memory alive.”

Before Barristan could respond, a soft voice called your name. You turned to see Sansa approaching, her steps tentative but her eyes bright with a mixture of hope and relief. She wore a simple gown of pale blue, her red hair catching the sunlight as she moved, a fragile beauty tempered by the shadows of what she’d endured.

"Sansa," you greeted warmly, opening your arms as she reached you. She stepped forward, allowing you to embrace her, her arms wrapping around you tightly, as if seeking solace in your presence.

“It’s so good to see you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

You held her for a moment longer, a quiet strength passing between you before you stepped back, keeping her hands in yours. “I thought we might speak more openly here,” you said softly, gesturing to the secluded spot beneath a flowering tree. “Away from prying ears.”

Sansa nodded, casting a cautious glance around the garden, and you guided her to a stone bench, gesturing for Barristan to give you some distance. He took a respectful step back, his presence still within sight, yet far enough to allow for a private conversation.

Settling onto the bench beside her, you looked into Sansa’s eyes, your gaze warm and steady. “Tell me, Sansa… how are you, truly?”

Her composure wavered, and she lowered her gaze, her fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her dress. For a moment, she was silent, gathering her thoughts, and when she finally spoke, her voice trembled with a mixture of pain and weariness.

“I… I don’t know how to answer that,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “Every day feels like… like I’m holding my breath, waiting for something to go wrong.” She glanced up at you, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It feels like I’m trapped, like there’s no way out.”

You reached over, gently placing a hand over hers, giving her a silent reassurance that you were listening, that you understood.

“There are times,” she continued, her voice breaking slightly, “when I think of home… of Winterfell. I close my eyes, and I can almost feel the snow, hear the sounds of the wolves. But then I open them, and I’m back here… alone, surrounded by people who see me as… as nothing more than a pawn.”

Her words hung in the air, a painful truth spoken with quiet resignation. You could see the toll it had taken on her, the way she seemed smaller, more fragile, as though the weight of her circumstances had pressed down upon her spirit.

“Sansa,” you said softly, squeezing her hand. “You’re not alone. I’m here, and I will do everything in my power to protect you. You are not just a pawn to me… you’re family. And family means something.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away quickly, her gaze filled with a flicker of hope. “Thank you,” she whispered. “But… I don’t know how much longer I can endure this. Joffrey… he’s… cruel. I thought I knew what cruelty was, but he—” She broke off, her voice trembling with fear and anger. “Every moment I’m near him, I feel like a lamb before a lion.”

You felt a surge of anger on her behalf, a fire kindling within you as you looked at her. “Joffrey is a monster,” you said quietly, your voice filled with conviction. “And he’ll answer for his actions, one way or another. I will see to that.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, a mixture of hope and uncertainty flickering within them. “Do you really believe that?”

You nodded, your gaze steady. “Yes. He is not untouchable, Sansa. Remember that. And until then, you must hold onto your strength, even if it feels impossible. Your family is known for its resilience, its loyalty. You carry Winterfell with you, even here in King’s Landing.”

She managed a faint smile, a glimmer of the strength that lay dormant within her. “I want to believe that… to believe that there’s a part of me that’s still strong, still a Stark.”

You reached up, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “You are a Stark, Sansa. You may not feel it now, but the blood of your family runs through you, fierce and unbreakable. And one day, you will find yourself again. Until then, lean on those who care for you. You’re not alone.”

Sansa suddenly lowered her gaze, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she let out a soft sigh. “I’m sorry… here I am, pouring my heart out, when you’re the one married to Tywin Lannister,” she murmured, her voice laced with guilt. She glanced up, her blue eyes wide with concern. “Has he… has he hurt you?”

You felt the weight of her worry and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Sansa, don’t worry about me. I know how to handle Lord Tywin,” you replied softly, your voice steady. “It’s not easy, no. He’s a difficult man, but he’s… fair, in his own way. He values strength and purpose. He’s not cruel like Joffrey.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed, her fingers twisting the fabric of her dress. “I just can’t help but worry. You’ve always been so kind, so gentle. And Tywin… he’s…” She trailed off, as if struggling to find the right words.

You chuckled lightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “I assure you, Sansa, I am not as helpless as I may seem. The North taught me resilience, and that is something even Lord Tywin respects. He knows I’m not someone who can be easily broken or swayed.”

A small, grateful smile touched her lips, but her expression turned pensive, her gaze drifting as though lost in thought. “I think… I think Jon will be angry,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost wistful. “Once he hears what the Lannisters have done to us—to you.”

The mention of Jon stirred something deep within you, a warmth mixed with a pang of longing. Memories of Winterfell, of Jon as a small boy with wide, curious eyes, came rushing back to you—the boy you had taken under your wing, who looked up to you with trust and affection. You had been more than a guardian to him; you had been a mother, a protector.

“Jon…” you echoed, a faint smile crossing your lips. “He would be furious, wouldn’t he?” You could almost picture it: Jon’s jaw set in that stubborn way of his, his eyes dark with determination. “He has always been fiercely protective.”

Sansa nodded, her expression softening with a hint of fondness. “He adored you. You were the one who took him in when no one else would… When Father brought him home, Mother was… angry, but you didn’t hesitate. You cared for him as though he was your own.”

You met her gaze, a touch of sadness in your smile. “Jon was never a stranger to me, Sansa. I didn’t see a bastard or a complication. I saw a child, one who needed love and guidance. Winterfell taught us loyalty, honor, and kindness. He deserved that, no matter what anyone else thought.”

Sansa’s eyes shimmered with emotion, and she reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “He’ll be forever grateful for that. I think… I think he misses you as much as he misses Winterfell.”

The thought of Jon, alone somewhere in the world, perhaps at the Wall as Eddard had once intended, filled you with a longing you had long buried. “I hope he knows he was always loved,” you murmured, your voice thick with unspoken memories. “That no matter where he goes or who he becomes, he’ll always be a part of me… a part of our family.”

Sansa nodded, her expression softened by understanding. “If there’s anyone who taught him love and loyalty, it was you. He’s stronger because of it. And I think… one day, he’ll find his way back to us, somehow.”

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence, the sounds of the garden enveloping you, as the unspoken connection between you—your shared love for the family you’d left behind—settled between you. You felt a renewed sense of purpose, a reminder that despite the path your life had taken, you still held onto the values of the North, onto the bond with those you loved.

Squeezing her hand, you offered her a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll hold onto that hope, Sansa. We’ll carry Winterfell with us, even here in King’s Landing. And together, we’ll survive whatever comes our way.”

Sansa’s smile held a glimmer of strength, her eyes bright with the quiet resilience she was beginning to rediscover. “Yes… we will.”

Jaime found Tyrion lounging comfortably in one of the lesser-used rooms of the Red Keep, a glass of wine in his hand and an amused expression on his face as he looked up, noting his brother’s approach.

“Tyrion,” Jaime greeted, taking a seat opposite him and reaching for a goblet of his own. He poured himself a drink, his gaze thoughtful as he swirled the wine. “You seem particularly cheerful today.”

Tyrion grinned, raising his goblet in a mock toast. “How can I not be? The prospect of our father producing little silver-haired Lannisters, complete with violet eyes, is amusing beyond measure.” He took a sip, smirking as he watched Jaime’s reaction. “Imagine—our own half-siblings, Targaryens by blood, yet Lannisters by name.”

Jaime chuckled, though there was a hint of unease beneath his mirth. “The image is almost absurd, isn’t it? To think of Father raising a child who resembles a Targaryen rather than himself.” He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “But honestly, I’m more curious about how we managed to bring her here in the first place.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Oh? I thought she’d been brought directly to Harrenhal.”

Jaime leaned back, folding his arms as he watched Tyrion carefully. “Not exactly. According to the reports, she was intercepted by our men as she traveled south, near High Heart.”

Tyrion’s eyes sharpened, his gaze turning contemplative. “High Heart? That’s an unusual route… Avoiding the main roads, no doubt, to keep a low profile.” He took another sip of wine, his expression thoughtful. “Why would she be traveling alone, and so far from any known strongholds?”

Jaime shrugged, though his expression betrayed his curiosity. “That’s precisely what I was wondering. She’d been staying far from the usual paths, as though she knew someone might be tracking her. It was only a stroke of luck that our men happened upon her party in the first place.”

Tyrion tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his goblet, his mind working through the implications. “She must have known, then. Known that someone—either Father or one of his allies—would be looking for her. Perhaps she thought she could outrun us or evade our scouts by staying off the roads.”

Jaime tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Or perhaps she had her own purpose. High Heart is a place of old magic, or so the tales say. There’s talk of visions, of those who are touched by prophecy.” He paused, his voice dropping slightly. “Why would she go there?”

Tyrion’s smirk faded, replaced by genuine intrigue. “Perhaps she sought counsel,” he murmured, his voice almost to himself. “Some advice from those who can see beyond what the rest of us can.” He looked up, meeting Jaime’s gaze with newfound interest. “If she’s spent time at High Heart, she’s no mere play peace being moved at our father’s discretion. She’s gathering knowledge, perhaps even positioning herself.”

Jaime’s gaze was steady, contemplative. “If that’s the case, then Father might be in for more than he bargained for.” He looked down at his wine, his expression thoughtful. “She could be a more complex player in this game than he realizes.”

Tyrion chuckled softly, though there was an edge to his laughter. “It seems our new stepmother might have ambitions of her own, ones that extend beyond being Lady of House Lannister. Father may think he has her in hand, but the blood of House Targaryen is not easily tempered.”

Jaime nodded, his expression solemn. “True enough. But there’s something about this that doesn’t sit right with me, Tyrion. Father’s convinced that she’ll submit, that she’s a pawn willing to play her part. But if she was willing to risk the dangers of High Heart, of traveling alone… then perhaps she’s not as willing to be controlled as he believes.”

Tyrion’s smile returned, a touch of admiration flickering in his eyes. “Perhaps she has her own plans, then. Plans that might even rival Father’s. I must say, I find the idea rather… refreshing.” He tilted his goblet in Jaime’s direction. “To a stepmother who might keep even our dear father on his toes.”

Jaime raised his own goblet, a shadow of doubt lingering in his gaze. “To our Lady Y/N Lannister. May she prove as unpredictable as the storm she’s brought into our family.”

They clinked their goblets, the quiet clinking of glass a subtle acknowledgment of the complexity that had settled into their family, brought about by the union their father had so carefully engineered.

At Castle Black, the cold wind swept through the narrow corridors as Jon Snow made his way to Maester Aemon’s chambers, the sealed raven scroll clutched in his hand. The morning had dawned gray and bleak, and the chill in the air seemed sharper than usual, biting into his skin even through his cloak.

When he entered, he found Maester Aemon seated by the fire, his milky, sightless eyes gazing into the flames, as though he could see something far beyond them. Despite his blindness and frailty, the old maester held a dignity and presence that commanded respect. Jon cleared his throat gently, announcing his arrival.

“Jon,” Maester Aemon greeted, a soft smile creasing his ancient face. “Come, sit with me. I sense you have news from the realm.”

Jon approached, pulling out the small stool beside the maester and handing him the sealed scroll. “A raven came from the capital,” he said, his voice low, the words heavy in his mouth. “It’s… recent news.”

Aemon turned his head slightly toward him, reaching out his frail hand. “Good. Open it, if you will, and read it to me,” he instructed, his voice calm but eager.

Jon broke the seal, his eyes scanning the contents of the letter quickly, but the moment he reached the heart of the message, his breath caught. His eyes widened in disbelief, his heart pounding as he read and re-read the words before him. “No… it can’t be,” he murmured, anger and shock simmering beneath the surface.

“Jon?” Maester Aemon prompted gently, his brow creased in concern. “What is it? What news from King’s Landing?”

Jon’s voice was thick with restrained fury as he continued, his hands shaking slightly. “It says… that Lady Y/N Targaryen has been wed to Tywin Lannister.” He forced the words out, his voice tight. “She… she married him.”

Aemon was silent for a moment, his sightless eyes reflecting the light of the fire. Finally, he sighed, a sound laced with an old sorrow and a weary understanding. “Continue, Jon. There may be more,” he urged softly, though he clearly sensed the gravity of the news already.

Jon swallowed hard, glancing back at the letter, his anger simmering with each word. He continued, voice taut, “It says she was received in King’s Landing as Lady Y/N Lannister, to be seated beside Tywin at the high table. The realm… they call it a powerful alliance, one that will ensure House Lannister’s influence.” He nearly spat the words, his jaw clenched. “It’s… it’s disgusting.”

Maester Aemon sat in silence, absorbing Jon’s words, his face unreadable. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice heavy with understanding but also sadness. “Her destiny has been twisted to serve another’s ambition,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… I cannot say I am surprised.”

Jon looked up, frowning. “What do you mean, Maester?”

Aemon’s sightless eyes were distant, as though looking back through the years. “This… marriage is not the first time Tywin Lannister sought a union with her bloodline.” He sighed, his frail hand resting on the arm of his chair. “Many years ago, before Robert’s Rebellion, Tywin asked for her hand from King Aerys—to bring their houses together in alliance. Tywin saw strength, ambition, in her blood… but Aerys, in his madness, mocked the offer.”

Jon’s fists clenched, his voice tight with anger. “So that’s why she was sent away? Why she had to grow up in Winterfell, with no family of her own?” He shook his head, struggling to contain his rage. “And now they’ve… forced her into this. She doesn’t belong with them, with those—those Lannisters.” His voice was thick, barely restrained, a mixture of fury and protectiveness.

Aemon’s face softened, a trace of empathy crossing his ancient features. “Yes, Jon. That rejection sent ripples through the years. And now, fate has come full circle in a twisted way. Tywin has finally achieved what he sought back then, though in different form.”

Jon shook his head, his voice breaking slightly. “She was… she was like a mother to me, Maester. When no one else would, she cared for me, treated me like family. And now they’ve made her… into this.”

Aemon reached out, his hand trembling as he placed it over Jon’s clenched fist, his touch gentle, his voice filled with quiet strength. “Jon, remember… she is strong. Her blood is ancient, powerful. The blood of Old Valyria, of dragons. She has endured much already. Do not underestimate her strength, even in this.”

Jon’s gaze dropped, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t feel right. She shouldn’t be forced to endure… to be bound to someone like him. After all she’s done for me, for all of us.”

Aemon nodded slowly, his expression resigned but compassionate. “Life often forces us into roles we do not choose, Jon. It’s a truth I have learned over many long years.” He took a deep breath, his tone laced with sadness. “Perhaps this marriage is a fate she did not want, but remember this—she is more than that. Her strength is her own. She will endure, as she always has.”

Jon closed his eyes, his mind racing with memories of you, the woman who had shown him kindness when he’d been a child alone in Winterfell, the one who had offered him understanding when he felt like an outsider. The thought of you in King’s Landing, surrounded by the Lannisters, weighed on him like a stone.

After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “If they hurt her�� if they make her suffer…”

Maester Aemon’s hand tightened slightly on his. “Jon, you must let her walk her own path. She has made her choices, and we can only hope she finds peace within them. Our duty here… remains with the Night’s Watch.”

Jon nodded slowly, the anger still simmering beneath the surface, but he forced himself to accept the old maester’s words. “I know, Maester,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I know.”

And as he rose to leave, he couldn’t shake the image of you—strong, resilient, and yet so far from the place where you belonged. The thought stayed with him, a heavy burden he carried silently, as he walked back through the cold halls of Castle Black

#game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf #house of the dragon #got/asoiaf #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #got tywin #tywin lannister #tywin x reader #tywin x you #tywin x y/n #house lannister #house targaryen #legacy

141 notes · View notes

phyx-m · 28 days ago

Text

Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 1: A Walk In The Forest With The Devil

Content warning: dubious consent (Sukuna touching reader. This chapter is quite stressful, please read with care), gore, implied cannibalism, panic attack, description of a dead body

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

Heir - Public Memory Feral Love - Chelsea Wolfe

* * * * *

Prologue | Chapter 2

* * * * *

The day of your wedding felt uncomfortably hot. Everything stuck with humidity, creating a hellish, suffocating atmosphere.

Considering the situation you faced, it fits perfectly.

Fidgeting with your silk gloves, you eye yourself in the mirror, clothed in the most ridiculous kimono you've ever seen. Your sister, a calming presence behind you, has spent hours meticulously assisting with your wedding preparations.

You notice she has been babbling on about something; however, a persistent buzzing in your ears distracts you, rendering her words unintelligible. You watch her lips move rapidly, hands gesturing excessively, yet you hear nothing. She is like a vibrant river, flowing and gushing with life, while you feel like a dead animal—rotting on the ground, forgotten.

A bead of sweat threatens to escape from your hairline, and you worry it will ruin your sister's efforts. Although you don't particularly care, she has been working on this for quite some time.

You blink twice, staring at your gloved hands, wringing them as you gather your thoughts.

"Sorry, Yuna, what did you say?" you ask as you snap out of your daze.

Your sister briefly pouts before returning to secure the final piece of your garment. She seems to believe this is a genuine wedding, oblivious that her safety hinges on your compliance. All she knows is that your father has arranged for you to marry Ryomen Sukuna, aiming to secure peace between your clans, which is a lie.

"I said, if it's worth anything, you look beautiful right now," Yuna remarks, stepping back to admire you. She licks her thumb and smooths a few stubborn strands of hair that refuse to cooperate in the heat.

Beauty is the last thing on your mind.

"Thank you. I feel lovely," you manage to say through gritted teeth, swallowing her compliment and forcing a smile. All you want is to reassure her until this is over.

Your sister smiles warmly and moves around you, ensuring every detail is perfect. You observe a slight furrow on her brow as she focuses on enhancing your beauty. In your mother's absence, she's taking on this role admirably, which breaks your heart. Thoughts of her bring a lump to your throat, so you turn your attention back to the task at hand.

You fill your mind with the plan to assassinate your future husband. Knowing it won't be simple.

The King of Curses is a powerful adversary, and you lack combat skills. Remembering your father's strict instruction to avoid publicly killing him so as not to dishonour the attending clans, you opt for seduction as your strategy. The plan is to make him vulnerable and catch him off guard. Perhaps you can end it all with some batting of your eyelashes, a few chaste touches, and a kiss or two.

"What do you think he will be like?" Yuna asks as she fusses with some gaudy ornament in your hair.

You pause to consider several possibilities: a psychopath, a cannibal, a fiend. Which description would comfort her more?

"I'm certain he will be the perfect gentleman," you reply flatly, making sure not to reveal anything as you observe your sister in the mirror's reflection. You notice her tongue poking out in concentration as she arranges your hair.

"Do you think he will be gentle, with all those hands and mouths of his?" she asks, blushing as she adjusts the hairpiece.

You freeze. Did she really have to bring that up now?

"You're asking me about that?" you give her a pointed glare.

You had never met Sukuna and had only heard stories of his unusual physical abnormalities. You understood her curiosity, but still...

She shrugs and laughs. The sound is light and airy, reflecting her carefree nature.

“I was curious what you thought was all,” she casually remarks before continuing her task.

You won't experience being with him like that because he'll be dead, or at least you hope so. You've never seduced a man before, but you understand how men operate. They appear to desire anything that moves, and you know you'll look stunning today. How could he possibly resist?

Knock, knock, knock.

"Come in!" you and your sister say simultaneously. The harmony warms your heart.

Your father enters the room, and your mood instantly sours. You glare at him in the mirror before turning away as he approaches.

"My lovely girls!" He says with a smile that feels more cutting than warm, his arms outstretched. You avoid his gaze, nervously fidgeting with your hands again, tempted to pull your sister closer but restraining yourself.

"Father!" Yuna exclaims cheerfully, moving towards him and linking her arm through his. You want nothing more than to get up and shake some sense into her. "Doesn't she look beautiful?"

As they approach, your father scrutinizes you in the mirror while you return his glare. He examines every detail, clearly expecting you to look impeccable and behave respectfully to charm the monster.

Through your eyes, an unspoken conversation unfolds. You watch as he places a firm hand on your sister's waist and another on your shoulder. His fingers dig into you.

You flinch.

Don’t touch me.

You despise being touched, especially by your father, whose grip is always too tight, too forceful. And at this moment, the threat is unmistakable. You swallow the lump in your throat and resist the urge to pull away.

"Beautiful doesn't even begin to describe her. She's positively glowing like a dying star just waiting to burn out," he remarks with a hint of irony.

The smile you force in response is like bitter poison.

Meanwhile, your oblivious sister moves to the corner of the room to fetch something.

Your father leans in close to you as you face the mirror.

"Remember, if you dare to disappoint me, her body will be the punishment," he whispers ominously before straightening up. You maintain a composed expression as your sister returns with a stem of wisteria flowers.

She stands before you, delicately placing the fragile blooms in your hair to complete the look.

"There," she announces, stepping back next to your father to assess her handiwork. "You look perfect." You're almost tempted to appreciate your appearance, but really, what’s the point?

Knock, knock, knock.

"Come in!" Your sister calls out alone this time while you and your father exchange hostile glances.

The door opens, and standing there is Onishi, your father’s chief advisor—a man known for his vile reputation. Now that you and your sister are adults, his lecherous looks only became more pointed and invasive, causing your stomach to knot. You remembered all too well how he used to stare at you both as young girls with a shameless hunger that made your skin crawl.

“Lord Kasai, the wedding procession is ready to depart,” he informs your father. After a bow, he quickly leaves the room, briefly glancing at your sister on his way out.

Time to go.

Your sister squeals with excitement, making you wrinkle your nose. She can be so clueless sometimes.

"Well, my darlings, let's not keep Lord Sukuna waiting," your father says, pulling you both close under his arms. You resent this display of control he's asserting, and you lean away from the embrace. "I'm certain today will be unforgettable."

* * * * *

The Kasai clan compound, your home, was a three-day ride from where you had prepared today. By midday, everyone departs on horseback.

Your sister and father lead the procession. Behind them, you follow closely, flanked by several attendants who occasionally offer you means to cool yourself. A large contingent of clan members trail behind.

The road stretches southward, guiding your journey toward the shrine where the wedding celebrations would soon commence. It will also become your new home, which won’t be permanent in your mind.

Riding a horse in your elaborate multi-layer garment is challenging, especially compounded by the relentless sun that seems determined to wreak havoc on your appearance. You are certain your hair is unravelling, and your makeup is smudging down your face. Your sister will be upset when she sees you dismount.

As the procession moves deeper into the forest towards its destination, you can’t ignore your horse's peculiar behaviour. Its ears stand upright, constantly swivelling as if attentively listening to an unseen presence. A low whine emanates from its throat, and its tail twitches nervously. You can feel the tension in its muscles beneath you, as though it was on the verge of bolting away from whatever was unsettling it.

"Easy now, girl," you whisper soothingly, placing a calming hand on the horse's neck. Despite your attempts to quiet her, she exhales sharply through her nostrils, betraying her fear.

Lifting your head, you let your gaze sweep over the packed dirt road and the dense forest flanking it on both sides.

Nothing.

Then, suddenly, a murder of crows erupts from the treetops ahead, their harsh caws muted over the pounding of hooves. They scatter out of the forest, their black forms stark against the hazy sky.

People say animals can sense danger before it strikes, alert to the presence of a predator.

Your eyes dart to your sister and father leading the group.

"Father!" Your voice rings out with urgency.

"Quiet!" he snaps, the word sharp like a point.

Both of them immediately pull hard on their reins, bringing their horses to an abrupt halt. You tug on your own, urging your horse to stop. The rest of the group follows suit, halting in a rippling sequence behind you. Adjusting your position on the horse, you straighten up and scan the surroundings again, looking for any clue as to why you had suddenly stopped.

The sun seems to be almost burning now. Sweat rolls down your back, soaking your garment. A soft breeze blows through the trees, initially refreshing as it cools your sweaty skin. However, it carries something else with it.

The acrid scent of blood assaults your nostrils. It’s thick, drying out your mouth.

Then you hear the sound of flesh tearing under teeth.

Fear snakes through your bones before you notice the presence of the man—or rather, the monster—crouching near the forest's edge. Partially concealed by the tall grass, his body was tense and flexing as he held a woman—who appeared to be dead—in his lower pair of arms.

You've witnessed plenty of violence and brutality in your time. But nothing could have prepared you for witnessing this. No one was ready. You were acutely aware of the attendant behind, muttering in panicked whispers. You can’t bring yourself to turn and face her, not wanting to give this anomaly your back.

With a horrific crack and a pull, an arm was torn off and flung somewhere unseen. There was more sick, wet pounding of flesh before it eventually quieted. It became unnervingly quiet. Too quiet. Angling his head slightly, he was no doubt aware of your group’s presence. You notice two red eyes on one side, studying everyone while simultaneously looking elsewhere.

Finally, he stood to his full height.

Massive. He is massive.

Even from this distance, his intimidating presence was unmistakable.

He turns, his enormous strides carrying him out of the tall grass. In one of his lower hands, he clutched the dead woman by her forearm.

Your stomach drops as you realize this is your first glimpse of your soon-to-be husband.

He was dressed in only a loose-fitting hakama, which you had initially thought was white but now appears dark and flecked with blood stains. Blush pink hair glints in the harsh sunlight. You've heard rumours about his dual visage, but seeing it in person makes you uncertain where to focus.

Blood drips from his mouth and chin, which he refuses to wipe off. The dead woman he clutches bears wounds on her neck and shoulder that he seems fixated on. A torn flap of skin hangs loosely from where he had been feasting and sways with his movements.

At that moment, a horrible thought crosses your mind: you feel tempted to turn your horse around and flee, which would doom your sister. The fact that you even entertain such an idea bewilders you.

You notice your father's horse taking a few steps, effectively snapping you from your daze.

"Sukuna Ryomen," your father's voice falters as he utters the name. Inwardly, you laugh, pleased to see your father humbled. "As the patriarch of the Kasai clan, I am here to fulfill our agreement to unite our clans through marriage."

Sukuna remains silent. He stands motionless, letting his ominous energy roll off him in waves that make you feel like you are drowning. His four red orbs survey everyone calmly, calculating every detail.

With a subtle scoff, he begins to approach the procession.

Holding the woman tightly in a lower hand, he drags her flaccid body across the ground, allowing the lolling face to scrape over rocks and clumps of dirt. Her hair, which was once a deep copper-brown, is matted with blood, and bits of foliage cling to tangled strands. What used to be a cream-coloured robe is stained red and torn in certain areas.

As he gets closer, the horses' unease swells. They snort and puff outbursts of hot air while their hooves paw at the ground, creating a rhythm of nervous energy.

The monster fixes his gaze on your sister and father. Upon reaching them, he intently studies her. You struggle with every ounce of restraint to keep from intervening.

A muscle feathers in his firmly set jaw, and then he opens his mouth to speak.

"Is this my bride?" he drawls.

His voice is deep, rough, stern, rattling your insides.

You're surprised your sister maintains her composure, betraying no reaction. However, you do notice her shoulders subtly giving way.

"No. This is my other daughter, Yuna." Your father turns toward you, giving you a challenging look to step forward and begin your task.

It’s time to introduce yourself to the King of Curses.

Nudging your frightened horse forward, you begin to approach. The sound of your heartbeat fills your ears, a steady thump that reverberates through your chest and settles heavily in your stomach.

Sukuna lazily drags his attention to you, gaze picking you apart from head to toe, keenly noting the signs of weariness from your journey. He’s displeased. His expression betrays his feelings, darkening with disgust as his upper lip twitches.

"Wait! My Lord, you're not supposed to see the bride yet. It's bad luck," Yuna's voice rises, making you blanch.

Bad luck? This entire cursed nuptial was bad luck.

Ignoring your sister, Sukuna moves forward. His bare feet thud against the packed earth. He drags the mangled woman behind him as if unwilling to let it go. You approach each other until you're face to face.

Even sitting on horseback, you're just barely at eye level with him. The absurd height difference is evident. Tilting his head slightly, he picks you apart with the same intensity he used to pick apart the body he holds.

A prickling sensation radiates beneath your gloves, tingling from your palms to your fingertips as anxiety creeps in.

Movement on his navel draws your attention away from his face. A slit appears, slowly widening to reveal a large, grotesque maw lined with teeth. As you watch in horrified fascination, a tongue unfurls from the opening, wriggling out and licking the air. Repulsed, you look away.

How can you possibly charm this thing?

Your horse shifts nervously, making you tense as you tightly grip the reins in your hands.

"Easy, girl," you soothe her with a pat before bracing yourself to speak to him for the first time.

“Lord Sukuna, my name is—”

"You're even uglier than I expected," he interrupts harshly, lips curling back in a sneer, showing teeth stained with blood.

The audacity. You clench your teeth, hard, resisting the urge to insult him back.

"My Lord?" you manage to grit out.

Sukuna stares for a moment before bursting into deep, unrestrained laughter.

"My Lord? " he repeats, mocking you. "Oh, she has been trained, how delightful," His laughter edges towards manic as he drops the body, letting it slump beside your mount. "What other tricks did they teach you, little bitch? Tell me."

It takes everything you can to resist the urge to retaliate to his provocations. Your gaze flicks to your father, who shoots you a stern look, silently warning you to behave. You understand that provoking Sukuna could endanger everyone, which you don’t want, especially with your sister present.

“Nothing else to say? How disappointing,” Sukuna hums, crossing his upper arms over his chest.

Oh, how you want to cut him down.

“My Lord, I would—”

"Daughter," your father interjects firmly before you can finish your sentence. "Lord Sukuna, we would be honoured if you joined us for the rest of the journey to your shrine," he adds, adjusting his posture slightly to assert control.

Sukuna appears deep in thought, maintaining unwavering eye contact with you. It feels like a tense, silent standoff. You make an effort to keep your expression neutral and as charming as possible.

You still feel like you're drowning under those red orbs.

"Hm, no," he says flatly, lifting the body from the ground.

Keeping unbroken eye contact with you, he grips a fistful of the woman's dirtied hair, fingers digging into the skull, his muscles tense. Slowly, he begins to pull. You watch with horror as the flesh stretches until, gradually, it tears. There's a snap as the muscle fibres finally give way and a plume of blood spurts. The head comes off, neck and all.

You gag.

Vomit crawls its way up your throat. You lean forward, gripping your horse for support as you fight the urge to retch. Several unsteady mutters ripple through the rest of your group.

Sukuna, pleased with your reaction, casually discards the body onto the ground. You watch as blood and gore soak into the earth. He then proceeds to stroll toward your father and presents him with the severed head. Your father accepts begrudgingly and without uttering a word.

Is this some kind of power play between two men vying for control?

Sukuna murmurs a few words to your father, casting a final glance in your direction before calmly striding toward the edge of the forest. You watch as he takes measured steps, his figure gradually disappearing into the dense canopy of trees, leaving a tense silence in his wake.

You exhale.

What just happened?

Your father, still holding the woman’s decapitated head, lets it fall to the ground with a wet thud. He then shifts his attention to you, motioning for you to approach. Guiding your mount closer, you position yourself beside him.

"He is wretched," you spit out, glancing over at your sister, whose eyes widen in alarm at your dishevelled state.

"You look awful," she exclaims, her voice filled with concern. "I will need to fix everything once we arrive."

"Why is that your priority at this moment?" you ask incredulously, taken aback by her apparent lack of concern for the situation. The expression on your sister's face in response makes you immediately regret your words, but the scene you've just witnessed is now carved into your mind. That poor woman’s body. Mutilated, torn apart, and discarded on the road to dry up in the sun.

"It doesn't matter now. There won't be time for that," your father interrupts firmly, dismounting his horse and striding towards you.

"Father?" your eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"Sukuna requests you accompany him back to the shrine. We will meet you there shortly to commence the ceremony," he emphasizes, pulling you down from your horse, the folds of your kimono cascading around you.

The idea fills you with unease. You weren't prepared to be alone with him yet.

"Is there any way to refuse?" you inquire tentatively.

"No," your father snaps abruptly, gripping your forearm tightly as he steers you towards the tree line. You manage to wrench your arm free, earning a stern glare from him as he steps closer, his face before yours.

"Use this to your advantage," he whispers urgently. "If you find an opportunity, seize it. You might not have to go through with the wedding."

Your throat constricts as you swallow hard.

“But you saw what he just did. What if he tries to kill me?”

The scowl on his mouth deepens, shifting the cartilage in his nose. His lips purse into a thin line, making the creases and wrinkles on his face appear sharp and unkind.

“He won't. He relishes his power over our family now that we have given you to him. Now get in that fucking forest before I have Onishi slit your sister’s throat or worse.”

Your upper lip quivers at the threat. "Okay," you respond nervously.

"Good, now get going," he says harshly, spittle flying from his mouth. He shoves you into the thick undergrowth.

Stumbling slightly, you manage to turn back for one last glance at your sister. Her anxious gaze meets yours, and you silently mouth, "I'll meet you at the shrine."

Taking a deep breath, you gather the edges of your kimono and step into the dense forest.

The reality of being alone with Sukuna for the first time begins to settle in, causing your palms to sweat inside your silk gloves. You steel yourself, knowing you must find a way to turn this situation to your advantage.

Time to confront the monster yourself.

* * * * *

You continue beyond the tree line. The sound of hooves stomping into the earth echoes behind you, indicating that the procession has resumed its journey toward the shrine.

After a few careful steps, you come to a halt. Sukuna is nowhere in sight. You listen intently for his heavy footfalls, but are only met with silence. You are completely alone out here, which gives you pause, remembering how all the animals reacted in his presence. Your fingers twitch nervously at your side.

You exhale.

Should I call out to him?

“Lord Sukuna?” Your voice echoes.

Silence.

Glancing around, something catches your attention—a spattering of blood on foliage. Perhaps a trail left by him. With no other leads, you decide following the bloodstains might guide you to him.

Lifting your kimono to prevent tripping, you cautiously navigate around a cluster of rocks and tree roots, tracing the path marked by blood. You mutter under your breath; you feel slightly anxious that he might be compelling you to search for him.

With each step, you delve deeper into the forest.

The rising humidity envelops you in an uncomfortable embrace, and a stray strand of hair falls across your vision, adding to the growing disarray. "You are even uglier than I expected," his cruel words rattle around in your brain. Letting out a strained sigh, you realize this isn’t going to be easy.

As you continue to walk, your mind drifts to the dead, partially eaten woman rotting on the dirt road. What if your father’s judgment is wrong, and Sukuna ambushes you? Can you truly consider yourself safe from his wrath merely by your title as his bride? What will become of your sister should anything happen to you? Struggling to quell these unsettling thoughts, you make a concerted effort to regain your focus.

After some time, the blood trail ends, leading you to a flowing stream. The surface sparkles in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. Sweat pools at your lower back, prompting you to pull the fabric away in search of relief. Eyeing the water, you are tempted to wade in to escape the stifling heat. You lick your parched lips and decide to at least dip your toes in.

You step towards it, and the air changes. An ominous energy glides up your body, making you stop.

He’s here, and he’s watching you.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Your eyes dart around the area until his large frame catches your attention. He stands beneath the shadow of an oak tree by the water’s edge, watching you intently, pinning you down with those red orbs. As soon as he sees you've noticed him, he steps away from where he is standing and approaches.

Why must he be so enormous? Every aspect of his presence commands attention. You cannot look or breathe without wanting to crawl away and cower.

A slight tremble in your legs keeps you rooted to the spot as he deliberately takes his time approaching you. His pace is unhurried, as if he possesses all the time in the world while you are the one left waiting.

Tightness knots low in your belly.

At last, he reaches you, towering like a monolith and casting a dark shadow with his presence. You had been looking down, but self-consciously, you lifted your head, straining your neck to look up at him.

You won't deny it. Sukuna is striking in a harsh and cruel sort of way. His features are strong, with a straight nose, an angled jawline, and a defined brow. His neck is thick, all corded muscle, and it’s clear you wouldn’t be able to wrap both of your hands around it if you wanted to strangle him. His blush pink hair is pushed back, set in a way that seems like controlled chaos. The right side of his face, with that mask and its larger orbs, pulls at you the most. The texture of it appears rough, with grooves that jut out slightly. You wonder why or what it even is. The rest of him is dense, with prominent tendons and fibres.

Upon closer inspection, you observe that his face, hands, and chest are now free of blood. A subtle sheen suggests he has recently cleaned himself, likely explaining why the trail led you to this stream. Several beads of water trickle slowly down his neck, outlining paths over his exposed chest.

Your throat dries as you realize you've been staring for too long. You lower your gaze, unable to endure the silence any further, and clear your throat.

“You asked for my presence, my Lord?” you ask nervously.

Without responding, he begins circling you like a predator, each step resonating with the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot. Unnerved, you keep your eyes fixed on him, striving to maintain your composure as he examines you from every angle. This scrutiny continues several times, with him circling, examining, and deliberating. Finally, he comes to a halt in front of you.

“How old are you?” he probes.

“Twenty-five,” you reply quietly.

“Hm.”

Leaning closer, he reaches out a hand towards your face, compelling you to flinch instinctively. He notices your reaction, which causes him to grin, contorting the black tattoos on his face. Running his fingers through your smudged makeup, his touch is deliberate and firm, leaving impressions on your skin. You bite down on the inside of your cheek. As he pulls his hand back, you notice streaks of makeup staining his fingertips, which he rubs together thoughtfully.

“When we arrive, take that shit off your face,” he remarks curtly.

You clench your fists.

“Of course.”

With a vacant stare fixed on you, he extends his fingers towards you again. This time, he plucks the wisteria flowers that survived the journey and removes them one by one from your hair. Thoughtlessly casting aside the delicate adornments your sister had carefully placed, he then moves away from you. You observe in silence, gazing down at the fragile purple petals strewn upon the ground.

A sharp ache seizes your chest.

“Come,” he orders over his shoulder, beckoning you with two fingers and starting to walk with an air that suggests he expects you to follow like a dog called to heel. Despite the demeaning manner, you gather your hem to hurry after him.

Deeper into the forest. Closer to the shrine.

The walk continues in disquiet, the forest enveloping you with its silence. The canopy above provides scant refuge from the brutal sun, and the thick humidity lingers. Bringing your hand up, you attempt to fan yourself, hindered by the discomfort of your damnable kimono.

As you trail behind Sukuna, you continue assessing him, searching for any weakness or exploitable detail. Your gaze fixes on his four muscular arms, noticing the black ink adorning his skin. Next, the sinewy movement of his back muscles captures your attention.

He looms large and solid. A huge target.

Narrowing your eyes, you focus on the space between his lower shoulders, tracing the lines of his back tattoo. Beneath your silk gloves, your fingers itch uncomfortably, the urge to reach out and end him growing stronger.

With his back turned to you, this could be your chance.

With trembling hands, you peel off one glove and grip it tightly in the other. Moving cautiously, you edge closer to Sukuna, careful to avoid making excessive noise. As you extend your hand, you must concentrate hard to reach your gift. Finally, you sense its faint hum beneath your fingertips. Your heart pounds in your chest, drowning out all other sounds as you prepare for this pivotal moment.

End this before it even begins—

"What the hell are you doing?" Sukuna abruptly halts his steps and turns around, staring down at you.

No!

You retract your hand in a panicked blur, hastily shoving it back into your glove. His lower eyes fixate on your hand while his upper pair scrutinize your flushed, heated face.

“N-nothing,” you mumble, voice barely audible, feeling the space around him growing hostile.

A serious crease forms above his nose.

“You were about to touch me with your vile little fingers. Did I say you could touch me?” His voice turns cold, laced with aggression.

“Well, no, I—”

“Then what the fuck were you doing?” He steps closer, gripping your chin, preventing you from looking away. “I don’t appreciate being touched by mutts.”

Nervously, you wring your hands together, fingers intertwining in a familiar gesture that surfaces whenever you are anxious.

His grip becomes harsh. Dull nails dig into your soft skin. You frantically search for an explanation.

"I apologize," you somehow manage to say, your voice shaky. "I... I wanted to... to see your tattoos up close," you blurt out, immediately regretting the feeble excuse.

“Tch. You wanted to see my tattoos,” he says, tone heavy with disbelief.

“I apologize. I shouldn’t have done that.” You soften your voice, hoping to diffuse the tension.

“Are you that needy that you felt the necessity to touch me before we are wed?”

Your skin bristles.

“What? No. That’s not it at all.”

Sukuna releases your chin and crosses his arms, staring intently at you as though lost in thought, reflecting deeply on something. You find yourself disliking this demeanour of his. It makes him less predictable and more cunning, as if he’s devising new ways to toy with you.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly, throwing you off guard.

Irritation and embarrassment flush your face at the intrusive question.

"Excuse me?" You attempt to keep the bitterness out of your voice, though it rises an octave.

“You heard me.” A smirk breaks across his lips. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

Another flush of irritation races up your spine, leaving you peppered with more sweat than you can handle.

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” The words slip out before you can consider their consequences.

The smirk that was there a moment ago is now gone. Sukuna's upper arm snaps out, his fingers engulfing your entire neck. He pulls you close, pressing your clothed chest against his bare one, effectively preventing any swift retaliation. You feel your heartbeat pulsing against the flat of his palm.

Fear worms its way into you.

Looming into your face, his breath washes over you.

“Are you an imbecile? Do you need me to repeat the question?”

“No,” you breathe as his grip tightens slightly.

He looks down at your face with disdain, waiting for a response.

A heartbeat passes.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, feeling exposed. “I’m a virgin.”

Casting a haughty look, Sukuna smacks his lips together. His grip loosens on your throat, and then it falls away.

He scoffs.

“Of course, look at you. You're pathetic.”

You hold your tongue, casting him a slight frown that you swiftly erase, though he catches it.

"Don't look at me like that," he laughs, the noise lacking any warmth. “Now I see why you wanted my attention." His expression shifts again to something indiscernible. His mood swings are starting to grate on you. "I can address that issue for you sooner, perhaps even immediately."

You take a small step back.

"I beg your pardon, my Lord?" You respond respectfully, uncertain if you heard him correctly. He lifts his eyebrow and steps forward, returning your nervous gaze with a more contentious expression.

“You seem to be hard of hearing. I've had to repeat myself, and it's becoming tedious." His voice is low, the words wrapping around your throat as if they’re his hands.

You step back again.

He moves closer.

Your heart races as you realize you’re not prepared for this moment. You planned to lure the creature and catch him off guard, but now you find yourself caught off guard instead.

"I don't think that's appropriate,” you murmur, edging further away. “Let's wait until after the ceremony.”

"I think I’ll have a taste of my bride before she becomes my wife." His mouth rolls up, flashing a bit of canines that appear all too sharp, while his eyes widen with hunger.

That look tells you everything. You've glimpsed it before, fleetingly on other men but never so intensely.

He’s ravenous.

Your instincts scream at you to run, but fleeing will only cause more trouble. As your father put it, this is an opportunity. Fine, you’ll take it—use it. Find another moment to place a hand on the monster and end him.

Forcing yourself to freeze in place, you watch through your lashes as he approaches slowly, like you're a forest animal he’s afraid of scaring off. How deceptive of him. This thing is not gentle. He’s fucking toying with you.

Reaching down, you subtly pinch one of your silk gloves, preparing to slip it free while he distracts himself with your body. But before you can act, one of his lower hands clamps around your wrist.

You tense, eyes snapping to his.

Shit.

A crooked grin widens across Sukuna’s face, and suddenly, he’s maneuvering you.

Turning you, he pulls you into him so hard that your back thuds against his chest. The impact fuses both your bodies together, your softness to his cutting muscle. Swiftly, he grasps your other wrist, holding both firmly at your sides, while the top pair presses down on your shoulders, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his red gaze.

“Let's see how sensitive your body is.” His voice deepens as he leans over your shoulder and slides his upper hands down the front of your garment.

Don’t panic. Do not panic.

Two hands dip into the panels of your kimono, and he takes his time while his hands find their way into your undergarment. Massive palms splay against your breasts, cupping them firmly, making you whimper as your body grows warmer.

Sukuna bends, lowering his head next to yours.

"Already whining?" There’s a smirk in his voice, and as he speaks low against your nape, his breath gently stirs your hair. The heavy dampness in the forest, mingling with his warm exhale, threatens to overwhelm you.

Saliva pools then dries in your mouth, and when you try to respond, no words come out.

Pushing up on your sensitive breasts, Sukuna begins to knead and poke his fingertips into the soft flesh. You pant as his left hand comes up to the place where your pulse thrums wildly in your chest.

"Your little heart is beating so fast," he chuckles. "There's no need to be afraid."

That ever-present condescending tone makes your face scrunch up, and you shift uncomfortably.

His right hand clenches reflexively on your breast while the other withdraws from the stuffy garment. You watch nervously as it ascends to the neckline of your kimono, his fingers curling possessively around the delicate fabric.

He stills. You swallow.

“What are you do—”

He rips it open in one smooth motion, exposing your swelling chest and nipples to his eyes.

“There you are,” he hisses.

In shame, you slam your eyes shut. This man, this creature, is the first to ever see you.

“Open your eyes!” The command cuts sharply, but it's softened by something gently brushing the crest of your ear.

Shuddering, you reluctantly obey, only to observe his large fingers circling your areolas, moving lazily, tauntingly.

Your breathing increases, and you become lightheaded. Turning your head slightly, you attempt to focus on anything—a tree, a rock, anything to distract from the moment.

"Don’t look away.” He tightens his lower hands on your wrists to the point of pain. Your head snaps back, and you look down at your heaving chest. "Better."

Leaning closer, Sukuna’s mask comes into view as he presses it against your face. Your soft, damp cheeks rub against it, allowing you to feel its rough texture and protruding edges. His lower eyes fixate on your breasts while his upper eyes cut to the side, locking on you, drinking in every expression.

Your head swims dangerously.

As Sukuna’s hot breath hits the side of your neck, a solitary bead of sweat trails its way down, gliding past your collarbone, tracing the path to your sternum, and down between your breasts. He pauses the circling of your nipples, as both of you stare, transfixed, captivated by the droplet's unhurried journey until it finally disappears into the fabric of your torn clothing.

A low growl rumbles in Sukuna’s chest, a primal sound that signals his imminent action.

After a moment, he makes his move.

The fingers that have been slowly circling your sensitive flesh drawback. Swiftly, he flicks your nipples. Your breasts sway slightly. Then he does it again. Then again. And again. The feeling is acute and sharp. They harden. Your mouth drops open, and you let out a traitorous groan.

“Already?” he chuckles.

Already what?!

Your mind struggles to comprehend what's happening. And he only makes it worse when his fingers latch onto the sensitive tips, pinching and rolling them, making your back arch against his chest.

“Look at you,” he grunts, watching your spine bow and curve.

The forest is gone from your vision now. Heat is everywhere, crawling over you, seeping into your pores.

Another harsh tug makes your whole body tremble uncontrollably.

"N-no more," you mumble, squirming in his grip, face turning into a sticky mess of sweat.

Ignoring you, he applies more pressure to the hardening nubs, rolling them between his thumb and index fingers with no regard for your words.

He flicks your nipples again, earning him a low whine. Leaning in, he drags his sharp canines across your neck, leaving red marks, followed by a swipe of his rough tongue. You freeze, remembering how he used those teeth to rip flesh from the woman on the road. Panicking, you squirm, shuffling your feet in the undergrowth. Sukuna huffs in disapproval and shoves a knee between your thighs to halt your movements.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his gaze fixed downward, reflecting an intense concentration as he continues to torment your nipples. Sharp pinpricks dance across your skull, intensifying the pulsing in your head. You’re certain you are going to blackout. The overwhelming warmth, the blurred vision, the relentless onslaught—it’s too much.

Letting go of one—now sore—bud, he lets that hand drop down to your navel. The descent is slow, pushing through the torn fabric with ease. He presses his fingertips into your damp skin, rippling it and mapping it out with his touch.

“What else are you keeping from me?” His voice becomes impossibly deeper.

“Please. Lord Sukuna,” you rasp.

"Please, what? It seems you’re having issues with speaking and listening.” His hand comes to a stop, splaying just above your cunt.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You aren’t ready. Not like this. Not with him.

A sudden sensation startles you. On his palm, it’s as if something has opened up unexpectedly, though all you can discern is the sensation of a wet tongue emerging and intimately licking your skin.

Your eyes close as you struggle to breathe, gasping for gulps of the muggy air.

“Please—”

The damp muscle on his palm licks harder, slathering you in a thick coat of saliva, pulling you back so your eyes open again.

His fingers trail lower… lower, then suddenly pause before withdrawing slightly. It’s as if he’s trying to push you over the edge. See how far he can unravel you. But it doesn’t matter. You’re fighting to stay focused, to stay upright even.

“I’m—I’m going to—”

Your words fade as your vision blurs.

Despite Sukuna's solid frame supporting you from behind, your body slackens under the weight of it all: the forced marriage arrangement, your overwhelming responsibility, the looming threat to your sister's life, the oppressive heat, the monster at your back.

Suddenly, you feel nothing holding you up. You're weightless. Sukuna has seemingly let go of your shaking body, and you’re falling, sinking, eyes closing.

As soon as you hit the forest floor, you faint.

* * * * *

🔗 Chapter 2

#true form sukuna #sukuna x reader #jjk fanfic #beneath the silk #heian sukuna #dark content #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x you #dark fantasy

70 notes · View notes

autumnmobile12 · 28 days ago

Text

Finishing Touches on Malicious Compliance

Fanart for the Endeavor Agency Annual Christmas Party because I just felt like it.

It's kinda weird drawing them with the height differences in mind and showing how tall Touya is compared to the women in his family. We know Fuyumi is 5'3" and Touya clocks it in at 5'9". Rei doesn't have an official height listed, but we can see in the family shot she is a little shorter than Fuyumi. So I put her mother Grandma Himura's height about the same at 5' exactly.

Also, I don't know if there was an attempt to contain Touya's fluffy hair, but if there was, I think the ladies gave up pretty quick.

Part 2

...

With Touya wearing a woman's kimono, this seems like a good time to bring up gender identity. In the Ambush Sim AU, he does identify as male, but he is not opposed to wearing feminine clothing for comfort/practicality purposes, or in this case, pure spite. So I suppose that's a characteristic that skews more demi-masculine(?) orientation. Except I think if anybody tries to pin down exactly how Touya identifies, all they're gonna get is a shrug because he is long past the point of caring about labels. When it comes to gender identity and which public restroom to use, Touya is very much in Camp 'Just Wash Your Hands When You're Done And We'll Get Along Fine.' So while wearing a woman's kimono may have started out as malicious compliance against his father, it may also have served as some self-realization for him. Here, he's a teenager who missed out on three years of mental/physical/emotional development and figuring himself out. And he has a very encouraging and understanding grandmother.

In any case, I hope I'm using the demi-masculine term correctly. I know someone in real life who identifies as demi-feminine, and she said this was accurate, so I'm trusting her opinion.

...

You would not believe the amount of research I put into drawing their kimono accurately according to situation/season. Because kimono do have seasonal patterns/colors and are varied by formality, age, and sometimes marital status of the wearer.

So breaking down the kimono in the fanart to the best of my understanding:

All three of them are wearing homoungi, a semi-formal to formal kimono that is typically worn by guests to formal parties, such as a wedding, graduation ceremony, dinner party, etc. Since the Endeavor Agency Christmas party is a company event, I figured it would be considered semi-formal. Homoungi are generally characterized by having a pattern along the hem, sleeves, and over the left shoulder seam.

The kimono colors:

With winter colors, shades of red are popular, but otherwise, more neutral colors work just as well. Since Grandma Himura is an elderly widow, I thought dark green would be a good choice since it's not flashy and more what you'd expect a dignified older woman to wear. (That's a cultural thing, not my personal opinion!) The pattern on hers is bamboo stalks and leaves. Fuyumi's kimono is white with bare branches and camellia blossoms. Touya's is a wintry blue (actually, that's same color as the rindou flowers) and has a roughly drawn yukiwa motif. Yukiwa is a Japanese pattern made to resemble snowflakes or flowers.

Obi:

Again, neutral colors/patterns. Or at least ones that complement the kimono. Fuyumi's scarlet one matches the flowers. Touya's is black lacquer (urushi) with abstract silver embroidery. Grandma Himura's obi is white for snow with abstract flowers in silver embroidery.

Kanzashi:

Again, winter-themed hair pieces, so Touya's is a carnation arrangement hana-kanzanshi and Fuyumi has a camellia. Touya's also wearing a wisteria kanzashi, which I don't think are considered winter flowers, but I like the look of them, so they were included. If you look closely, they also have little bells. Grandma Himura's is mostly hidden because of how she's standing, but she's wearing a tama-kanzashi and a kushi.

Deepest apologies for any inaccuracies above. I am not a kimono expert and I did the best I could with what I had to work with.

...

I realized something rather sad while drawing this. In The Summer Camp Ambush Simulation, it's mentioned Grandma Himura died a few weeks after Touya's eighteenth birthday, so he can't be any older than sixteen or seventeen in this fanart. Since I don't think he made any public appearances so soon after returning home, he's more likely seventeen years old here.

Seventeen years old, it's Christmas, and he has a January birthday. So Grandma Himura dies in maybe two months after this, and I swear I did not intentionally set it up to be that tragic!

#my hero academia #dabi #touya todoroki #fuyumi todoroki #ambush simulation #alternate universe #grandma himura #endeavor #todoroki enji #todoroki family #todoroki siblings #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #fanart #read on ao3 #archive of our own

96 notes · View notes

maryangelex · 9 months ago

Note

Please, please, please.

I am requesting an Ex!husband John price/ Fem!reader, where they divorce and he’s absolutely devastated by it, grovels and upset that he lost the love of his life, and then years later by circumstances are in force proximity with each other and have to deal with communicating all their grievances and then bam heated smut and pent up frustrations at each other, and then get back together.

Thank you so much and I really appreciate you! But it’s also okay if you skip my request :)

a/n: anon how could i possibly leave this delectable prompt unanswered!!?!?!?! i have literally been saving this one for almost last because i need to use 110% of my prune brain its so amazing. one thing about me is...im a whore for ex-husband!price *clutches pearls* im sorry for making ya wait, i hope you love it!!!

this is gonna be a long one!

c/w: ex-husband!price, make-up sex, forced proximity, quickie, against a wall, p in v, creampie, john price yearns for his pretty wife

It hadn't been easy, no divorce is easy, really. Much less when it was something you didn't really want to do, but more so saw yourself as needing to do. The nights without John had gotten too lonely, his side of the bed had gotten too cold. You thought the times he was back would make up for the times he wasn't. When John came back from deployment it felt like a coin toss: sometimes it was your honeymoon all over again, but other times he was cold and distant.

You had two kids in tow; two kids that needed their father. You were a wife that needed her husband just as much. You don't blame him for not being there of course. After all, you owed it all to him; all you ever wanted he got for you, he provided you a house to raise your children in, to grow old in. He gave you nothing but unconditional love. That's what made everything harder when you decided you couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't keep hoping he'd come home to be his normal self every time just to be met with the shell of the man you fell in love with.

You knew it wasn't his fault, you knew his line of work. But having to be alone the majority of the year plus having to still be alone when he was around had gotten to you, it had become too much. And John knew this. When you told him through sobs and wails that you couldn't do this anymore, that you felt hopeless and alone and like this was the only remedy, he understood. He had packed his things and left without a fuss, leaving you the house and renting an apartment barely a drive away. He tried to make it as simple as possible, arranging to stay with the kids every weekend and more if you needed time for yourself. His silence and compliance to separate felt like more of a dagger in your chest than the reason to separate to begin with. You wished he had fought for you, that he had yelled at you and argued with you to stay and fix this.

Little did you know that when he found himself in the empty single-bedroom apartment he rented himself he did nothing but cry like a neglected child for hours until his eyes stung and couldn't physically push out any more tears. John Price was a man made of stone and yet he found himself clutching his chest as he sobbed for his wife nearly every night and every lonesome morning. He kicked himself for not fighting for you, as well. He blamed himself for having to come to this in the first place, for leaving you alone and not knowing how to cope well enough to be the very best of himself when he came back from grueling missions. For not being able to look you in the eyes after losing a man, for not being able to open up to you and cry like this in front of you when he needed to let it out of his chest, for not making love to you like a tending husband should at his wife's every whim.

He felt like the consequences of choosing his career had finally caught up to him, and losing you was his penance.

The two of you finalized your divorce quietly and without struggle, feeling like it only drove the knife deeper into your chest. You settled on the kids seeing John every other weekend and he'd be more than welcome back home to be present as their father. Because that was the thing about John: he may have not seen himself as a good man (not good enough for you, for sure) but you both knew he was the best father your kids (and you) could ever ask for.

It's been a year since your divorce; John had been living in his separate flat whilst you and the kids stayed home. He'd come every week, and take the kids every other weekend. Now your oldest's birthday was a few days away and who were you to deprive him of coming? After he had been doing such a good job at not crossing your boundaries, at being a loving father and giving you every bit of warmth and kindness and love that he gave you when you were still together...the more you listed these things the more your heart ached and you doubted yourself. The more you realized you still loved him.

On the day of your kid's birthday, he made sure to get there extra early to help you set up the place. He bought the necessary supplies, picked up the cake from the bakery, and set up the chairs and balloons. Hell, you barely lifted a finger. And of course, he was more than happy to do everything and anything for you with that cheek-pulling smile of his. As the party went on and the house filled with guests and wild kids running about, you scrambled around the house to make sure no one needed anything. That's when John intervened.

"Everythin' alright, hon? Been runnin' round the house like mad," his voice was sweet like honey as he entered the garage, where you were taking out can after can of soda from the spare fridge and into the cooler with ice you brought with you. You didn't turn to look at him as you sighed in exasperation, but you could feel John just a few steps behind you.

"Just making sure everyone's got something to drink...the sodas've run out in the cooler outside and--"

"Everyone's havin' a good time, love," John cut off your rambling with a light chuckle, the rumbling of his voice making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He interjected by taking the cooler from your hands "Let me get that for you," he said, lifting the heavy plastic for you. You sighed again and brought the back of your hand to rub your forehead. You finally looked up to meet his eyes, which were gazing at you with so much adoration it made your stomach twist.

"John..." you started, and he responded with a furrow of his brows and a silent question. "Please don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like you still love me," you blurted, and the beat your heart skipped let you know you physically regretted saying that, instantly.

John's lips pressed into a thin line as he paused for a moment in silence.

"I do still love you," he confessed. You shook your head in disbelief and scoffed.

"John, please, it's our kid's birthday," you dismissed as you turned on your heel and made your way to the door except-

Right, you now remembered why it was a rule in your house this past year to not close the garage door: the lock was busted. You gripped the knob firmly and gave it one, two, three harsh tugs, hoping to somehow force the door open. You banged the door with your fist in frustration, hoping maybe someone heard it on the other side but all you heard was the music playing on the other side.

"Let me have a go," John said, placing the cooler down and tugging just as harshly, even slamming his shoulder against it to see if it would budge, but nothing. You and John were trapped in your garage. You let out a groan and a quiet curse as you pinched the bridge of your nose with a hand on your hip.

John placed a hand on your bicep. They were cold from the ice but the squeeze and rubbing of his thumb on your skin was filled with warmth.

"S'alright, take a breather, hon," he said tenderly, "they'll miss us soon enough to come lookin' in here."

You nodded as you stepped away from his touch. You never stopped John from still using terms of endearment for you, it never felt like a big deal. You were frustrated from the party, the perfectionist in you wanting nothing but to give your kids the best party, and now you were locked up in the garage. To make matters worse, you were locked up in here with your ex-husband who just said he still loves you.

"I meant what I said, love," his voice was barely a whisper but it still brought you out of your thoughts.

"John..." you warned.

"No, I mean it," his tone rose, firmer this time, "I still fuckin' love you, baby."

"Well, it's too late for that now, isn't it? You're gonna make an effort now, John, a year later?"

John was silent, pleading blue eyes gazing at you, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

"You didn't fight for us, John. You didn't fight for me." your finger pointed to your chest firmly as you looked back at him with tear-filled eyes.

"I know, baby, I know," his voice shook in his throat, "I should've fought for us... I should've been a better husband to you, better dad for the kids I-- I should've just been there."

You were quiet as you choked on a quiet sob, the tears escaping down your cheeks.

"I haven't stopped loving you for a second, my only regret in life is not having fought harder for you, having let go of you so easily - fuck," you watched the tears prick his eyes as he stepped closer to you. His palm came to cup your cheek and his thumb wiped away the tear staining your cheeks.

"I failed you. I just...please, baby, I just want one more chance to be a better man for you... I just want my girl back." His tone was soft as if he was reciting a prayer kneeling at a pew. His other hand came to the other side of your face, tucking your hair behind your ear before it cupped your other cheek alike.

You sobbed and brought your hands up to his wrists, shaking your head lightly, knowing all you really wanted was to forgive him despite your denial.

His forehead pressed against you as he whispered once more, "Please, baby..."

"John..." you tried

The tip of his nose rubbed against yours, "Please," he repeated, "be my pretty wife again...be mine again, yeah?" His lips brushed against yours and his hands were firm on your cheeks. You sobbed one more time before his lips pressed against yours, slotting together like two pieces of a puzzle. And fuck, you melted as your lips met.

His lips against yours just felt so right; they were your husband's lips, after all. They were made for yours and yours were made for his, that's why you knew you were so perfect for each other. The way he kissed you made your chest break into a million pieces because you just missed him so much.

The hold on his wrists became limp and you didn't resist - you couldn't resist his kiss because you wanted it so desperately, you've wanted it for this entire past year.

Your mouth moved with his, lips clashing and caressing against each other, teeth clicking together with the force of your desperate kisses, your tongues hungrily pressing their way into each others' mouths. John's hand slid to the back of your head, fingers snaking into your hair and raking through your scalp. You hummed into his mouth at the feeling.

Your hands slid up his back, balling into fists over his shoulder blades and gripping the fabric of his shirt as if you'd lose him again if you didn't hold him firm enough. You held him impossibly close to you as he did the same, your bodies familiarly molded to each other.

You felt John step forward as he still kissed you, backing you up into the nearest wall and it made the heat in your core ignite like a bonfire. When you felt the cold wall against your body, you pried your mouth away from his to gasp a breath but it wasn't half a second later before he captured your lips again. His hands slid down the frame of your body, pawing at your chest and curves before eagerly bunching up the skirt of your dress around your hips. You scrambled to his belt, clumsily and hurriedly doing your best to unbuckle it and undo his pants.

He scoured under your dress to tug your underwear down your thighs with messy urgency. His lips sloppily and wetly trailed up and down your chest and neck before finding their way back to your mouth.

Your hand palmed his hardened length through his boxers and he groaned into your mouth. One of his hands took hold of yours and stuffed it in his boxers to stroke his aching cock as you both panted between kisses.

"All yours, darling," he groaned as he guided your hand stroking his cock, "forever fuckin' will be yours."

And you whined at his words, or maybe at the way his other hand snaked between your legs, fingers wetting themselves with the slick pooled between your folds before pressing into your hole. He pumped his fingers in and out, making you reminisce on how those thick digits have made you feel so good in the past.

You moaned his name like a prayer, pleading for him to fuck you because you needed him. You've needed him for a fucking year and couldn't wait a second longer.

John would give you anything and everything, he always has. So he wasted no time in removing his fingers from your pussy, coating his cock in the slick they collected, and using his other hand to hike your leg up around his waist.

You braced yourself against the wall and with your hands against his shoulders as he practically lifted you off your feet and insert his girthy, swollen cock inside of you. You moaned unabashedly at the way he split you open as he bottomed out.

"So perfect...my perfect wife," he breathed, "made just for me, baby." His fingers dug into the flesh of your thigh and you were sure it would bruise the same way your nails clawing through his shirt were sure to leave crescents on his skin.

John pumped his cock in and out of you slowly but firmly for a few strokes before picking up the pace. His rhythm was relentless as he fucked up into you, pistoning his hips and making your skin clap against each other.

You threw your head back as you whined and moaned at the feeling of the head of his cock bullying against your cervix. Thank god for the music outside.

John hiked up your other leg, wrapping both around his waist as he fucked you against the wall hard and needy. His eyes looked deep into your teary ones, not breaking away to not miss the gorgeous sight of his pretty wife getting fucked by him after so long. He moaned at just the look on your face, at the way your walls gripped him like a vice.

"Look at you... never lettin' go of somethin' so beautiful," he practically slurred, his rhythm becoming sloppy and desperate as he chased his high, and he knew you were close too.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and took his mouth into another starved kiss. Your hands tugged at the hair on the back of his head and you let him fuck you with the same longing and desire as the first time.

You chanted his name between breathy moans as you climbed up to your climax. John was a mumbling mess of endearments and sweet nothings as he kept thrusting hard and sloppy into your squelching pussy.

"I love you, John," you choked out through tears, not knowing if it was from the pleasure he was giving you or from the overwhelming emotion being with your husband again was making you feel.

"I fuckin' love you more, dove," he accentuated his words with thrusts until he felt your walls clamp around his length and watched as you wailed and sobbed out more moans, sending him into his own climax with just a few more pumps shortly after. You were sure you'd bear him a third child with the way his cum seeped out of you.

He rested his sweat-coated forehead against yours as you both panted. You were a flushed mess against the wall, limbs liquefied and throat raw. John slowly let you down with the utmost care in the world, gently holding you up on your feet like you were a delicate porcelain doll.

You held each other close as he peppered soft kisses on your face, the same way he'd always done after sex when you were married. John Price, always the gentleman.

You basked in the afterglow as you gazed at each other, love filling John's wide dark pupils. It was hard for you to hide the smile that tugged at your lips and it made John chuckle, thumb rubbing your cheek lovingly.

Then, you heard the rattling of the door and you quickly stood up straight and collected yourself up on your feet the best you could. Kyle, or Uncle Gaz as your kids coined him, and the other two men had burst through the lodged garage door.

"Oi, how long you two been locked here?" he questioned.

"Aye, we been callin' youse for half 'n hour," the Scott quipped behind him.

John scolded them for not acting quicker if they were so worried, and scowled at the way the younger two had shit-eating grins plastered on their faces. He dismissed them as he picked up the cooler, which was now more full of water than ice, and shot you a look.

You chided at his smirk with your bright red cheeks.

"This mean I can move back in?" he teased.

"We'll see, John" you fought back a smile.

#cod mw2 #call of duty mwii #cod fanfic #fanfic #john price #anon ask #anon request #thanks anon!#price mw2 #captain john price #captain price #price #price x reader

397 notes · View notes