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sixeyesonathiel · 1 day ago

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a treatise on inconvenient attraction — teaser.

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, eventual smut

a/n: dropping this 3.2k teaser before finals devours me like a cursed koi in a reflecting pond. i am but a humble court scribe flinging words into the wind before academia drags me kicking and screaming into its gilded dungeon. this week will be pain. this week will be suffering. this week will be caffeine, tears, and the haunting echo of “you should’ve started studying earlier.”

to my beloved bbs—my ride-or-dies, my imperial council of enablers—i will miss you terribly. i’ll crawl back next week, dehydrated but victorious. until then… read well, thirst responsibly. TAGLIST IS OPEN, COMMENT IF U WANT TO BE ADDED

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the imperial court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe.

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess.

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor—enough sorrowful symbolism to inspire three ballads, a minor diplomatic incident, and at least one overwrought ode penned by a lovesick scribe. “this was no mere ornament, madam. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief monogrammed in gold thread. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears, and the faintest smudge of kohl at her eyes suggested she’d mastered the art of crying without ruining her face.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant sliding a screen open at precisely the right second. with satoru, either was plausible—nay, probable.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek, like even his appearance knew better than to fully relax in such company.

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty in a tale spun by drunken bards. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs, where the winds themselves sing of lost treasures.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent, as if the gods themselves were taking notes. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like a dew-drop on a lotus petal—a prop so perfectly placed it deserved its own stanza.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics of a forgotten saint—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked mid-stride. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke in a temple to his own ego.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan. his boots clicked against the stone tiles, each step a muted protest against the absurdity he was forced to endure.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces and bend power to his will.

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard, their bitterness a sharp counterpoint to the corridor’s polished serenity.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist, the fabric whispering against his fingers. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake, though a faint twitch at his jaw betrayed the effort it took to keep it that way.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, the painted silk catching the light like a peacock’s tail, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely, leaving it to dangle like an afterthought.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts.

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened into focus: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, small but forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves, just a touch too long, brushed the corridor’s tiles with a soft, deliberate drag, like a painter’s final stroke; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner unfurled for a procession, catching the latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned, his voice slicing through the air like a blade through silk. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where, might i add, we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, as if lecturing a particularly dense pupil. he gestured with the fan, now remembered, its arc as grand as a courtier’s bow. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from a heavens that had long since stopped answering.

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles like a secret script only the palace walls could read.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replied, winking with the confidence of a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. “besides, would you rather i play the stuffy prince, droning on about grain quotas and tax ledgers?”

suguru didn’t respond, which, to satoru, was as good as a standing ovation.

they turned a corner, the air shifting as they passed a courtyard where a fountain burbled, its water catching the light like scattered pearls. a pair of palace cats, sleek as whispers, darted across their path, their eyes glinting with the smugness of creatures who answered to no one.

a servant, her robes the muted gray of dawn, bowed deeply as they passed, her gaze fixed on the floor, though the faintest tremble in her hands suggested she’d heard the hairpin saga and was bracing for its inevitable sequel.

and beneath it all, beyond the red walls and silk screens, something stirred. not fate—not yet. but close, like the first ripple on a still pond, or the faintest creak of a palace gate left ajar.

for now, there was only satoru, strutting like a peacock in the emperor’s garden, his voice lilting, his feathers flashing in the sunlight—and suguru, the poor bastard doomed to trail him, shoulders squared, expression grim, half a pace behind like the world’s most disapproving shadow, forever caught in the orbit of a star that burned too bright to ever dim.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone’s-talking-and-no-one’s-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both.

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor’s favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru’s ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female temperament,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who’d never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just the summer heat, thickened by her delicate constitution.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn’t. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he said lazily, one hand dangling over the edge, fingers brushing the cool jade inlay of the table beside him.

the air carried the faint sweetness of osmanthus from a nearby brazier, undercut by the sharp bite of ink drying on a discarded scroll.

suguru didn’t look up from the scroll he was pretending to read, arms crossed over his dark robes like a disapproving older sibling teetering on the edge of committing murder by eye-roll alone. his hair, tied with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted light, as if even it resented being dragged into satoru’s orbit.

“the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his dwindling patience.

“that’s the beauty of being a fake eunuch,” satoru replied, already rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every eye was on him. his robes—silver threaded with blue embroidery, obnoxiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight on a still pond, the hem brushing the polished floor with a whisper. “every door swings open if you smile just right and flash a bit of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken curses. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing is beneath my station when i’m playing eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the sesame seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace. “in fact, it’s half the fun.”

and just like that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and impending chaos.

suguru muttered a curse under his breath—something about peacocks and their inevitable reckoning—and followed, because someone had to keep the idiot from plummeting headfirst into disaster.

what they found at lady hua’s quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor.

physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their sleeves flapping like indignant birds, while someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of camphor, sharp and medicinal, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria.

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly’s wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan’s hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you were an island of calm, steady and still as a stone in a raging river.

you weren’t dressed like a physician—no embroidered insignia, no silk badge pinned to your belt like the pompous healers squawking nearby. your robe was simple, utilitarian, the color of weathered slate, its sleeves pinned up past your elbows to reveal forearms smudged with the faint green of crushed herbs.

you crouched beside lady hua, movements quick, efficient, precise, as if the chaos around you was merely background noise to be tuned out. the room bent around you, maids and physicians alike giving you a wide berth, like you were the eye of a storm they dared not cross.

satoru straightened, just a fraction, the motion so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone but suguru. his fan slowed, the silk shivering in the pause.

“who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, the words curling like smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a waterfall of moonlight.

suguru had already clocked you, his arms now crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the pressure. his jaw tightened, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “not a court physician. not officially,” he said, each word clipped, as if he resented having to state the obvious.

“well,” satoru said, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts intrigue and trouble, “now she’s interesting.”

you were wrapping lady hua’s wrist in linen soaked in something pungent—fangfeng root, if satoru’s nose didn’t betray him, mixed with the bitter bite of yanhusuo and a faint trace of ginseng. old-school herbs, the kind not dispensed in the palace’s pristine apothecary but ground by hand in shadowed apothecaries far from the emperor’s gaze.

your fingers moved with the deftness of a musician, tying the linen with a knot so precise it could’ve shamed a sailor. beside you sat a worn wooden box, its corners scuffed from years of travel, but its contents were meticulously organized—vials labeled in a script too small to read from the door, tools gleaming faintly in the lantern light.

satoru’s eyes narrowed as he watched you work. your movements were too clean, too practiced, like someone who’d stitched wounds in the dark long before stepping into a palace.

lady hua groaned softly, her face pale as the moon, and you pressed your fingers to her pulse, murmuring something under your breath. there was no softness in it, no coddling, just the calm precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and didn’t care who saw.

and then—your eyes.

they flicked up, not to the patient, not to the bickering physicians, but to the room’s edges. to the guards in their lacquered armor, their spears glinting like threats in the corner. to the doors, half-open, where shadows shifted in the corridor. to the windows, where the lattice cast jagged shadows across the floor.

your gaze moved like a soldier’s, mapping exits, calculating distances, noting every potential threat with a speed that was almost instinctual.

satoru felt a thrill crawl up his spine, sharp and electric, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

“she flinched when the guards shifted,” he whispered, his fan now still, its silk drooping like a forgotten prop.

suguru’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, a storm cloud gathering behind them. “trauma?” he asked, voice low, testing the word like it might bite.

“training,” satoru replied, folding his fan with a slow, deliberate snap, the sound cutting through the room’s din like a blade. “she’s not afraid of chaos. she’s afraid of uniforms. of order that isn’t hers.”

he glanced at you again, and this time, you felt it. your shoulders stiffened, just for a heartbeat, as if you’d sensed a predator in the room.

you didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes, but the way you angled your body—back to the wall, never cornered, one hand hovering near your box like it held more than herbs—told him everything.

your kit was no mere healer’s tool; it was a survivor’s arsenal, scuffed and worn but as familiar to you as your own skin. the faint scar on your knuckle, barely visible, gleamed like a silent boast of battles won.

“is that why you’re smiling?” suguru asked, his voice bone-dry, cutting through satoru’s thoughts like a knife through silk.

satoru didn’t answer. not aloud. but oh, yes, he was smiling, lips curved like a crescent moon, because the emperor’s concubine might be fading, her breath shallow as a winter breeze.

but you?

you were alive—vibrantly, dangerously alive, a spark in a room full of smoke. your every movement screamed secrets, and your eyes held a story no one in this palace had the guts to read.

lady hua’s illness might’ve been the court’s obsession, but you were something else entirely—a puzzle, a threat, a flame flickering just out of reach.

and satoru, with his boredom and his power and his peacock’s flair, had just found a problem worth solving. the air thrummed with it, heavy with the scent of camphor and intrigue, as the palace walls seemed to lean in, whispering of the chaos yet to come.

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ilium-ilia · 2 months ago

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a fox cries; never howls

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | in limbo au | masterlist

Part (2/3): rooftops

tw: torture, gore, non-con

Slowly, things begin to change.

It comes leisurely like the rising sun dawning on rimy land, or the change of a leaf from green to gold. First, it appears in the tips of your fingers. Baby pink gel polish lengthens and grows as your nail bed widens. Like the triumph of mother nature, your real nail attempts to drown out the synthetic lacquer that coats them as if purging some blight on your body. Riley—no, Simon now—catches you chewing on them one day and comes back home from work one night with a fresh pair of nail clippers and files. You spend an hour hunched over on the couch spreading dust everywhere as you grind off the polish on your hands and the glitter on your feet.

When you’re finished, your nails are torn to shreds. Uneven and jagged, they catch on fabric and cling awkwardly to your skin, but the incessant color is gone. Purged from your body, you are left with nothing but your natural nails in all their weak, dull glory. Simon asks you if you want him to buy you any polish, and your denial leaves your lips before your brain has the time to fully process it. No—nail polish will never taint your body ever again.

The next change you note is your body hair. While under Marco’s thumb, he ensured you were waxed regularly at scheduled esthetician appointments that he would always drag you to every other week or so. Everything would go. Your legs, your arms—especially your pubic hair. There wasn’t an inch of your skin that hadn’t been ripped apart by wax, leaving you as smooth as a baby and feeling naked even with your clothes on. Now, you don’t have those appointments, and though you were provided with a razor when you were first brought here to Simon’s home, you’ve yet to use it.

So it grows. And grows. It comes in thick and wild. You run your hand over your legs and the hair tickles your fingertips. It’s a texture you’re not used to, yet one you can’t seem to get enough of. You’ll often catch yourself mindlessly tracing the changes of your body, and Simon doesn’t speak a word about it. He does not call you gross or disgusting. He does not claim that it’s unattractive, like Marco would. In fact, he seems to pay no mind to it at all.

There is very little that you do that Simon comments on, really. Usually they are more questions rather than comments, anyway. He asks if you’ve eaten, what you’ve eaten, how much water you’ve drank, if you need anything—you are wary of his kindness. Of this alien hospitality. You fear he thinks of you as an animal; a pet. Something to feed and water and make sure that it doesn’t kill itself in the meantime.

The small scratches on your wrist heal within a week and don’t even bother to leave scars as the scabs crust and dry. On the other hand, his cat scratch lingers. The blade carved deep enough into his arm that he ended up needing stitches; something he had done overnight at work without telling you. Not that he needs to tell you what he does—being the one taking care of you and all—but you caught sight of the thread poking out of freshly formed skin. His tattoo is ruined because of you. Jagged skin refuses to line up properly, and the ink fades as scar tissue forms over what used to be well-done artwork.

You often catch him rubbing at it as if the wound is fresh, and he often catches you staring at it as if you can still smell the blood. He’s told you time and time again not to worry about it, but the agita haunts your gut anyway. You are well aware of the irony that lies beneath you injuring the man who’s effectively saved your life. He’s given you a place to stay—his own bed and damn near the shirt off of his very back—but your sorrow does not absolve you from the sin of having committed that act.

Not yet.

As time drones on and the days gradually become shorter, you and Simon grow closer—as close as a stray cat is able to get to a big dog, anyway. Your bravery evolves as you venture out of your room—his room—and explore the expanse of his home. The kitchen and his always fully stocked fridge. The soft cushions of his couch as you flip through streaming services on his TV. The stairs in his garage and how they squeak as you sit amidst quiet music while he works on his motorcycle.

Eventually, when your intrepidity grows, you find your voice. Words still come slow and fractured, and punctuated with uneasy hums and gasps, but it is something. You tell him what little stories you feel comfortable sharing, and your stomach drops when you fully realize how much of your life has been devoured by Marco. There are no mawkish tales of your crazy teen years for you to bond and laugh over, but Simon is good at filling the silence.

He’s under the impression that you like hearing him talk. Your fingers stop tapping against each other when he speaks, anyway. So he fills every doldrum that passes with stories of him as a child and the trouble he would get into at school, or odd things he’s seen at work. His voice is nice. It crackles like a phonograph and hums deep like waves in the ocean, beckoning you home. Simon is a stark difference from the honeyed coos and cutting gazes you are so accustomed to with Marco.

When Simon has run out of things to say, he puts on a movie.

It’s never a big deal. There’s no fanfare of popcorn and candies—rather, it simply exists in the living room. He doesn’t invite you to watch the movie with him, but he leaves half the couch empty. Simon Riley shrinks himself until he’s cornered to one side when he could very well swallow the entire furniture set himself. When you eventually grow curious enough to sit yourself next to him, he glances at you for only a short moment before returning his attention back to the TV. His feral cat has decided to take company with him, and he refuses to scare her off too soon.

Not sure what the movie is—and feeling too anxious to ask—you keep quiet as the action unfolds before you. There’s a plane crash, and death, and some man named John Ottoway is attempting to save the survivors from being eaten by a voracious pack of wolves. Some scenes are so gruesome with shredded bowels and choked cries that you tell yourself to look away, but you can’t. You are enraptured by it. It captures your attention the same way the glint of a knife does.

There are softer moments, though, where the men sit around a crackling campfire in an attempt to stave off the Alaskian winter storm. They speak of home. Of their wives.

Of their daughters.

“I knew a girl named Mary.” Your voice cracks when you speak, but you quote the name of one of the character’s daughters anyway.

Simon shifts next to you. “Yeah?”

You nod as your eyes stay glued to the screen. “Yeah. She… she worked at Makarov’s club but… I don’t know if she was like me, o-or if…”

Cacophonous howling interrupts your recollection, and you pause to watch the men engage in a fight with the wolves. Sparks fly, shotgun shells pop, and then there’s laughter.

“She caught me crying one day,” you admit. You’re not sure why you’re talking, but now that you’ve started, you can’t get your mouth to cease. “I was seventeen and I… was scared. We didn’t… speak the same language. I only learned her name because I saw someone else call her that but she… found me crying in the hall after…”

You swallow down the memory of that night. Of the sting, of the laughter, of the hands that held you down while needles whirled away. Coughing, you rub at your neck.

“I guess crying is universal though. She sat on the floor with me, and just… held me. She’d speak and I wouldn’t understand a single word b-but it was nice all the same.” A ghost of a smile flickers across your lips at the memory of her. This Mary. You remember the warmth of her, and how nice she smelled—sweet like vanilla. You bite it away. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened to her. She showed up at the club one day with-with these bruises on her face. I remember her falling while trying to dance on stage and… some men dragged her away and I never got to see her again.”

A stillness settles between the two of you at your admission, and for a moment you think you might regret having opened yourself to him. Simon has given you his bed, and his home—he is not your therapist. He is not your friend; he simply is. Nothing more than a caregiver babysitting a woman too gauche for her own good.

“I’m glad someone was there for you. Even for a little while,” he says after a beat. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

Simon’s words are foreign to your ears, but they do enough to quell the throe that’s burrowed into your chest for too many years. Blinking, your vision drops to your hands. On screen, a man falls through skinny tree branches where ravished wolves wait for him in the snowbank below. As narrow snouts prod at his skin, and jaws unhinge to take his legs and arms into their mouths, he imagines his daughter—Mary—leaning over him. She tickles his face with her long, brown hair, and when he dies he’s dragged off by the wolves without a second thought.

If Simon is glad someone was there for you in some strange, dark moment of your life, is he glad to be here with you now? Is he glad to be that person?

You think the answer to this question might be yes when Simon invites you out of the house one night.

“What?” you breathe.

You’re sitting next to one another on the couch, hunched over plates like food motivated animals as you scarf down dinner. Your fork clinks against the china as you stare at him, heart raging like thunder in your chest.

“You haven’t been outside in weeks. Might be a good idea to get you fresh air,” Simon explains nonchalantly.

Pressing your lips together, you look at the floor. “Where would we go?”

“Wherever you want,” he says.

It would be a lie to say you have no appetency for this—this idea of fresh air and freedom. Though you are away from Marco, you’ve yet to experience it truly. You are still in a man’s house. You are still struck with fear that one day you’ll turn around a corner and be met with those aching, green eyes of his. You are still hiding in slivers of shadows; in the palm of another man’s hand.

“I don’t… know of anywhere,” you admit.

Simon finishes swallowing the food in his mouth before speaking. “John Price has a club. It’s loud and rowdy, but I’ve got access to the roof. No one would bother you. Except maybe me.”

His flat attempt at humor is almost enough to draw a laugh from your lips. “Okay.”

“Is that a yes?” he clarifies.

You nod. “Yeah that… that sounds nice.”

You tell yourself that you’re dressed up in a hoodie to stave off the algid weather that rushes autumn into winter, but that’s only half the truth. Anything to obscure your face is favorable when you’re taking the plunge into the big unknown. While Simon drives you to this club, you try not to think about the first night you met him. How you were put in the back seat of this car and forced to blindfold yourself—how everyone thought you were the enemy. So much has happened since then, and still it’s as if nothing has changed.

Simon parks towards the back of a large, brick building adorned with neon lights. There’s not a single soul to be found and you still find yourself gritting your teeth as you step out of the passenger’s seat. You’re reminded of Makarov’s club—this building sports the same grimey brick and drumming music—but Simon’s hand on the small of your back is grounding. You’re quickly ushered inside the back entrance to the building where pulsing music washes over you in a garroting wave.

As Simon leads you through dark hallways, you try to ignore the alcohol in the air. Sour beer and stinging liquor—you’re forced to remember your time with Marco. It always creeps. Slithers beneath your skin where you’re forced to feel it writhe. You recall tear-blurred vision and a glass pressed against your lips. Mead washes over your tongue and the fermented honey burns just as bad as Marco’s lips against the back of your neck. There are too many hands on your body for you to count. Too many fingers digging into raw flesh begging for reprieve. A simple scent sends you back in time—your senses always seem to make a prisoner of you.

After climbing several flights of stairs—many of which you swear you’ll fall through if you step incorrectly—Simon opens the roof access door. Wind pulls at your hair and clothes, but the air is fresher up here than it is inside. The music is quickly snuffed out the very moment the door shuts behind you, and you find that your ears are filled with the sound of speeding cars and dull chatter. There’s not much to see besides exterior ducts and vents, but when Simon motions you further along the rooftop you know that he’s brought you here for something else.

Both of you approach the edge. There is no railing to prevent you from plummeting over the side and crashing onto the sidewalk below, and for some strange fleeting moment, you have the urge to jump. To spread your arms and see if you can fly. Simon sits with his legs dangling over the side, but you know better than to tempt your thoughts like that. Sniffling, you sit slightly behind him with your legs pulled up to your chest, arms acting like cuffs to keep you chained to the building.

It’s beautiful up here. You look out at the world as if its exterior has cracked and you’re finally allowed to see what it looks like on the inside. It’s full of pedestrians in coats skipping through intersections and cars honking as soon as traffic lights turn green. Glittery street lights attempt to convince you they’re stars as they illuminate cracked streets and crumpled trash. Despite all the grime, it takes your breath away. It’s the first time you’re able to look up and see something that mesmerizes you rather than terrifies you.

After a moment of soaking in the view, Simon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He taps it against the palm of his hand a few times before looking at you.

“Mind if I light one?” he asks.

Why is he asking you for permission? “Go ahead.”

The two of you sit quietly as he takes drag after drag. Smoke rises and dissipates in the air and it travels far enough that you can smell the nicotine. It’s an intoxicating scent, one that somehow calms the quiver in your heart. Simon’s fingers twitch as he flicks ash onto the brick next to him. You notice the build up of soot—an old scar that’s been years in the making like the mound of a keloid against puckered skin.

“Used to come up here all the time when I first started working here,” Simon admits softly. “It’s quiet. No one fucks with you. Good place to think.”

Humming, you nod in agreement as you rest your chin on your knees. “What are you thinking about?”

“My brother and mum, mostly.”

The air shifts. There’s a change in the wind, and it’s enough to send a shiver throughout your body. “Are… they okay?”

“My brother’s dead.” He says it simply—states it like a fact. Like it doesn’t sting his throat. But you can smell the blood that lingers in his mouth from the very wounds the words leave behind. “Has been for a while.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you choke out, stunned.

“Don’t be,” Simon says with a shake of his head. “Marco’s the one who should be sorry.”

Your silence is deafening—concerning enough to get Simon to turn towards you. He soaks up your wide eyes and lips parted from the question that died in your throat. A deep breath expands his chest before he huffs in a sour laugh.

“Yeah. Marco gets his dirty fuckin’ hands on everything,” he mumbles as he shoves his cigarette back in his mouth.

You carefully scoot toward Simon, toes inching closer to the edge but you don’t notice the urge to fall this time. Swallowing, you stare at him. “What happened? If… if you’re okay with, like… talking about it.”

At first, Simon shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but you can see the contempt roll off of him in waves. It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this since the night he found you; pretending to buy a session with you in order to steal you away from your captors. Is this why he was so bitter? Why his tone cut you so deeply? Was his vitriol not meant for you but for Marco?

“His name was Thomas. Tommy,” Simon shares with a sigh. “He’d gotten really bad into drugs. Guess havin’ a shit life can lead you down that road sometimes. Used to buy from people off the streets but somehow got mixed up with Marco and those other cunts.”

His cigarette burns nearly to the filter, so he shoves the tip along the brick next to him. Embers sizzle and flicker before they’re snuffed out, dying in the cold chill of the air.

“I remember that a little,” you admit quietly. “Not your brother but… well, sometimes Marco would… like, use. At the club and stuff. Usually he smoked, like, weed and stuff but I think he’d steal… other stuff from buyers. Coke usually, I think?”

“Shit’s bad news,” Simon mutters. With his hands now free, he rubs them together as he leans his elbows on his knees. He glances at you and how you curl inwards on yourself like a cracked egg attempting to hold itself together and his lips purse. “Dunno exactly what happened. Guess it doesn’t really matter. Tommy ended up owing them money somehow. A fuck load of it, too. When he couldn’t make the payments, well…”

An unwelcome memory invades your thoughts as Simon explains the story, and you are violently tossed back in time several years. Suddenly, you are naked and shoved back inside your sixteen year old body. Skin puckering with goosebumps, you pitifully wrap a soiled blanket around your shoulders. Ichor dots the fabric, though not nearly as much as your tears do, and it’s so thin that it hardly keeps you warm inside this poorly insulated warehouse.

Sitting in front of you on a rickety chair upon the concrete floor is a man. His greying beard collects the blood spewing from his nose, and there are several patches of hair missing from his scalp, leaving behind nothing but near perfect circles. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re swollen shut with fat, periwinkle bruises. Each punch he receives from the man in front of him only worsens the wounds until the skin on his cheeks splits and cracks easier than thumbs digging into the peel of an orange.

“See that?” Marco purrs into your ear. His hand snakes around your waist where it dips beneath the blanket you attempt to cover yourself with. Thin nails trace along your skin as he pulls you closer to him. “Not too fun, is it babe?”

You watch in horror as a blade suddenly glints in the dim warehouse lighting. This abuser—an enforcer?—curls over his victim as he sets the knife alongside his ear. All it takes is a simple flick of his wrist for the cartilage to pop free from his skull with a scream. When you attempt to look away, Marco snatches your jaw with his other hand and yanks your head to the side, forcing you to witness the dismantlement of Makarov’s latest victim.

“Shy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles. The man is further torn apart before your eyes all while Marco makes you watch—skin gone from his nose, nails ripped from their beds. “No, I need you to watch. Good girl. Yeah, soak that all up. I need you to remember this, alright? Think of it as… a lesson. Don’t want you getting the wrong idea that I’d go easy on you if you tried leaving.”

He interrupts himself with another laugh as his nose nuzzles against the back of your neck. Tight muscles winding in your body begin to tremble so terribly that it squeezes the tears free from your eyes. The old man’s other ear joins the first one on the floor, along with a few disembodied fingers. Pink bone glints through the numbra, and you find that you can’t look away. It’s too fresh—like you could pick it up and place it back against the man’s hand and it would screw right back on as if it had never left.

“Alright, maybe I’d go a little easy on you, but I couldn’t have everyone thinking I’d let some sweet thing like you walk all over me,” Marco humors. Fingers letting go of your jaw, his hands begin to further wander as he paws over your bare body. Your lips tremble as you force yourself to keep watching the man while Marco pinches the crying flesh of your nipples. “I’d hate for you to end up like this, so just be smart babe. It’s not so bad here. I promise.”

The memory fades just as quickly as it arrived, and you once again find yourself sitting on that rooftop next to Simon. Twitchy fingers paw at the nape of your neck as you wait for him to continue.

“They came for me next,” Simon huffs. “Said that if I couldn’t pay, they’d kill me too then go after my mum. So I fought like hell. Got mixed up in some underground boxing ring in order to make enough money for the monthly payments. That’s how Price found me. Struggling down in that piss hole. When he offered me a job, I didn’t refuse to take it. He gave me enough money to pay off Tommy’s debt and to keep my mum safe. Price has been after the fucker for years ‘cause of shit like this.”

“I hate him.”

Those words leave your mouth without permission, and you nearly slap your hand over your lips in fear of reprimand. It’s the first time you’ve ever said it outloud—express your hatred for the man who’s kept you under tight lock and key for over a decade. It’s a thought that’s lurked in the back of your mind for ages, stuck dormant in some part of your brain. Smothered by Marco’s greedy teeth.

“I… hate Marco,” you say, louder this time.

Simon’s titter is warm but jagged in his throat. He looks back out at the city for a moment to bask in the pale glow that bleeds into the sky, and you find yourself staring at the silvery scar that bisects the side of his lip. “Yeah, proper piece of shit, that one.”

You nod in agreement. “I’m sorry that you… had to go through all that.”

Simon’s mouth opens to shoot you a quip, but it dies on his tongue the moment he looks at you. Curled over, eyes focused on the pale brick at your feet, you’re pawing at your neck again. An odd habit he’s noticed you can’t seem to drop. Something lurks on your skin—something he’s only seen small glimpses of. A mark. Words he can’t read. Shifting, he turns his body so that he’s able to get a better look at you.

“That thing on your neck. What is it?” he asks.

Hesitation interferes with your mindless rubbing for only a split second before you’re back to tracing. Your fingertips track the raised skin—old scars that refuse to properly heal. You can almost make out the cyrillic script letter by letter. М… A… P… К… O…

“It’s a tattoo,” you answer truthfully.

Curiosity piqued, Simon rubs at the old wound on his arm. “What of?”

“Words.” Your voice feels stale. Flat. Your hand drops from your neck as you rest your chin on your knees. “It says… Marco’s Girl.”

Once again, Marco has rendered you nothing but a prisoner within your own body. You still feel the plush rug tearing at your cheek when he held you down to brand you. Needle digging into your neck, he whispered to you saying that it was for your own good. That everyone needed to know who you belonged to. So many eyes witnessed you as they knocked back drinks as if watching their favorite movie. Legs squirming, feet kicking, you sobbed the entire time. You continued to sob as he raped you afterwards, thumb brushing over his artwork like it was his magnum opus—as if he was sealing the bond.

For years, you’ve tried clawing at it. You thought that if you could dig your nails in deep enough you could shovel the ink out of your skin, but it persists. Inflamed tissue, it now sits on your skin like a brand. Nothing but cattle. Nothing but Marco’s good little girl who belongs to him and only him.

When you finally gather the courage to look back at Simon, you notice how rosy the tips of his ears are. Bright pink and deepening, you don’t mention it as he retrieves another cigarette. He doesn’t light it. Instead, he keeps it tucked between his lips where his teeth bite at the filter. Thick fingers toy with his lighter, igniting a flame just to watch the wind blow it out. There’s an urge to speak more, to tell him that you’re fine and that he doesn’t need to worry, but he cuts you off before you even get the chance.

“I’m settling your debt tomorrow,” he says.

It’s nonchalant. Inconsequential. He says it like he doesn’t realize the way it makes your heart twist against your sternum. Finally, he lights his cigarette and begins to inhale. There’s an odd twitch in his fingers as he pulls it out of his mouth, like he wishes he had something else in his hand.

“What… like… I don’t understand,” you stutter.

“I did my homework,” he admits with a sour chuckle. “You owe Marco money. A debt that was passed to you after he killed your parents, yeah? It’s why he toyed with you the way he did. I’m settling it tomorrow.”

Mouth suddenly arid, you shake your head as you scoot closer on stiff limbs. “Simon that's- my debt it’s- like, I’m talking hundreds of thousands of- of-”

“I did my homework,” Simon reiterates. He looks at you with a lopsided smile as he huffs a drag of smoke from his nose. “I know what’s at stake here, sweetheart.”

Lips trembling, you bite into the side of your cheek. “So you’ll… give him the money and… and that’s it?”

He snorts. “Probably not.”

“What else will you have to do?” you ask.

“Nothin’ good.” Simon flicks ash from the cigarette. You watch the wind take it away until the embers burn out. “I’m tellin’ you this because I might be gone for a while.”

“How long?”

He shrugs. “Dunno.”

Acid broils in your stomach and begins to chew away at your esophagus. Every building in London seems to sway as you try to keep yourself grounded. Your leash has gone slack. You’re not sure what you should do with the collar.

“You… shouldn’t have to do this for me,” you mutter, voice hardly audible. “I don’t… I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

Simon puts out the remnants of his cigarette on the brick next to him. “Alright. I’ll do it for myself then.” His words feel like they should be spoken with a tone of humor, yet each syllable is just as cold as the last. “I hate the fucker. Would be good to finally get rid of him.”

Once the wind begins to pick up, and neither of you can handle the algid autumn air, Simon takes you back to his house. The ride is just as quiet returning as it was arriving, but the weight is different. It’s crushing. Insidiously constricting around your rib cage until the breath is all but gone from your lungs. As Simon drives, you can’t help but to look at him. If he catches you staring, he doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing but silence to pair with the way your eyes trace every feature of his face or the curve of his fingers as he grips the wheel.

Why does this feel like goodbye?

It’s well after midnight by the time you both step through the threshold of Simon’s home. Dinner still wafts through the air—fresh chicken and baked brussel sprouts, probably one of the fanciest meals you’ve ever eaten—but not even the change of scenery can quell the raging solicitude that thrashes in your skull.

You watch with a tense jaw as Simon preps the couch for the night. A fat pillow that bends awkwardly at the armrest, and a blanket that looks a few inches too short to cover him completely—your stomach twists. The cushions dip from the memory of his weight. He’s spent every night for the better part of the last couple months shoved onto this furniture.

“You should sleep in… the bed tonight,” you interrupt.

Stiff, Simon turns to face you with narrowed eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I just… it feels wrong. Having you sleep out here. Especially if… tomorrow…” You can’t finish your thought. Fear captures your tongue and turns it to stone within your mouth, and you’re stuck trying to swallow the lingering cement.

“I’m not lettin’ you sleep on the couch,” he interjects as he continues to make his bed.

“Why not?” you challenge.

Simon shrugs. “Feels wrong,” he echoes.

“It’s big enough for two.”

Stunned, Simon turns back around to face you. He takes in your wide eyes and how they refuse to flicker away from him despite his gaze.

“You want me to sleep in bed with you?” he confirms.

You nod. “Yes.”

“You sure about that, sweetheart?” he asks further.

“Yes.” You swallow. “Please, Simon.”

Despite your history, it’s a strange feeling to lie next to someone else. Marco never exactly lingered around when he was finished with you, and neither did any of his friends. There’s enough space on Simon’s cyclopean bed that neither of you have to touch, leaving a gap that’s almost large enough to hold the depths of your grief. Faced away from him, you curl on your side as he lays sprawled on his back next to you, breathing slow and even as he sleeps.

You’re surprised his slumber took him so quickly. There’s not a single bit of tension to be found in his body when you roll over to face him. Street lights bleed through the bedroom curtains, illuminating the curve of his nose and the slight part of his lips. It’s strange to think that a few weeks—or, has it been months—ago you regarded him as nothing more than another man for you to fear.

Now, here you are. Lying next to him in bed as you try not to shiver like a wet cat.

“Hard to sleep when you’re tossin’ and turnin’ like that,” Simon breathes.

His voice makes you flinch, though you’re not sure why. It’s quieter and softer than you ever would have expected out of him. Perhaps it’s your shame that gets the best of you.

“Sorry, I… can’t sleep,” you admit meekly.

The mattress dips and shakes as Simon twists to his side. He’s close enough to you now that you can smell the tobacco on his breath. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m worried about you,” you whisper.

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

His chuckle is soft, and you can feel it travel through the bed as it grumbles through the cotton. “It’s nothin’ I can’t handle, sweetheart.”

“I know, it’s just…” You taste the words on your tongue. Feel the way the tart syllables dig into the wet muscle. “He terrifies me. I don’t know what to think about any of this. I’ve been living under his thumb for so long but it’s all I’ve ever known. I just- I don’t want you to get hurt over this j-just for me to not even make something of myself afterwards.”

“I’m not doing this for you, remember?” he says, harking back to your conversation on the rooftop. His tone tells you otherwise. “You don’t need to make anythin’ of yourself. Not for me. Not for anyone else. You always hear ‘bout those stories of… people like you. In your situation. They save themselves or they’re rescued and they go off and… get degrees or discover some bullshit that gets them on the news or somethin’ but… no one expects that outta you. Not me. You shouldn’t expect it out of yourself, either. Sometimes it’s just enough to be alive, sweetheart.”

Alive. Living. Is that what this is? Are you living while laying in bed next to a man who stole you away from your abuser? Or is this just existence? How would anyone have ever expected you to stop and smell the roses when your entire life has been devoid of flowers—full to the brim with thorns that rip into flesh like nails into the fuzz of a peach?

Can you only enjoy the fragrance when the collar around your neck is gone?

You think of your leash snapping—this terrible leash that’s bound you to Marco for eons—and—

“C’mere,” Simon whispers.

—then you break.

Simon pulls you into his gravity; sucks you in like a black hole, and you’re too far past the Event Horizon to argue. Arms tight around your torso, he holds you close to his chest as you begin to crumble. A swell of emotion drowns you like a tidal wave, and he makes no mention about the wetness soaking into his shirt.

He’s warm like fire. You think that’s why you’re not scared of him anymore. Despite the dark hue of his eyes and the rigid lines along his body, Simon’s been the first and only person to light your way. To provide you warmth where you would otherwise freeze to death.

But he is more than just some incandescent heat—he is also a metronome. A raging war drum lurks in his chest where you can feel it beat against your cheek. His lungs expand, and yours follows. It sings you to sleep, steady and loving, where each pulse is a kiss against your skin.

Come morning, when Simon peels himself away from you to make breakfast, you fear you may never hear it again.

It’s all you can think about as he whips up something grand. His heart. The sound of it—of him. Fork poking your eggs, you want to tell him to let it go. To let you go. That you’d rather live the rest of your life cowering in fear like you always have than attempt to bear the thought of him returning home in pieces.

Of not returning home at all.

(When did you start thinking of this place as home?)

“You alright?” Simon’s shouldering on his coat. It seems to broaden his shoulders, makes him look like the fighter that he is, and still you stare at him as if he’ll crumble before you. “Lookin’ a little queasy.”

Your eggs have gone cold.

“How… how long will you be gone?” you ask as you try to keep the tremor in your voice at bay. It’s the same question you asked last night; one you already know the answer to.

“I dunno,” he repeats.

Tears begin to swell in your eyes again, and at this point you’re not sure that they ever stopped. Praying that they stay at bay, you stare at the counter with your fork still grasped in your hand. “I just… would feel a lot better if I had a timeframe. Knowing that… you’ll be back, I…”

“Hey,” he softly interjects. He reaches over the counter and gently prods at your face with his knuckle, urging you to look at him. A wiry smile graces his lips as you blink at him. “Chin up, sweetheart. I’ll be back by dinnertime, yeah?”

You realize Simon Riley is a liar when the clock strikes nine and he’s yet to return.

Nervous eyes peek out through thick curtains, hoping to see a flicker of headlights along the street or broad shoulders marching up the walkway. You are only met with the same darkness that’s blanketed the neighborhood for the last few hours. A tremor shakes throughout your fingers as you step away from the window and look at the empty living room.

Everything stares at you. The couch he’s slept on for the last few months. Sparkling dishes drying off in the rack next to the sink. You stare back, but not in the same way in which they look at you. You cannot pick these items apart with your eyes and dig until the pain bears fruit. You just have to stand there and take it.

At half past nine, you toss yourself into the shower. Really, you’re not sure why you’ve ended up here in the very place you tried to kill yourself in a few months ago. Some days you enter the room and swear you can still see the blood soiling the cracks in the grout on the floor, but for now you ignore it as warm water blankets over your skin.

For a long while, you stare at the lineup of body washes that decorate the edge of the tub. When you had first been brought here, Simon had bought you some off brand shower gel that smells like pomegranate and gardenia, but you find your fingers reaching for his body wash instead. It’s warm. Spiced. Clean and mild—not strong and overpowering like the cologne Marco always bathes himself in.

The very moment you flick the cap open and squeeze a coin sized dollop onto your fingers, you begin to cry. Cracks form in the brittle dam that had been keeping you feelings at bay, and now they overwhelm you insouciantly. Knees buckling, you find yourself sitting in the tub. Hand clutching to your chest, you wail like a broken alarm. It echoes off of the walls and rattles your ear drums, but your throat isn’t strong enough to choke back the agony.

You see Simon. You see him sitting in that chair, and there is Marco with a knife that sports a cruel blade. There has never been a moment when he’s yelled, but your brain orchestrates the sound of him screaming with concerning ease as Marco carves him like a butcher chisels away at swine. You are tormented with a nightmare of your own creation as you envision Simon’s body slumped forward, motionless and cold. His fingers are on the ground, plucked free from his palms like the seeds from an apple, and the features of his face are all wrong as it’s sliced free from his body.

There are no lips to cover his teeth. No cartilage for his nose or ears. No lids to cover the eyes that scream at you that this is all your fault.

But nothing lasts forever—though, it often feels like it will.

Blissful silence shrouds your mind as your tears finally cease. Overwhelmed with a lack of emotion, you find it difficult to feel anything at all as you sit with your legs crossed and your hands palm down on the tub. Eventually the water grows cold enough to chase you out of the shower, and you push yourself to your feet with a grunt as you turn the water off. You take your time drying yourself off as if you can rub away the ache with the fabric of your towel, and then dress yourself in pajamas before exiting the master bathroom.

The television is on, and you don’t remember leaving it sitting idle. The vibrations of the speakers bleed through the door, beckoning you out.

Sanguinity pulls at the strings of your heart until you’re rushing out of the bedroom and bursting into the living room. Simon sits on the couch with his legs spread wide as he slouches on the cushions. He’s kicked his boots off next to the coffee table, which homes a couple of boxes of Chinese takeout.

Your hand clasps over your mouth as you soak up the state of him. Plum bruises haunt his cheekbone and seeps all the way into the bridge of his nose, which sports a new, crooked bump. His eyebrow is split almost in the same exact place where his scar lies, and there’s at least two visible stitches on a laceration along his jaw. His right hand is bound in a splint and he keeps it held against his chest. Though his lips pull into a smile when he sees you, his neck moves stiffly as if every gear and joint in his body is clogged with rust and debris.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets. “Sorry ‘bout dinner. Bought some takeout to make up for it.”

“O-Oh my god, Simon, you…”

Words failing you, you instead stumble across the room before collapsing onto the couch next to him. Your hands hover over his body, but you’re too afraid to touch him. Instead, you evaluate him with your gaze. He still has all ten fingers, though they’re all cracked and sporting bloodied knuckles. His ears sit just as large as ever on the sides of his long face. Though he is beaten and bruised, Simon is still in one piece, even if he is marred with cracks.

“Oh my god,” you repeat. Though you were certain you had cried for all your worth earlier, more tears begin to well in your eyes. “Look at you. W-What happened?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ve had worse than this,” he assures you. His words are faintly slurred as if his tongue is too big in his mouth. Squinting at him, you notice how half of his lip balloons with swelling. “Have you eaten anythin’ today besides breakfast? You should eat up.”

“No! I’m not eating anything until you tell me what happened!”

Surprised at your outburst, Simon’s eyebrows raise before his lips quirk with a chuckle. Adjusting himself on the couch, he winces as he attempts to get comfortable despite the aches that ail him.

“Just had a little scrap with Marco, that’s all,” he says flippantly. “Broke a few bones in my hand and got a couple of stitches in my face, but that’s ‘bout it. Besides maybe a bit of a concussion. Nothin’ serious.”

Your teeth grind against one another as he explains his half of the story. “No. No, no, no, t-this isn’t good.”

“What’re you fussin’ for, sweetheart?” Simon asks with furrowed brows.

“He’s not gonna stand for that. For what you did,” you begin to blubber. “Fighting with him? I-If you’re hurt this bad, then he’s probably pretty hurt too, and Marco, h-he gets really angry about stuff like that, and-”

“Baby, I killed him.”

Shock overwhelms you into silence at Simon’s interjection. It fizzles and vibrates through every neuron in your body as your brain works in overtime to make sense of the words he’s thrown at you. There’s a discrepancy in what you know is possible, and what reality is. Marco can’t be dead. You never thought it was possible to kill a beast like him. Yet, here Simon is, triumphantly home, sitting on his couch still drawing breath all while claiming the man who toyed with you for eons is now nothing more than a rotting corpse.

“What?” you breathe.

“He’s dead,” Simon reiterates. “You don’t owe him anymore, and Makarov and his fuckers won’t be comin’ after you either. He’s dead, baby. I killed him for you.”

Consternation quickly swells into something else as your lips morph into a pained smile. Your attempt at keeping back over a decades worth of grief is quickly cracking. “I thought you said you weren’t doing this for me.”

He smirks as best as he can with his swollen lips. “I might’ve lied a little.”

Your laughter strangles into a sob, and your teeth begin to bite at the still growing remains of your fingernails. “You mean it? H-He’s really gone? That’s it? Am I… am I really…?”

Simon’s arms swaddle you just as you begin to crumble. Even with his injured hand, he cradles you against his chest as a culmination of emotion seeps out of every wounded pore in your body. It’s thicker than molasses. Thicker than blood. You’ve held onto this shame for so long that it doesn’t know where else to go besides out. Into the air to find some other poor host—it sublimates before your very eyes. Vanishes until it’s nothing more than a bad dream.

He’s averruncated the one thing that’s haunted you for your entire life, then came back home with food and a smile.

Eventually you cry out every emotion that you can—shame, grief, relief—and when you’re finished, Simon urges you to eat. It’s the first time in ages that you’ve been able to eat food and truly taste it. The sesame seeds and how they pop on your tongue. The seasoning of the chicken and how it sticks to the roof of your mouth. When you’re finished, you attempt to urge him to go to sleep in the bedroom with you, but he declines and says he doesn’t think he can sleep through the pain.

So you stay with him in the living room. Curled up against his side, your cheek presses against his chest as the TV drones on with some late night programme. Your eyes can scarcely make sense of the images that flash before you as the weight of sleep begins to pull on your body without discrimination, and you find yourself slipping under its demanding wave without incident.

You never thought that you’d ever get the luxury of feeling content, but you think this must be the closest you’ve ever gotten to it. You revel in its warmth—in the safety of it—all while the heart that you feared you would never heart beat again lulls you to sleep.

this chapter is dedicated to the woman who fed me when i was a child, going on day two of no food.

we didn't speak the same language, and i never learned your name, but i think of your kindness all the time. i like to think you got out of there. that you went to live a good life. i hope i'm right.

#ilium writing #sr ilia #fc;nh #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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phoenixortheflame · 3 months ago

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Bound: Fire and Blood by @sleepstxtic

Typeset and bound by: me, @phoenixortheflame. Featuring art by: @wickedcircle

To prevent the Dance of Dragons from decimating what is left of House Targaryen, Luke offers his hand in marriage to Aemond — who accepts with one caveat: that they perform an ancient Valyrian public-sex rite in the dragonpit, as recompense for Aemond’s lost eye. This is a story of what comes before, and after.

I had the pleasure of alpha/beta-reading this fic. Or, as I said to Kat, this "whole-ass fantasy novel". It's got epic battle scenes, espionage, political turmoil, and sexy times on dragon-back.

I knew even when Kat was still writing it that I'd be binding it.

And not just because the fic is amazing. KAT is amazing. If you've ever had the chance to chat with her, you know she's one of the kindest, smartest, most charming humans on the planet. It's such a joy to call her my friend — and to have the privilege of reading her amazing writing.

For my design concept, I knew I wanted it to emulate George R. R. Martin's high-fantasy covers, which often features some sort of emblem or crest along with some very bold lettering.

I also had the opportunity to use this incredible fan art from @wickedcircle, which is just begging to be on the cover. So, I did what any sane person would do and created an alternate cover, which I used to make a paperback for myself.

The hard cover case is made with black book cloth and Lacquered Yuzen Paper, which has an embossed texture and gorgeous shine. I knew the second I saw it that I needed it for this bind.

As always, I made a cheeky little barcode for the dust jacket. It's a quote from a very, err, HOT scene. Hot! Like, temperature-wise. Sort of.

The typeset was made in Affinity Publisher. In fact, it was my first typeset made in Affinity, and I'm super happy with how it turned out!

It's not my typical aesthetic, and I was worried it might look tacky. But I think it fits the vibe perfectly. It probably helps that I included the other pieces of art @wickedcircle made to go alongside this fic, because, well LOOK AT THEM!!!!

Also, peep the red thread, which I used to sew the signatures together. I'd seen a few people use red thread for their binds, and I've been itching for an excuse to bust it out.

#ficbinding #fanbinding #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #lucerys velaryon #lucemond #typesetting #sleepstxtic #phoenix binds

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lostintransist · 6 months ago

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Seamstress | Part 7

Check out part 1 here. AO3

CW: Momma drama. If you have a bad mom relationship like I do please read with caution. Also John comes home a bit broken. He gets better but not in this part.

John appears behind you as you are stepping into your shop. When his hand pushes the door open wider from behind you startle.

“Jesus fuck me!” You jump and spin, eyes wide and chest heaving as you confirm who stood behind you.

The slightly worried look on John’s face tells you he didn’t mean to startle you.

“Sorry dove thought you heard me.”

“Apparently my thoughts were too loud,” sheepishly you push the door shut behind him and begin to flick on lights.

Waiting for you at the counter with John is your jewelry box. It looks better than before if that is possible.

“I didn’t stain it,” John runs a finger down the side and you wish that digit dragged down your side instead.

Fuck, bitch you can’t be this horny yet, he just arrived. Apparently, the earth-shattering orgasm from your vibrator last night with the taste of him on your lips wasn’t enough. When did you get so greedy?

“Why not?” You ask as you fold your arms, not one hundred percent sure your bra would be able to trap your steel-tipped nipples.

Glancing from the box to John you see a soft smile. When he looks up at you it grows.

“I noticed how much you seemed to like the grain of the wood and seemed sad at the idea of it being covered up. A few coats of clear lacquer to protect it and it was done.”

“I love it. I’m so glad you chose lacquer. I would have been happy with any choice you made but this? It’s wonderful.” Leaving the box at the counter you waved John to follow you.

“I made you something as well.” Putting a hand on the nob of the door to the back room you spun. “I know it’s not really a problem, but you have complained about going into what you call “power meetings” with only your slacks or your fancy uniforms so I made you something that should hold up against scrutiny.”

John’s arms are folded, head tilted ever so slightly to watch you with the smile tucked under his mustache.

Taking a deep breath you twist the handle and step back into the room. You hung the suit on the wall directly in front of the door so you could watch his face as he saw it. You had paid a pretty penny for the fabric, thread, and buttons. They all came together so seamlessly that even your friend who was a tailor wouldn’t have been able to know a suitmaker hadn’t put it together unless he started to pull it apart at the seams. You had also purchased the silk for his shirt and made that by hand as well.

The smile falls from his face as he steps up to the suit and runs a hand lightly over it.

“Holy fuck.”

Glancing from side to side you bite your lip.

“So what do you think?”

When he turns you know why people like blue eyes so much. John’s blue eyes are enchanting with the tears rimming his lashes. They remind you of the ocean in the photos you’ve seen of tropical places.

“I can’t think of a gift that has ever meant more to me,” he chokes out around the tears in his throat.

“Do you want to try it on?” You suggest, heart fluttering in your chest.

“I want-”

His desires were cut off by the sound of the bell.

Turning you call out.

“Sorry, we are closed today,” when you catch sight of your mom.

The warmth that had settled over you like sunlight as spring breaks chilled to the harshest of winter breezes. Shutting the door to the back room, and your joy from your sorrow you face your mother.

“You didn’t come to Christmas,” she starts.

“I told Pop I would be going to Nana’s this year.”

“You’re still mad at me,” she pouts with her eyebrows.

Your mother had skills in expressing herself without making a scene about it.

“I am not mad, I’m done.”

Your mother stepped up to the counter, slowly opening each drawer of your gift. Snatching it off the counter you placed it on your working desk next to your sewing machine.

“What does being done have to do with not coming to Christmas?”

She’s pulling that mom tone again, trying to force you into a child role whether she knows it or not.

“I do not enjoy the way I feel while spending time with you. I do not like the comments you make or the fact that even when my brother is being rude I am still in the wrong. And I am done putting myself in situations to be hurt because you happened to get knocked up and produce me.”

She had told you once that you were a birth control failure baby. She had been drinking, you had been ten.

“I did not happen to get knocked up,” she sputtered.

Taking a deep breath you point your eyes at the ceiling and pray for patience.

“That is not the point of this conversation and I apologize for bringing it up. What I am saying is that I won’t be spending more time with you until we can go to family therapy. I’ve told this to Pop several times. I will send you a few options between us and will set up the appointment as well.”

“But I am your mother!” She is getting shrill, a sure sign she is losing control of the conversation in her mind.

“And I am grown. Now I have a private appointment I need to get back to.”

“Is this because of the comment about no one paying to see you naked? I’m sorry that you were offended by what I said.”

Your jaw works as your fingers curl into talons and your shoulders stiffen.

“I am not having that discussion here and now. Pick a therapist from the list I send you or leave me alone.”

Mom looks shocked, scared even, at the tone you use. She turns leaving in a huff and you open the door to the back to see John, shirt unbuttoned and eyes blown wide as if someone dosed him with drugs.

“That’s an option? I can pay to see you naked? Is a hundred enough?”

“A hundred?” You ask, confused but slightly hurt that he thought you were so cheap.

“No? Okay, a hundred and fifty thousand?” He looks desperate and hopeful and lost and like he might combust all at once.

You choke on your spit. Did that man just offer a hundred and fifty thousand dollar bucks to see you naked!?

All it would have taken is a glass of wine, a smokey look, and an invitation to bed and your clothes would have disappeared from your body like they never existed. Like damn you had high self-confidence, forged out of hate comments online and in real life, but you weren’t worth that much. Maybe John did like you like you liked him?

He stepped forward, mouth opening to form words when his phone went off. The instant change told you it was work.

“Dammit all to hell and may it never return,” he snatched up his pants from the cot and answered the phone as he moved it to his ear, snarling. “What?”

You watched as the soldier overtook the man. His back straightened as he tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear beginning to work at the buttons at his wrists. Stepping into his space you took over the task freeing him faster than he would have managed. Helping him out of the shirt you fold it over one arm, watching as he disappears below his shirt to reappear through the head hole. You don’t offer to help him remove the pants but take them when offered without comment.

John doesn’t spare you a glance as he pulls his cargo pants up, sheathing the deliciously thick thighs he hides. When he sits to tie his boots you toss the clothes from your arms to the cot and kneel to take over that task for him. Tying them tight you stand and offer him a hand. He takes it, holding on as he stands.

Still on the phone he pulls your knuckles to his lips and turns the phone away from his mouth.

“When I get back, we are talking about this.”

It’s all you can do to nod before he dons his coat and slips into the precipitation of January.

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

The last of the snowdrops are blooming when John makes it back home. Between the knocks at the front door and the vibrating of your phone from under your pillow, you wake enough to stumble to the front door. The door opens fully before your eyes do.

John looks haggard, as if he aged ten years in the three months he was gone. A full beard had grown in, the ends ragged and uneven. His eyes flick over you. No expression crosses his face.

“John? You’re home,” the sigh in your last word pulls him through the door and into your arms.

It’s too late for your mind to come up with reasons why dragging him into your room after locking the front door would be a bad idea. Stripping him of his boots and his pants you invite him to lay under the blankets with you by laying them atop him and letting him settle into the mattress. Crossing around the bed you join him between the sheets. Laying on your side you stare at him.

Something about him felt broken and you didn’t dare hold him and make it worse.

“What can I do John?” You ask the darkness between you.

The words settle on him like the ice blown around in the wind of the gulag.

“Tell me what happened while I was gone. I don’t feel real.”

You scoot closer to him in the bed, less than a handswidth between you.

“I brought your suit home. I missed you a few weeks after you left and had nothing but the photo from the party and your gift. My mom started going to individual therapy. We tried a couple of family sessions but the therapist recommended that she do some personal work before we attempt to do much more work on fixing our relationship. My brother called me on my birthday, which was unexpected. I bet my po-”

“I missed your birthday?” John’s broken whisper cut you off.

“Yeah,” you reach out and touch his pinky. He flinches so you shift your hand back, but before it can go too far his hand chases you locking your fingers together.

“When is your birthday?”

“Valentine’s Day.”

“You must hate that.”

The accurate observation surprises you. You’ve talked with other people who have birthdays on holidays, most Christmas and New Year’s babies hate it, birthdays on big celebration days that aren’t the big big ones tend to go either way but for you, it always felt required to have a date on your birthday. Were you out because your date wanted to celebrate you or show off for the table around you?

“I do,” you let out a small chuckle. “My brother was born on May Day, he doesn’t seem to mind it. When is your birthday John?”

“July second.” He pulls in a deep breath, “Will you hold me?”

Small and scared his voice pierces into your chest.

“However you want to be held,” you answer in earnest.

“Lay back?”

You adjust to settle on your back, fixing the pillow below your head. John follows you, as cautious as an alley cat. Once his head is resting against your chest, chin tipped between your breasts you curl your arm around his shoulder next to your ribs and rest your hand on his back. The shuddering breaths that start from him prompt you to keep telling him about what happened while he was away.

“Did you know your muppets came to visit me? They all brought in their own fixes and asked to use your cot. Every one of them woke looking like they had no clue where they were and agreed that they understood why you kept coming back for naps.”

You talk until you drift into sleep, but your dreams are full of stories so maybe you talk to John until you wake.

Part 7 | Part 8

Seamstress Masterlist | Masterlist

#lostintransit #lostintransit writing #cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #price x reader #john soap mactavish #soap cod #john price x reader #captain john price #simon ghost riley #gary roach sanderson #kyle gaz garrick #fluff #a hint of angst

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itsabouttimex2 · 6 months ago

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Eclipse Kings

Part Three: Wild Dawn

(Part One: Mountain Monkeys) (Part Two: Barbed Dusk) (Part Three: You Are Here)

(Extra One)

For almost all his life, Sun Wukong had never really known “want”, not for more than the few moments it took to decide he was going to pursue some fleeting and new desire.

The land itself seemed to conspire to his favor- he was borne to a thriving mountain of surplus and luxury, sparkling streams racing down each hill, bountiful orchards with boughs so heavy they dipped near to the earth. Even the horizon was generous, spanning sunrises to color his every lavish breakfast and hosting a banner of glittering stars to lull him to sleep.

He wanted for nothing, because when the world would not bend to his whims, he simply bent it himself- to the end result of power, luxury, and adoration.

His life was fraught with the inevitable turning of blades, stuffed full of motion, conflict, and inevitable triumph. His troop grew by the year, Flower Fruit Mountain knew nothing of suffering, and his treasury was brimming with relics.

A demon crowned eternal king of a flourishing mountain, untouchable and immovable.

What more could a monkey want?

Company, as it turned out. The varied little simians scattered all through the trees and bushes of his mountain were wonderful, of course- he cherished them all like his own children, and doted on each and every one of the little menaces.

But he still wanted more.

—-——————————————————————

“That, little mortal, is when I joined my Sworn Brotherhood!”

The Great Sage Equal to Heaven smiles warmly at his recited memories, claws lightly sifting through a large collection of traditional clothing.

“We were going to lead a siege on that stuck-up realm of Celestials, but my darling moonbeam had an even better idea- why not start our own kingdoms? Instead of teaching those stuffy old fools how to respect us, we could just show them up and take all their little worshipping mortals away!”

You don’t say a word in turn, still bundled up in a fluffy towel, sitting on the nearest chair, idly watching through blank eyes. Since you hadn’t been willing to walk or respond, Wukong had scooped you up with a sigh and hurried off to his and Macaque’s shared changing room, given permission to pick out some old clothes of theirs to give you.

“Of course, all of the stuff that was supposed to be boring was, uh… a total mess. Y’know, like deciding on territories, drawing borders, figuring out taxes—ugh. Mortals do not like taxes. Sure like ‘em better than being eaten by demons, though.” He chuckles at his own words, shaking his head as if to dismiss the unpleasant memories of bureaucracy. Wukong pulls out a black ceremonial robe embroidered with purple thread and holds it up against you, squinting as if he’s considering how it might look.

“…no. My sweet moon wouldn’t like you wearing this.”

“…s’it “too nice” for me?”

“…you mortals really aren’t the best with self-esteem, are you? No, little villager- it’s because he wore something like this when we were married. After that, he started commissioning seamstresses to make him more clothes like that robe… the actual thing is framed in a glass box over our bed. I don’t understand why Mac wanted that, but I can’t ever say no to him…”

Wukong’s voice trails off, tone softening as his gaze drifted to the ceiling. A smile plays on his lips, barely restrained, as he’s replaying his dearest memory of Macaque on repeat. You shift uncomfortably, unsure how to respond, the weight of his affection for his moonlit partner pressing against the silence.

He breaks it himself, but only after walking across the room and popping open lacquered wood chest, breaking the preserving sigil printed across it .

“You know,” says the king, his claws tapping the gleaming pauldron of gold within, “I wore this when we got married.”

He turns to the side, catches the fact that you’ve perked up even a little, and continues.

“It was the nicest thing I owned at the time- most of my outfits were skinned animals and stolen rags. This is something my brothers had given me, so it was the nicest thing I had that wasn’t my staff.”

Wukong’s fingers linger on the golden armor, tone rich with an ancient nostalgia. “I wasn’t one for fancy clothes back then- still coming around to it now- but I was even worse with it back then. I wanted to go in my tiger skirt and my old boots! But my brothers? Oh, they insisted: “You’re getting married- you can’t just show up looking like a bandit on your wedding day!” So they gave me this, and a nice red robe with a ton of silly characters embroidered into it- it’s framed right next to my mate’s robe, now.”

Say something. You need to say something. You can’t just mumble and mutter if you want to stay in a king’s good graces, can you?

“…do you… remember your vows?”

He perks with a smile, intrigued by the random question, entirely missing how dangerously close you are to cracking.

“Well, if that’s want you want to know, how about I tell you about the whole ceremony? Here, I’ll lay out how it went…”

——————————————————————

Macaque shuffles in place for a moment, old meekness returning to him- his hands twitch, and the notes smoothly inked onto the sleeve of his silk robe catch in the light, drawing his aureate eyes downwards. The crowd all around is nervous mortals and drunk demons, dressed in red or black or gold, held at peace mostly by his eager “brothers”. On Azure’s lap and shoulders are several children, more interested in his blade and snout than the ceremony. He’s smiling, more at ease than any other here.

The others for the most part are doing alright. Peng is preoccupied with their drink, casually allowing themselves to be marveled at by a blacksmith and a jeweler- though neither are allowed to touch, both mortals are fervently etching the gilded designs into their paper scrolls. The avian flaps those glimmering wings on occasion, causing streaks of light to flash over the modest venue, catching across the polished tiles.

Yellowtusk sits on a carved stone chair, marking the attendants in a neat ledger, made oversized to fit his hands. Several troops of Long-Tailed and Crab-Eating Macaques play on his trunk and tusks, their little fingers deftly taking hold in the cracks of his thick skin to ascend it. They don’t ever distract him for more than a few seconds, even when the youngest cubs forget their manners and start chirping in his ears.

The largest of their Brotherhood stands at attention in the doorway, toying with the straps of his battle axe. His face is painted with a rarely seen apprehension, looking back and forth over the room on occasion. Sometimes his gaze stills on a veil-shrouded woman with painted lips, and then he smiles for a moment.

The Demon Bull King is not nearly as subtle of a man as he thinks.

Not that it matters- when, for all that (which is very much) his Sworn Brothers know he’s courting a Celestial Maiden, they’ve chosen to keep an oath of silence on the matter.

(“He’s our big guy,” as Wukong had put it during one meeting months ago. “And we want that goofball to be happy.”)

(All of them- even Peng- had toasted to that notion, in the general direction of the bull’s empty chair.)

The mortals are safe. His brothers are content. He can do this.

Once more the dried notes on his sleeve catch Macaque’s attention, snapping him from the venue and to his golden love.

One last time he goes over them, dedicating those practiced words to memory.

He takes a breath, and turns to the audience.

“My mate-to-be is… molten gold, kissed by the rising sun. Beautiful is a shallow word to describe him- he is a masterpiece, a divine work of art carved by the heavens themselves. His eyes hold the all the world’s fire within them, blazing with the brilliance of a thousand sunsets. His laughter is a hymn to freedom itself, a melody I pray to hear every day for the rest of my life. When I look at him, I don’t just see a king, but the very heart of my existence, the axis upon which my world turns. He is my sun, my storm, my sanctuary, my everything.”

Several of the softer mortals are touched by his speech, lifting their cotton sleeves to the very corners of their eyes. Others only lightly clap, still uncomfortable at being called to the union.

Macaque does not have time to look away from before Wukong’s ginger-furred paws clasp onto his shoulders, holding tight.

There are no notes, no hours of reciting, no time spent with helpful Sworn Brothers to listen and offer advice, no matter how snarky- Sun Wukong simply turns from the crowd and offers himself.

“Macaque… I love you. I want you to be my mate forever. Until the sun goes dark.” Wukong's tail flicks behind him, expression softening with a rare blush. "Because... you're part of my story, bud. You’ve always been a part of it. And I'm tired of pretending like I can write the rest of it without you. Be mine forever and let’s be mates.”

The world is blurry, at least to Macaque. Nine and a half seconds prior he had thought there’d be some disappointment to push through, delivered an insincere joke or a vow written by another’s hand.

But there was only been Sun Wukong, love of his life, smiling at him.

“I will be your mate,” he chokes out, “forever. Until the sun goes dark.”

——————————————————————

“We’ve never been apart since then,” he purrs, dragging one claw over a hanfu the color of a sky on a gentle morning, toying with the white sash to untie it. “Not even for a day.”

Before you have a chance to respond, he plucks up the garment and holds it out to you. The size difference between him and the outfit is comical, and you wonder why these two demon kings have it in the first place.

“This should fit you, bud! Here, let’s get that towel off-“

You scream.

It’s not particularly loud or long, or even desperate- but it’s a scream all the same.

Worse still for yourself, you take this hysteric moment to lay on some shaky remand.

“NO! No more! Just stop touching me! I don’t- I d-don’t like it! You’re- you’re twice my size and you keep- you and him are always getting in my face and- a-and putting your hands on me, and I- I’m am so, so sick of it! I am not an o-object! I am a person! I am a person! I-“

“Quiet. Now.”

Wukong’s golden eyes narrow as he stands there, the weight of his presence pressing down on the room like a thundercloud ready to burst. His tail flicks sharply, but his voice remains measured.

…there are tears rolling down your eyes now, lost in the fluffy expanse of the towel around your body, sopping uselessly away as the king takes two footsteps to your form, frowning.

Not that it does anything to settle the rapid beat of your heart, crushed by the newly oppressive atmosphere.

“…you’re scared. I understand that. And maybe my moonbeam and I, we’ve been a little too hands on. That’s on us. But this my pagoda, and I did not build it by hand so that a little guest could yell at me. You know that you’re not a prisoner here. The doors aren’t locked, and there aren’t guards stationed outside them… now. I’ll let you get dressed- alone- and then you can eat. And…

“And no more touching without your permission. Okay?”

“…m’sorry. F-for yelling.”

“…I’m not mad,” he lies, one hand shifting to condescendingly pat you on the head. “I forget- my brothers, and my mate, too- we yaoguai just aren’t the same as mortals. You little things are scared too easily, and break so quickly.”

Something about hearing that is humiliating, but you don’t dare argue with him. Instead, you hunch your shoulders and cling to the towel, sniveling down at the floor.

Wukong’s frown softens the longer he watches you cry, all the sharpest edges of his irritation melting away into something closer to pity.

“I’ll leave it here. Call if you get lost looking for the kitchen.”

His words are painfully curt, and then the king is gone, golden beads and silk robes swishing behind him with each step.

You were never close, and only ever tangentially in the “good graces” of these kings. It’s not like you’ve shattered some precious bond.

But you still feel bad.

You wouldn’t, not usually. But as you unwrap the towel and begin to dress yourself in the lovely hanfu left draped over the chair nearest to you, the aches and pains of yesterday’s chase down the mountain weigh on you, just as MK’s new identity and newer happiness strike a deep point of insecurity- that you simply weren’t good enough to take care of him.

You weren’t good enough to provide for him anymore.

You wanted to believe you were more than them- strong enough to survive on your own, to fight your way through the world with MK in tow. But the truth was harder to face: Sun Wukong and the Six-Eared Macaque were meteoric gods, and you were just a mortal caught in the tides of their myth.

And where MK was thriving in this ecliptic chaos, you instead were already cracking under pressure after only a day spent before the kings.

…there’s a lovely silk pouch, dyed the color of new lavender blooms, hanging from the hanfu- you only notice it after tying the sash into a decent bow. The soft texture grounds your tumultuous thoughts, and a powerful aroma steadily drifts from within.

You fiddle with the tie and open the sash, revealing a dried bundle of orange blossoms tightly tied together, each stem marked with a glittering mystic sigil- 提高.

Whatever scent they would’ve had already was amplified by the marking, causing a heavy flow of fresh floral scent to ooze from the little purse.

You lift it and take a deep breath from the bag, allowing the veil of citrus aroma to utterly cloud your mind, providing it a much needed fog to rest under.

The soothing haze is slow to fade, even after you’ve pulled away and sealed the bag, but eventually you are left with only your steadied thoughts in the ornate chamber, amongst fine silks and polished wood, treasures of centuries past hung casually about It’s beautiful—almost too much so.

A reminder that this world of theirs is not the same of yours.

But you would not stop trying to survive in it.

You couldn’t.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere Sun Wukong #Yandere Macaque #Yandere Father #MK #Azure Lion #Peng #Yellowtusk #Demon Bull King #Shadowpeach #Eclipse Kings #Not The Beloved #2K

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amjustagirl · 9 months ago

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chapter 4

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f! reader

genre: romance, angst

wc: 5k

summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.

chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5

When you blink open your eyes, you find yourself back in the Hoshina family estate.

The garden is exactly as you remember it. Bonsai trees, neatly manicured. The white gravel ocean raked with ripple lines. Heat shimmers off the ground, harsh summer sun bearing down on the tiled roof. A young man with dark hair and sad, violet eyes sits across you.

“Soshiro”, you cry, fumbling to your feet.

He looks right through you even when you’re standing right before him.

He’s wearing the navy hakama he reserves for formal occasions, the family crest embroidered in gold thread on the back, a ceremonial katana strapped to his hip. Something’s about to happen, you realise, the compound bustling with servants carrying paper lanterns. No one pays you any notice as you float behind him down the familiar corridors of the house, a ghost.

His father approaches, severe lines running through his forehead. “You know your duty”, he claps his son’s shoulder with a heavy hand.

Soshiro’s shoulders slump, an invisible weight bearing down on him.

His duty awaits outside the estate’s gates.

A young woman, clearly noble born, waits for them to greet her with her chin in the air, dolled up in matrimonial white, surrounded by a retinue of servants. She tilts her chin higher to assess her groom as he offers her his arm before bowing her head demurely, letting him help her up the stairs.

The sun in your eyes forces you to turn away. Another woman catches your gaze, the profile of her face backlit in the blue-grey dusk. Rough hands, a cheap, cotton yukata, she hides in the shade. Her anguish is apparent in the defeated curve of her mouth.

She’s you, you realise, with even sadder eyes.

This is a dream, you tell yourself. A shitty, crappy excuse of a dream that you probably caused by drinking one too many cans of beer. You really should take better to maintain a healthy REM cycle, maybe pick up some meditation or exercise, because heaven knows your psyche will suffer if your subconsciousness decides to torture you in your sleep too.

You close your eyes.

You still don’t find yourself back in your bed. Instead, the stench of manure hits you, then the scratch of straw under your feet. That sad girl - you, in another life perhaps, kneels before the same dark haired boy, Soshiro, still as a statue.

“The horse is saddled. We can ride somewhere, far away where no one knows either of our names, leave all of this behind. You don’t have to get married to a woman you don’t love -”

He’s carved of marble in the moonlight, doesn’t move to meet her gaze, not even when she tugs at his sleeve. “I am but a second son, but even I know my duty to my clan.”

“And what about love?” she asks. “What about me?”

Neither of them notice you when you tumble out of the stable into the night. But there’s nothing but darkness looming before you, the moon nowhere to be seen, and when you turn back, the stable has disappeared. In its place, a familiar, wooden hut, where a fire grows. The heat of the forge stings your face, ash flying, the smell of burning steel in the air.

This time, Soshiro’s in the lacquered leather of a samurai warrior from centuries past. “Is it ready?” he directs his question at the woman in the forge.

Wordlessly, she hands him the sword in her hand, red hot from hammer and tongs. He weighs it in his hand, swings it once, twice, flashing quicksilver in the dim light of the blacksmith’s forge. You recognise the blade. You’ve seen it hung up in one of many sitting rooms in the Hoshina estate, captioned as belonging to a Hoshina ancestor who never returned home.

You understand why her voice quivers when she calls out to him before he leaves. “My lord”, she says. “Will you ever lay down your sword?”

“Perhaps in another life”, he replies.

In the shadow of the forge, the violets in his eyes wither and die.

You cannot bear to watch this play out before you again and again, a twisted loop you’re powerless to stop. There is nothing you can do to shock yourself awake, a ghost in every lifetime you freefall through, so bone weary, you stop running, sink to your knees. Wherever you are, the nightmares stop once you close your eyes. The damp grass is cool against your back, the darkness becomes soothing. It’s easy to lose yourself to a deep, undisturbed sleep.

(wake up)

The thrum of your heartbeat starts to still. You think you hear a faint echo. It sounds like Soshiro.

For the first time in your life, you hesitate to answer.

(please, wake up)

“But it’s comfortable here”, you say to no one at all. “I’m so tired.”

The neverending grind of work, of long hours spent hunched over glowering flames and complicated weapon blueprints. The dull ache of heartbreak, the painful lesson of learning to be okay alone.

“Let me sleep”, you whisper.

The darkness holds you close, blankets you. It’s too easy to let yourself just be, no one to disappoint, no one who disappoints. You let yourself be pulled beneath the tide, the endless ebb and flow lulling you into a dreamless slumber.

Perhaps you could be content like this.

Perhaps not. You think of the menagerie of plants you’ve gathered, they depend on you for food and water. There’s a pottery class on Sunday that you’ve been excited to attend, an abstract pot that you want to attempt. You’re supposed to meet your mother for tea, you’re looking forward to feasting on peaches, in season in the dying weeks of summer.

Your eyelids are still heavy with the weight of sleep, but you force them open. A streak of pain that shoots through your right side, but you slowly sit up anyway. A sea of hydrangeas, shimmering violet-blue in the early morning light stretches before you.

An achingly familiar voice calls your name. You lift your face to meet the rising sun, feeling its warmth flicker through you.

Your heart begins to hum.

You’re not in your own bed when you crack your eyes open.

The room is too white, too pin-neat. There are clear tubes running from your arms, bandages restricting even your slightest movement, not that you really can do much other than shift about the too-narrow bed you’ve found yourself in, the sudden brightness disorienting you.

“Oh!”, an unfamiliar voice exclaims. “Call the doctor, she’s awake!”

Your head threatens to split open. It hurts too much to stay awake.

You fall back into a dreamless sleep.

You drift in and out of consciousness after that, the pull of sleep still irresistible, but you stay awake for longer periods of time. Doctors poke and prod at you, nurses fuss over you. It’s hard to recall any conversations you have during this time, your memories melding almost into your dreams.

People ask you questions about your name, your age, where you’re from. It feels as if you’re stuck underwater, it’s a struggle to gasp for enough air at times to answer them, but you think you find enough brain cells to rub together in the cotton wool jumble in your head, mumble the right answers so they go away.

Your parents show up to visit you.

‘’Llo”, you mutter. Your father looks strangely old, your mother tired.

You’re pleased that your mother brings chopped peaches for you, less so when you realise you have no ability to swallow solid food just yet. They disappear for a hushed conversation with the doctors, leaving you with little distraction so you drop back off to sleep.

The next time you wake, the room is dark.

Even in the dim glow of machines beeping, you make out the faint outline of a boy you know too well, curled up uncomfortably in a plastic chair. “S‘ro”, you mumble, half asleep.

A flurry of movement. He appears by your uninjured side, staring at you wide-eyed, as if he doesn’t believe you won’t disappear. You wonder if he’s another figment of your dreams because he stands so still drinking his fill of you, until he remembers to breathe again.

“Hey”, he says hoarsely.

“Mmph”, you grunt. In your vague, rambling train of thoughts, you register surprise that he’s even here. “S’ work?”

His laugh is wet. “Are you seriously askin’ me ‘how’s work’ right now?”

You frown. Why - why is Soshiro even here?

“I’m here for you, silly”, a warm hand settles on your left arm. “Go back to sleep. I’ll seeya later.”

You start to stay awake for longer stretches at a time.

Your parents gently fill you in on your situation. You were touch and go for a while, your mother recounts tearfully, your head injury making the doctors doubt you’d ever wake. You had to be cut open to stop internal bleeding in your gut, fix a multitude of shattered bones in your right hip and leg. Burns, on your shoulder and arm which required skin grafts, extensive medication to keep infection at bay.

Everyone treats you like you’re made out of glass even as your condition steadily improves, aided by the wonders of kaiju regenerative technology. Your parents fuss over you like a child, tucking you in too tight beneath starched hospital sheets. The nurses refuse to let you shower, only allowing you sponge baths which you detest.

Soshiro’s the worst of the lot.

At first it's endearing how protective and sweet he is. The doctors give him a wide berth, most of the nurses terrified of him, though he swears that he’s been utterly polite when you question him about it. He doesn’t allow you to do anything yourself, not even hold your own cup of water when you drink. Your bedside is overflowing with colourful greeting cards, half of them signed by him, and he brings you a fresh bouquet of flowers during each visit.

“That boy is besotted with you”, one of the nurses who isn’t intimidated by Soshiro trills in with her unsolicited opinion. “It’s adorable.”

He’s not”, you deny, frowning. “We’re just friends.”

It’s a little too much. The only visitor who doesn’t smother you is Sochiro, who snaps back to his usual self the minute you show a little of your usual snark. “Did you break your head too?” you ask, when he arrives bearing a hamper of fruit.

“Impertinent brat”, he snaps back. “I’ll have you know my father put me up to this.”

You grin. “I suppose that’s where your brother got his manners from. Pity you don’t have any.”

He glowers at you, but doesn’t storm out of the room. Instead, he brandishes a small, silver knife and starts peeling fruit. “I never wanted a younger sibling”, he grouses. “Should’ve dropped Soshiro in the drain the minute he was born, then I’d never have to deal with your smart mouth -.”

“Aww”, you coo. “Hoshina Sochiro, Captain of the Sixth Division, getting soft in your old age.”

“Shut it”, he snaps, while stuffing perfect wedges of fruit into your palm.

It reminds you of the easy friendship you had with Soshiro, not the way he’s behaving, almost as if he feels anything more than friendship for you - which he’s confirmed to your face that he mostly does not. It confuses you, the tender way he treats you, the lingering stares when he thinks you’re asleep, and you much prefer him to go back to the way he was before.

“Stop it!” you finally burst, when his smothering becomes too overwhelming. “Treat me like your friend - not like I’m some glass figurine you’re trying to keep safe.”

A plastic chair screeches back. He stares at you. “Do you even realise how close you were to dyin’?”

“Sorta”, you reply, though some gaps remain empty in your memories, “but I’m okay now, and ‘sides, what happened was just bad luck -”

“No it wasn’t just luck”, he replies. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

Something shutters behind his eyes. “It’s my fault you’re hurt.” He angles himself away from you. “I crashed into your building.”

“The kaiju threw you into the building”, you correct. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He lunges forward to grip your bed rail, his sudden intensity scaring you. “I could’ve been the cause of you dyin’-”

“My head’s pretty hard”, you try to diffuse the building tension with a joke. “Would take more than a fallin’ building to kill me.”

He makes a strangled sound of outrage in his throat. “Don’t. Just - don’t.”

His tone is devoid of its usual lightness. He’s - he’s angry, scared, face twisting into a scowl, body coiling, as if preparing for an attack. “You’re upset”, you murmur. “Don’t be.”

“You could’ve died.”

“Hey”, you beckon him forward, lifting your uninjured hand off the bed to place it on top of his. He grasps at it, a drowning man clutching at a lifeline.

“It’s okay”, you say gently. “I’m okay.”

“Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

“I’ll try my best”, you offer.

An angry sound escapes through his clenched jaw, his face strained. You brush the skin of his wrist with your thumb until the too-quick staccato of his pulse steadies.

“Go to sleep”, he finally says. “Just stay safe.”

After that, something shifts. Soshiro resumes the mantle of his chaotic, goofy self.

“I’m gonna yell at you when you’re better”, Soshiro huffs the next time he visits. “A daikaiju -it was a nine on the fortitude scale, y’know - decides to attack near you, and you not only choose to stay put, you run back into a collapsing building for whatever reason -”

“I was trying to save some of the blades -”

“How about you focus on savin’ your own damn skin -”

You sniff, deliberately closing your eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Oi”, he grounds out. “Stop pretendin’.”

The reappearance of the playful banter you’re used to sharing with him puts you back at ease. “Don’t you need to sleep too?” you ask, staring pointedly at the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “In a bed, not a hospital chair that’s going to give you a crooked neck.”

“S’fine”, he always replies. “Still way more comfortable than sleepin’ out in a forest durin’ kaiju hunts.”

“Still”, you insist. “You don’t have to visit me so often. I know how busy you are with work.”

He squints at you. “Do you not want me to be here?”

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it -”

“Sometimes work can take a backseat.”

You beckon him forward, place a hand against his forehead. “No fever”, you pronounce. “That’s odd - the Hoshina Soshiro I know would never say that unless his mind is addled by illness-”

He pulls away with a splutter, cheeks a furious pink.

But awkward moments like this remain, no matter how much you try to keep your conversations light, breezy. There’s a tension Soshiro carries, especially apparent in the broad lines of his shoulders. He’s nervy, jumpy almost, the unguarded hitch in his breath when he draws in just a little too close. There’s something he’s keeping in, deep inside his chest that keeps trying to explode out of him whenever he’s not careful.

There’s a glimpse of that when you tell him of your plan to move back to Osaka to continue recuperating under your parents’ roof. You’ll miss your apartment where you navigated much of your young adult life, the routines you’ve built for yourself. But you’re tired of living in the hospital, sleeping on a too-hard bed, without much privacy from nurses who pop in and out of your room at odd hours at all times. Your parents agree to ferry you to check-ups and appointments, and they even got your brother to transport your plants to make you feel more at home.

“You’re not leavin’ for good, surely”, he frowns.

“I’m not sure”, you shrug. “Izumo Tech does have offices in Osaka, and there isn’t much tying me to Tokyo anymore.

There’s a sudden lull in the conversation as Soshiro falls silent, face stricken. He opens his mouth as if to speak, once, twice, before shutting it deliberately, Then his face slackens into a childish pout.

“Don’t go”, he whines. “Who would I hang out with when I’m off-duty?”

Caught off guard from this sudden change in mood, you refrain from pointing out that you’d each taken turns to studiously ignore the other before. “You’ll survive”, you pat his hand. “And, on the rare occasions you actually find the time away from work, you’re always welcome to visit me in Osaka.”

“I will”, he replies, so seriously that your traitorous heart skips a beat.

“I doubt you’ll get enough time off work”, you brush him off lightly before changing the subject.

You don’t expect him to visit, not when Osaka is two and a half hours away from Tokyo on the shinkansen, but he turns up at the doorstep of your parents’ apartment with roses, dusty pink like the flush up his neck.

“Hoshina-kun”, your mother exclaims. “Come on in!”

Something is up. Your mother bustles around, ushers him into your room, lays out before him an offering of cut fruit. Surprised at the tableau before you, you blink, looking up from your book.

“Don’t you have to work?”

“I do have days off, y’know.” He says, easing you into your wheelchair.

“Thought you said killing kaijus isn’t a nine to five job”, you remind him pertly.

He tweaks your nose. “Don’t be smart”, his eyes crinkle as he laughs, rolling you out of the confines of your parent’s house to a nearby park to enjoy the crisp cool autumn breeze, settling you down in the shade beneath a sprawling gingko tree.

“Well, how’s work?”

He considers you with a sideways glance. “I refuse to answer”, he says primly. “If I do, you’ll make use of it to accuse me of being obsessed with my job.”

“Aren’t you?”

“This is exactly what I mean”, he throws his hands out dramatically. “Shouldn’t you just be happy I’m here -”

“Actually”, you tease. “Isn’t the train fare really expensive? Can you afford that on your pay?”

“The Defense Force’s generous enough to give me food, clothing and a roof over my head”, he replies drolly. “So I think my bank account can take the occasional hit.” Then, he shoots another mock glare your way. “Anyway, I don’t wanna talk about work or anything related to work.”

“Then I guess there’s nothing else to talk about”, you tap your chin thoughtfully.

“Idiot”, he wrinkles his nose. “We haven’t even talked about how you’re doing.”

“Me?”

Exaggeratedly, he takes a look around. “I don’t see anyone else I could be askin’ about -”

“You wanna hear about my boring doctor appointments?”

His eyes are wide, earnest. “I wanna hear about everything.”

The sudden seriousness of his demeanour catches you off-kilter. Haltingly you tell him about the long check-ups that take hours, the doctors being optimistic about your progress, the physiotherapy sessions you’ve started. You’re slowly starting to walk again, a few steps at a time, giving you hope that you’ll be on your own two feet by the time of your brother’s wedding at the end of fall, even if you have to rely a little on crutches.

“I’m talking too much”, you say, looking down at your lap.

“Don’t stop”, he urges. “Keep talkin’.”

A snort. “You’re gonna get sick of the sound of my voice”,

“What a silly thing to say”, his gaze holds yours, steady, sure.

There’s something impossibly soft in his eyes, a tenderness in the curve of his mouth. You don’t dare to put a name to it yet, don’t even dare to look too closely at it lest you lose yourself to daydreams that can’t possibly be true. Yet, in the purpling dusk, even though the seasons dictate that there be no summer flowers this late in the fall, there’s a bud of hope in your heart that starts to unfurl, petal by petal, twining itself between the ribs of your chest.

(i like you)

(i’m sorry)

You remind yourself that your heart is not quite healed. Stitches remain, fleshy scars pink and raised. Ventricles working overtime to compensate for the damage he’s wrought just months prior. Mercilessly, you prune those hopes like unwanted weeds, chopping away at errant stems and leaves.

“I’m tired”, you break away from his gaze. “Shall we call it a day?”

He makes it difficult for you to safeguard your heart.

Once a week, he makes the trek from Tokyo to Osaka without fail, appearing at your parents’ door with a bouquet of flowers and a bag bursting with fruit, whatever is in season - peaches and peonies, apples and chrysanthemums. Picnics when it’s sunny, cafes or supermarkets when it rains. Your mother has a sudden change of heart regarding him, always asking you when he’s coming to take you out next.

“Seriously, don’t you have work?” you demand. “You can’t keep coming down here, it’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” he asks quietly.

“It is”, you reply. “It’s a waste of your time and money.”

With careful, calloused fingers, he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. “What must I do to make you believe it’s really, really not.”

You flinch, cramming your thrumming heart back into the confines of your chest. “You’re ridiculous”, you say as calmly as you can. If your leg weren’t still broken, you’d flee in the other direction, put as much distance as you can between you and Hoshina Soshiro, for fear of losing your heart again to him.

He’s relentless, a quality that makes him an excellent swordsman and soldier, though it does not bode well for your heart. You spend the next few weeks keeping your conversations light, unsentimental, refusing to allow that unnamed emotion budding in his eyes flourish any further, he remains undeterred. You catch him watching you sometimes, with something you don’t dare to name that bleeds into you, spreading the seeds of hope deep in your gut.

“I’ll be back next week to see you”, he always says. “Stay safe.”

You should tell him to leave you alone, let you replant your heart in another pot, give it a chance to learn to stop looking towards him for his light. But the words choke in your throat, and it’s all you can do to look the other way.

You don’t get any respite even at your own brother’s wedding.

It’s too large, too crowded an occasion, your parents booking out a banquet hall in an upscale hotel to cram in their swarms of guests. As the younger sister of the groom, you’re expected to greet each and every guest, thank them for their attendance even if you’d much rather be at home, warm and snug in bed. Instead, your head threatens to split open, your hip’s on the verge of falling apart. You curse your stubbornness in insisting against bringing your wheelchair, the crutches you lean on cutting into the tender flesh of your underarms.

“Did anyone tell you that you look beautiful tonight?”

As it was in your dreams, he’s in a haori, deep blue with golden thread, but this time he looks right at you. Your mouth goes dry and you can’t seem to swallow your heart back down your throat.

“Save your flirting for my cousins”, you retort, turning away. “They’re all aflutter at meeting you tonight.”

He doesn’t let you flee. An arm loops around your waist, sears through the silk layers of your kimono and smoulders. “You’re cranky cos you’re tired, so let me help you.”

You blame your capitulation on the absence of your wheelchair, not because you’re light headed from the sudden surge of helpless affection in your gut, as much as you refuse to allow yourself to believe his words. You let him steer you into your seat, palm flat against your back, heat suffusing into your skin.

“I’ll be here if you need me”, he says simply.

You don’t need him, you want to say, you can’t, but your mouth can’t seem to form the words when he leans in, tucks a stray strand of hair behind the shell of your ear, his touch feather light.

“Vice Captain Hoshina!?” As you foresaw, a gaggle of younger cousins goggle at him, drag him away for selfies and autographs. You don’t get a chance to speak with him again once the wedding starts, the seating plan placing him with his parents and other business associates of your parents, a few tables away.

The sheer scale and grandeur of your brother’s wedding isn’t what you’d have chosen for yourself, the cavernous ballroom feeling too large and impersonal, speeches dragging on for too long, but your brother and your new sister seem to radiate contentment, though you suspect the champagne toasts might have helped.

As the sister of the groom, you’re the target of your older aunts’ inquiry as to ‘when it’s your turn next’, never mind that you burrow into your seat, trying to disappear from sight, and when that fails miserably, try to divert their attention to anything, anyone but yourself. If you had full use of your legs, you’d make a hasty retreat by now, but you’re so painfully slow on your crutches that you’re sure even the oldest grandma questioning you on your dating status (or lack thereof) would be able to catch up with you.

“Ladies”, a smooth voice cuts in. “How are you all doin’ tonight?”

A boyish smile with a cheeky snaggletooth works wonders on elderly ladies, you learn. It gives you the chance to slip away to the bathroom, splash water on your face, shackle your heart back in place.

This brief reprieve doesn’t last long. Soshiro emerges from the shadows, pushing off the wall to pad quietly behind you.

“What are you doing here?” you demand. “You should be back inside -”

“I’m here to make sure you’re safe”, he replies. “Unless you don’t want me to make sure you don’t fall and crack your pretty head open?”

“Stop it”, you say crossly, your crutches clacking loudly on the floor as you speed up, trying to put some distance between you two. “You’re giving everyone the wrong impression.”

He follows right on your heels. “Perhaps I’m givin’ the right impression -”

“Just - just stop, Soshiro.”

You burst through glass doors to push your way onto the open rooftop in the hope that the nighttime air will cool the heat rising in your cheeks, but you miss your step, crutches sliding on marble tiles and oof -

Warm arms wrap tightly around you. You tell yourself it’s the shock of your almost-fall that makes you sag against a broad, lean chest, compliantly allowing Soshiro to tuck your face into his shoulders, settle an arm beneath your thighs, carrying you over onto a seat. A thick, rich fabric rests on your shoulders - his haori, you realise, the warmth from his body seeping into your skin.

“Are you hurt?” he drops to one knee in front of you.

The intensity of his gaze flays your chest open, exposing your beating heart, its stitches frayed. The spectre of the girl with sad eyes haunts you, leaving you terrified that you’ll suffer the same fate as her in this lifetime too.

“I need you to stop”, you shove him back, a trapped animal brandishing its claws. “I want you to leave me alone. I don’t want your pity -”

“Pity?!” he falls back on his haunches, gaping at you, incredulous. “Is that what you think it is?”

“What else could it be?” you demand wetly, eyes stinging. “Nevermind, I changed my mind, I don’t want to know -”

“Haven’t I made it obvious these past few months?” he asks, and you shake your head stubbornly, no. “What I feel for you - I’ve been goin’ crazy from the moment they told me a buildin’ fell on your head, so fuckin’ terrified I was goin’ to lose you just as I realised how stupid I’ve been -”

Your head swims. “I don’t -”

“I’ve loved you since I was eight. I just didn’t realise it til I nearly lost you.”

You push aside the clouds of anger and fear blurring your vision. You see Hoshina Soshiro kneeling before you, slicing his chest open with your blade to reveal his heart, pressing it bloodied and beating into your waiting hands.

In this lifetime, in this moment, he is yours and you are his.

There is no guarantee that this will remain. Duty will always call upon him, and he will answer without fail. That is his destiny, as much as he is yours. Realisation crashes into you, relentless waves pulling you underwater. You will have to share him with the rest of Japan, possibly the world. This too shall end, be it tomorrow or years down the road if fate smiles down on you both.

But even if his heart belongs to you for no more than a day, it’s enough. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

“You love me.”

“Yeah”, he murmurs, moving so impossibly close that you see the violets in the depths of his eyes in full bloom. “And I kinda think you love me too.”

Instead of answering, you tug him towards you, tangle your fingers in dark hair, let your lips press against the seam of his lips. He doesn’t give you the chance to breathe, arm curling around your waist, his hand cupping your face so he can tilt your chin up to pour himself into you. You drink him in, greedy to take what you can get, mouth open against his, lost to the raging current of want, of love that pulls you beneath the waves.

“I think I do”, you say softly.

Hoshina Soshiro smiles at you, wider and brighter than the moon.

a/n: i hope this chapter soothes the anxiety from last week heh :>

squeal at me pls! muacks always <3

#hoshina soshiro x reader #hoshina x reader #hoshina soshiro #hoshina soushirou #kaiju no. 8

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theloveinc · 7 months ago

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jo togame x reader - on possessiveness

(warning: she/her reader, pet names, alcohol, etc.)

Jo Togame has quite an odd way of showing possession over you.

He is, of course, always happy to fight with his fists when need be, but unlike some of his… friends, he doesn’t usually feel the need to use violence to show others that you belong to him.

In fact, if anyone asked you about it, you’d probably answer that you’d never even seen your boyfriend jealous—that even when you’re shaking your butt when you’re out with him in a skimpy little number, he’s cool as a cucumber, just like normal.

But that’s not entirely true, as there is a little something he pulls when he notices others paying attention to you the way only he ever should—

“Baby?”

Togame presses his hand against the warmth of your lower back, slow to let it creep down to the curve between your hip and ass as he approaches from behind. You’re leaning against the bar of the busy club, smiling sweetly at the bartender who’s currently adding extra cherries to only one of the two drinks you’ve ordered, now starting to sweat on the lacquered wood where they wait to be handed off.

You are a sight for sore eyes. In Togame’s mind, you always are, but there’s something about tonight especially that has you glowing and has seemingly everyone noticing. If he were anyone aside from your boyfriend, or he was two inches deeper in a nicer mood, it’s possible he wouldn’t be so … irked by the attention you’re receiving… but something about the way this stranger appears to be gunning for more than just a tip doesn’t sit right in his stomach.

“Jo!” you turn away from the show easily, smile going from cheeky to something soft when your eyes lock with his. You’re quick to abandon your previous conversation, full of what Togame observed were comments made for batting beautiful eyelashes and forcing giggles, and lean into him, standing on your tippies to press a kiss to the side of his mouth as a version of hello. “What are you doing? I was just about to find you.”

You’re not just a pretty thing, you’re a sweet thing too, and it’s clear you had no intention of finding yourself swept up into a conversation with the man mixing your drink, but nonetheless, anyone who runs tabs at a bar should be able to recognize when the only reason someone keeps responding to their frivolous comments is because they’re too polite to cut short a conversation.

“Is everything okay, my love?” you ask, as though it’s clear something is on Togame’s mind, and you thread your fingers through the soft hair at the back of his scalp to draw his attention back to you.

He has to suppress a grin thinking about the little show he’s giving your new friend.

“I’m not sure,” he responds, letting the words settle one by one, watching as worry starts to weigh down your brow. Though he’s more intent on keeping your focus away from anyone other from him, the bartender’s annoyed expression does not go unnoticed out of the corner of his eye. “The music’s making my head hurt, thinkin’ I might head out soon?”

“Oh no!” you suck in a sharp breath, your lips tightening in a concerned frown as you move to press the back of your hand to his forehead, “want me to come with?”

“It’s okay, baby. Stay. Enjoy yourself, alright?” he presses a kiss to your pout, maneuvering your hand from his face to hold to his chest. He milks the moment, pulls away from the lights, the noise, and the people to drink you in, and remind any animals who think they have a chance at something more than just your courtesy that they don’t, and never, ever will.

“No, no,” you break the silence, dropping your hands from him only to make sure your tiny purse is still attached to the chain hanging from your shoulder before linking his arm with yours, “I’m going. No reason to stay, anyway. Wanna make sure you’re okay.”

(Togame can imagine what will happen when you're home: you'll run him a hot and herbal bath, he'll coax you into the water with him, and the steam will get you both get light headed enough for the medicinal to turn into something more erotic—and by the time the both of you wake up tomorrow, naked, limbs sticky and tangled, he'll be perfectly refreshed.)

“Miss, your drinks?”

You’re half away step away when the bartender calls, but without letting go, you throw a couple hundred yen behind you without even a cold look back.

"You can dump them, sorry.”

And while you take the lead to the road, Togame looks over his shoulder and grins.

She picked me.

#togame x reader #jo togame x reader #togame jo x reader #togame #he does this to shishitoren too when people are talking about u...#he calls u about a stomach ache and there u are with a lunch of porridge and a pocari sweat FOR HIM AND NO ONE ELSE #if this sucks. sorry. i wrote it in bed LOL #i am TIRED yall ! do you think i can nap today? i havent been getting a thing done this week lmao #caitie post #gen

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funstealer · 4 months ago

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SEED by Aoi Kotsuhiroi One-off, hand-made finger object made of Urushi lacquer, embroidered silk thread, phantom crystals, hair, porcelain.

#Aoi Kotsuhiroi #Jewelry

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belit0 · 1 month ago

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You can organize the wedding night of the Uchiha clan members(Choose the ones you want),You can do it with Senju or Uzumaki, Y/n had been calm; But deep down she knows that, as she enters the bedroom, she won't come out of there all night. She has felt her Uchiha husband's hungry gaze on her throughout the event.

Madara - Senju / Izuna - Senju / Shisui - Uzumaki

Madara

The lanterns had long since dimmed.

The air still held the faintest echo of ceremonial drums, their rhythm now replaced by the quiet rustle of silk and the hush of the night wind pushing through shoji doors.

(Y/N) stepped into the room slowly, her bare feet making no sound against the wooden floor.

The scent of incense lingered—warm, earthy, heavy.

Her hands were folded in front of her, composed, every movement graceful and unhurried.

She had been calm all evening.

But she had also felt the weight of Madara’s gaze at every turn—sharp, predatory, barely leashed.

Not a word had been spoken beyond the necessary; he had played his role to perfection.

Yet whenever her eyes met his, the heat in his stare had burned straight through the lacquer of tradition, pressing into her skin like a brand.

He was already inside, standing at the far end of the room, robe loosened at the collar, shadows curling along the edges of his jaw.

His eyes, dark as obsidian, lifted slowly as she entered.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t need to.

(Y/N)'s breath caught the moment she felt the door slide shut behind her.

–You’ve been watching me all night.

Her voice was soft, but it didn't tremble.

Madara's silence stretched. Then—

–I was wondering how long it would take you to say it.

He stepped forward, closing the distance like something inevitable.

The composure she had held all evening fluttered inside her chest, unravelling thread by thread.

Her pulse quickened.

She had known the moment she stepped inside: she would not leave this room untouched.

Not tonight.

Not with that gaze still smoldering across her skin.

Izuna

The paper doors whispered closed behind her, and the room instantly felt warmer.

Izuna had always been less discreet than his brother.

He didn’t mask hunger with politeness or tuck desire beneath ceremony.

All through the reception, (Y/N) had caught him watching her like a man counting down the seconds until restraint was no longer necessary.

His smirks.

His toasts.

The way his thumb had traced the rim of his sake cup while his gaze trailed after her.

Now, alone, she stood in the doorway, hands clasped before her. Her face serene.

But she felt it—under her skin, in her throat, in the way her heart pressed against her ribs like a trapped bird.

He was seated lazily on the edge of the futon, robe undone at the chest, hair mussed by wind and sake and dancing.

His eyes lifted the moment she entered—wild and steady at once.

–You took your time, little Senju.

There was mischief in his voice, but something deeper curled beneath it.

She took a step forward, chin held high.

–You’ve been impatient all night.

Izuna grinned, standing in a single fluid motion.

–Wouldn't you be, if you’d been watching you?

The moment she was within reach, he caught her wrist—not harsh, just firm, just enough to make her breath catch.

She had come here knowing this would happen.

And still, nothing could have prepared her for the way his presence seemed to fill the entire room now, like smoke.

Shisui

The room was quiet, lit only by the soft flicker of a lone candle. The shadows moved gently across the paper walls, dancing like old spirits.

(Y/N) stood just inside, her fingers still brushing the edge of the door.

Her heart was steady, but her stomach stirred with the hush of knowing.

Of expecting.

Shisui hadn’t taken his eyes off her once that night.

Not when she laughed, not when she danced, not when she looked away.

There had been warmth in his smile, yes—but beneath that... something deeper.

Something solemn.

Like a man starved of something holy.

He was waiting for her now, kneeling near the center of the room, hands resting on his thighs, his posture unusually still.

The normally playful lilt in his expression had quieted.

What looked back at her now was reverence.

And something close to ache.

–You look like you’re waiting for a storm.

Her voice was quiet, breathless without meaning to be.

Shisui tilted his head, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

–Only if you're the one bringing it.

She stepped closer, the hem of her robes brushing the floor.

–I’m not afraid.

His voice dropped to something that barely reached her ears.

–Neither am I.

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

He let her come to him.

Let her decide the moment.

Because while he had watched her all night like he couldn’t bear the distance—

Shisui would never take.

He would wait until she gave.

And she would.

Because something about the way he looked at her made her feel like a flame worth burning for.

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dee-writes-anime · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter 6: The Queen Rises

FEATURING Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

SUMMARY As Sukuna’s court gathers under the watchful skies of his domain, you find yourself thrust into a stage where loyalty is tested, strength is questioned, and whispers of rebellion threaten to crack the fragile balance of power. Facing scorn from lords and a direct challenge from a menacing curse user, you must prove your place at Sukuna’s side is not a weakness but a declaration of your unyielding will.

CONTENT WARNINGS Includes depictions of magical combat with explosive energy clashes and descriptions of physical harm such as scars and burns, verbal and physical threats are made against the reader by a rival curse user, descriptions of severe scarring, missing body parts, and unsettling imagery of injuries, intense, charged interactions between Sukuna and the reader with suggestive language, physical proximity, and implied power dynamics, references to impending war, including the threat of large-scale conflict and the manipulation of alliances for power.

PLAYLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

The morning light filtered through the shoji screens of my chambers, soft and muted, casting long, lattice-like patterns across the polished wood floors. The room was quieter than it had been the night before, but the stillness wasn’t comforting—it was heavy, expectant, as though the very air braced itself for what was to come.

I pushed back the silk coverlet, the fabric slipping soundlessly to the lacquered floor as I sat up. My body ached faintly, the echoes of the trials I’d endured still pulsing through my limbs like the lingering memory of fire. There were bruises along my arms and shoulders, faint impressions left by the jagged tendrils of cursed energy I’d faced in the labyrinth, and a faint, dull burn in my chest where my own power had coiled too tightly.

I let out a slow breath, the exhale curling faintly in the cool morning air, and shifted my gaze to the choker resting on its lacquered stand across the room. Its crimson gemstone pulsed faintly, a heartbeat that was not mine but echoed through the space nonetheless. Today, its light was sharper, brighter, casting restless patterns on the walls like the flicker of distant flames.

It was a constant presence now, no longer just a symbol but a tether, an unspoken reminder of the position I had earned and the power I had yet to wield fully. I hadn’t touched it since removing it the night before, yet its energy threaded through the room like a whisper I couldn’t ignore.

The faint murmur of voices from beyond the door drew my attention. They were hushed, urgent, carrying the clipped tones of commands and responses exchanged in rapid succession. The estate had been alive with tension since the feast, its usual stillness replaced by a bristling energy that rippled through the halls like the first tremors of an approaching storm.

Below my window, the courtyard was a flurry of movement. Messengers in muted crimson robes darted between the gates and the grand hall, their figures blurred by the faint haze of morning mist. Guards stood at the perimeter, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons, their gazes sharp and unyielding.

Something had shifted, though I couldn’t yet name what.

A faint pressure brushed the edge of my awareness, sharp and deliberate. The weight of it coiled around me like smoke, heavy and inescapable, a presence I recognized instantly.

The door opened without ceremony, the polished wood groaning faintly on its hinges as Sukuna entered.

His robes whispered against the floor, the crimson and gold catching the morning light as his cursed energy swept into the room ahead of him. It was quieter than it had been the night before, more controlled, yet no less overwhelming. It clung to the air like the embers of a dying fire, deceptively calm but ready to ignite at a moment’s notice.

I rose to my feet, my movements slow and deliberate, as his gaze swept over the room. His four eyes gleamed with sharp intensity, two half-lidded with amusement while the others tracked my movements with a deliberate precision that made the space between us feel smaller.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice low and cutting as he surveyed the room.

“Comfort isn’t something I’ve had much of lately,” I replied, keeping my tone even as I met his gaze.

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, as he stepped further into the room. “Good. You’ll find it’s overrated.”

I folded my arms, the weight of his presence pressed against me, heavy but not suffocating. It was different now, less like the prowling of a predator testing its prey and more like the steady hum of power acknowledging an equal—or at least someone worthy of notice, “I assume this isn’t a social call.”

“No,” he replied, stepping closer, his cursed energy brushing faintly against my senses. “They’re weaker.”

“And more dangerous because of it,” I said, my tone firmer.

His grin widened, the faint glint of his teeth catching the light. “Dangerous, yes. But not to you.”

The certainty in his voice was sharp, cutting through the faint tension that lingered in the air. I held his gaze, searching for the mockery I was used to, but found none. Instead, there was something steadier, something unspoken that tightened the space between us.

“Stand beside me,” he said suddenly, his voice dropping lower, softer, but no less commanding.

The words sent a ripple of heat through my chest, the memory of his proposition the night before curling at the edges of my thoughts. He didn’t push the question now, but it lingered between us nonetheless—a presence that neither of us acknowledged but couldn’t ignore.

“And if I don’t?” I asked, my voice quieter now, but still steady.

His grin softened into something sharper, more deliberate. “You will,” he said simply, his tone carrying the weight of certainty.

I clenched my hands at my sides, the pulse of the choker quickening faintly as the tension between us thickened. “The court doesn’t see me as you do,” I said, the edge of defiance creeping into my tone.

“No,” he said, his gaze narrowing slightly. “But they will.”

The weight of his cursed energy pressed against me again, heavier now, but it wasn’t meant to intimidate—it was meant to anchor, to steady. “They’ll see what I see,” he continued, his voice low but deliberate. “Someone who doesn’t bow. Someone who survives when others would fall.”

The air between us crackled faintly, charged with something I couldn’t quite name. There was no question in his tone, no room for doubt.

“You think it’s that simple?” I asked, my voice softer now, though the tension in my chest refused to ease.

“Nothing is simple,” he said, his grin widening faintly. “But you don’t need simplicity. You need to show them that you’re not just here to survive—you’re here to rule.”

The words struck like a blade, sharp and precise, settling into the quiet between us. I exhaled slowly, the pulse of the choker steadying as I held his gaze.

“And if they challenge that?” I asked.

His grin sharpened, his eyes gleaming with something darker, more dangerous. “Then you remind them who they’re dealing with.”

His cursed energy flared briefly, brushing against me like the edge of a blade before settling into the charged silence that lingered between us.

He stepped back toward the door, his movements slow but deliberate, the weight of his presence retreating but not disappearing entirely.

“Don’t disappoint me,” he said, his voice quieter now, though it carried the sharp edge of a command. “You’ve earned your place, little witch. Now take it.”

The faint click of the door closing behind Sukuna echoed in the quiet room, the weight of his presence still lingering in the charged air. I exhaled slowly, running a hand along the edge of the lacquered table where the choker rested, its faint pulse a constant reminder of the role I had been thrust into.

Before I could gather my thoughts, the door opened again—not with the commanding weight of Sukuna’s entry but with a brisk, efficient movement that made me turn sharply.

Uraume stepped inside, their pale eyes sharper than usual, darting around the room as though expecting someone—or something—to follow them. Their normally composed expression was faintly unsettled, the edges of their movements carrying a tension I hadn’t seen before.

“Good morning to you too,” I said, folding my arms as I watched them close the door behind them with deliberate care.

They didn’t reply immediately. Instead, they crossed the room in a few swift strides, their gaze scanning the walls as if ensuring no unseen ears lingered within the shadows.

“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice firmer now, the unease radiating from them beginning to seep into me.

When they finally looked at me, their expression had settled into something closer to their usual calm, though their movements remained brisk, deliberate. “The court gathering,” they said, their tone low but carrying a faint edge of urgency. “It’s not just a formality.”

“Clearly,” I replied, leaning back slightly. “Sukuna didn’t exactly leave me under the impression it would be a casual affair.”

Uraume’s gaze narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing their features before they continued. “You should understand what you’re walking into,” they said, their voice sharper now, though it wasn’t directed at me. “The lords are restless.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Restless how?”

“There are factions among them,” Uraume said, their words deliberate, chosen with care. “Some are loyal—those who understand the weight of Lord Sukuna’s power and what it means to stand under his rule. But there are others who... waver.”

“Waver,” I repeated, the word settling heavily in the air.

“They question him,” Uraume said, their pale eyes meeting mine directly. “Not openly, of course. But in whispers, in careful movements. They see his favor toward you as a sign of weakness.”

My chest tightened, though I kept my expression neutral. “So I’m a liability.”

“To some,” Uraume replied. “To others, you’re a threat. It depends on their ambitions.”

I moved to the window, staring down at the bustling courtyard below. The lords’ discontent wasn’t entirely surprising, but the weight of their perceptions pressed against me nonetheless. “And the gathering today?”

“It’s more than an announcement,” Uraume said, stepping closer. “It’s a stage. Some will use it to affirm their loyalty. Others will use it to test yours.”

I turned to face them, my jaw tightening. “Why warn me now?”

“Because Lord Sukuna expects you to succeed,” Uraume said simply, their voice steady. “But more importantly, because if you fail, you won’t just lose his favor—you’ll lose everything.”

Their words sank in like a blade, cutting through the lingering haze of confidence I’d carried from the feast. “You think I’m unprepared?”

“I think you’ve proven your strength,” they said, their tone softening slightly. “But this isn’t about strength alone. It’s about survival. About knowing where to place your power—and where to withhold it.”

Hints of something unspoken lingered in their gaze, a quiet warning that carried the weight of experience.

“Who are my enemies?” I asked finally, my voice quieter now.

Uraume’s lips quirked faintly, almost a smile, though it lacked warmth. “It’s not that simple. In Sukuna’s court, allies and enemies shift as easily as the wind changes direction. Today, someone may test you with hostility. Tomorrow, they may bow to you in feigned loyalty.”

I folded my arms, the weight of their words pressing heavier against my chest. “And you?”

They tilted their head slightly, their pale eyes narrowing faintly. “I’m not your enemy,” they said, their voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. “If I were, you’d already know.”

The faintest flicker of a smile tugged at my lips, though it didn’t last. “What do you suggest, then?”

“Be careful,” they said simply, stepping closer. “Watch their words. Watch their movements. Power is only half the battle in a place like this. How you wield it—and when you withhold it—will determine how long you survive.”

Their gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, their expression unreadable. “They’ll test you. They’ll provoke you. And when they do, remember this: nothing they say matters if they’re kneeling before you by the end of it.”

The words hung between us, sharp and deliberate, before they stepped back toward the door.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice quieter now, though the weight of the conversation pressed heavily against me.

They paused, their hand resting lightly on the doorframe as they glanced back at me. “Don’t thank me yet,” they said, their tone soft but edged with something faintly like concern. “The hardest part is still to come.”

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the room in a tense silence.

I turned back to the choker, its faint pulse steady and insistent, as though echoing the weight of Uraume’s warning.

The courtyard stretched wide before us, its jagged stone columns reaching toward the overcast sky like fingers clawing at the heavens. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the faint metallic tang of cursed energy, a reminder of the immense power that suffused Sukuna’s domain. Ancient trees bordered the space, their gnarled branches casting shifting shadows over the smooth stone paths that wove through the gardens.

At the center of it all was a raised platform, its edges carved from dark, jagged stone that gleamed faintly in the muted light. Surrounding it, Sukuna’s lords and emissaries had gathered in loose clusters, their silks and armor a riot of colors that clashed against the stark elegance of the courtyard.

Their conversations were hushed, their glances sharp as they exchanged words too quiet to carry. Unlike the feast, this was no place for celebration. This was a gathering steeped in unease, its purpose clear in the tension that crackled through the air like the promise of a storm.

I walked at Sukuna’s side, my hand resting lightly on his arm. His cursed energy coiled around him like smoke, brushing against my senses with every deliberate step. The pulse of the choker at my throat quickened faintly, its rhythm steady and insistent as I matched his stride.

The lords fell silent as we entered the clearing, their voices dying as their gazes turned to us. The weight of their attention was sharp, assessing, but not unfamiliar. They had seen me before—at the feast, at the labyrinth’s end—and their unease now was not born of ignorance but of something deeper: doubt, suspicion, and the simmering undercurrent of jealousy.

We ascended the dais, Sukuna’s pace unhurried, his presence commanding without the need for words. He didn’t need to take the jagged throne at the platform’s center to assert his authority. The air itself seemed to bend under the weight of his power, pressing against the gathered court with an unrelenting hand.

I straightened as we reached the platform’s edge, the faint hum of the choker grounding me as I met the lords’ gazes. Some held my stare, their expressions carefully neutral but their eyes sharp with calculation. Others glanced away, unwilling to meet the force of Sukuna’s silent challenge.

“You know why you’re here,” Sukuna said, his voice cutting through the silence like the edge of a blade. “You’ve all seen what she’s capable of. You’ve witnessed her strength.”

The words weren’t an introduction—they were a reminder, delivered with the precision of a hammer striking iron.

“Yet some of you still question,” he continued, his tone colder now, carrying the faintest edge of mockery. “You whisper in the shadows, cling to the hope that she is a momentary indulgence. That her strength is a flicker that will fade.”

The tension in the courtyard sharpened, the silence thick with the weight of his words. The lords shifted uneasily, their discomfort rippling through the gathered court like a wave.

Sukuna’s grin widened, razor-sharp, as his crimson eyes swept over them. “Let me make this clear,” he said, his tone dropping lower. “She stands under my protection. Not because she asks for it, but because she has earned it.”

A murmur ran through the crowd, faint but unmistakable. The lords’ unease wasn’t born of ignorance—it was the result of their own ambitions being stifled, their doubts clashing against the undeniable reality of Sukuna’s decree.

I held my chin high, the weight of their stares pressing against me but failing to crack the composure I had built. These were no strangers to me—they had seen me before, judged me before—and I wasn’t about to shrink under their scrutiny now.

One of the lords, his robes deep red and lined with gold, stepped forward slightly. His expression was calm, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed the calculation behind his every move. “We do not doubt her strength, my lord,” he said, his voice measured. “But strength alone is not enough to hold a place in your court.”

Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and sharp, resonating through the courtyard like distant thunder. “Do you think I’ve chosen her lightly?” he asked, his gaze narrowing as he turned to the lord.

“Of course not,” the lord replied smoothly, though there was a faint edge to his tone. “But loyalty is not given freely. It is earned.”

The challenge hung in the air, subtle but deliberate, and the lords around him exchanged wary glances.

Sukuna didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze to me, his grin sharpening into something colder, more deliberate.

“Do you doubt her loyalty?” he asked, his voice soft but carrying a weight that pressed against the court like an iron hand.

The lord hesitated, his composure faltering for the briefest of moments before he answered. “I do not doubt her loyalty to you,” he said carefully. “But loyalty to this court is another matter.”

Sukuna’s laugh was sharper this time, cutting through the tension like the crack of a whip. “And who here dares to claim that their loyalty to this court outweighs their loyalty to me?”

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of his words pressing down on the gathered lords until none dared to answer.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Sukuna said, his tone softening into something more dangerous. “Her loyalty, her strength—they are not yours to question.”

His cursed energy flared briefly, brushing against the gathered court like the edge of a blade. The lords bowed their heads, their unease spilling into reluctant submission.

I stood beside him, the pulse of the choker steady against my throat as the weight of Sukuna’s declaration settled over the courtyard. Whatever doubts they held, whatever whispers they exchanged in the shadows, one thing was clear:

They feared him. And now, they feared me too.

The air shifted as a figure stepped forward from the edge of the gathering, their presence drawing every eye like the first roll of thunder before a storm. They moved with deliberate slowness, the heavy thud of their boots against the stone courtyard sending faint echoes through the unnerving silence.

The curse user’s appearance was nothing short of grotesque—a study in violence rendered in flesh and bone. Their dark robes hung in jagged layers, stitched together with thick black thread that seemed barely able to contain the raw power radiating from their form. The fabric was frayed at the edges, as though scorched by fire, and lined with deep crimson patterns that twisted and curled like veins of molten lava.

Their staff was a monstrous thing, carved from blackened wood that gleamed like obsidian under the flickering light of the braziers. Jagged shards of stone jutted from its surface, their edges sharp enough to draw blood with a touch. At its top, a misshapen crystal pulsed faintly, its glow erratic and wild, casting flickering shadows across the curse user’s face.

And what a face it was.

The left side of their head was marred by a jagged scar that stretched from their temple to the corner of their mouth, the flesh puckered and twisted as though melted by acid. Their skin was a patchwork of scars, some thin and pale, others thick and angry red, standing out starkly against their sallow complexion. A piece of their ear was missing, the jagged edges of the wound long since healed into a grotesque reminder of violence endured and survived.

Their right eye was a pale, clouded white, its sightless gaze unyielding as it fixed on me with an intensity that made my chest tighten. The other eye, gleaming a sickly gold, burned with malice, its unrelenting glare heavy with judgment. Beneath it, their mouth twisted into a cruel grin, their teeth jagged and yellowed, bared in an expression that promised pain.

The curse user’s body was no less unsettling. Their hands, skeletal and gnarled, clutched the staff tightly, their knuckles scarred and bruised as though they’d spent a lifetime breaking them against unyielding surfaces. Long, uneven nails curved like claws from their fingertips, blackened at the edges and faintly cracked. Their exposed forearms were corded with sinew, the muscles wiry and taut beneath skin that bore countless overlapping scars.

As they moved further into the courtyard, their dark energy coiled outward, brushing against the gathered lords like the icy breath of a predator. It wasn’t the overwhelming, controlled power of Sukuna—it was raw, jagged, untamed.

The murmurs that had filled the air moments before faded into a tense silence as the curse user stopped at the edge of the dais. They tilted their head slightly, their gaze sweeping over me with the slow, deliberate precision of someone cataloging a weakness.

“Well,” they said, their voice low and rough, like gravel grinding beneath a boot. The sound carried effortlessly, slicing through the quiet like a blade. “I wondered if the whispers were true.”

Their grin widened as they turned their golden eye to Sukuna, a mockery of deference in the slight dip of their head. “The great King of Curses, reduced to parading around a pet.”

The tension in the courtyard thickened, the weight of their words pressing against the gathered lords like a vice. No one spoke, no one moved, their collective discomfort a silent acknowledgment of the curse user’s audacity.

Sukuna didn’t react immediately. He stood motionless beside me, his crimson eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable. But the faint ripple of his cursed energy told a different story—a subtle, ominous shift that made the air feel sharper, colder.

The curse user’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, their yellowed teeth catching the dim light as they gestured toward me with a sharp jerk of their chin. “This is what you’ve chosen to represent your court? A witch playing at strength? Tell me, Sukuna, has she bewitched you so thoroughly that you’ve forgotten who you are?”

The words struck with deliberate force, their mockery a weapon wielded with calculated intent. The other lords shifted uneasily, their gazes darting between Sukuna and the curse user, the weight of the brewing storm pressing against them like the tide pulling back before a wave.

“You’ve grown soft,” the curse user continued, their voice rising, laced with disdain. “Indulging a creature like this. She weakens you, Sukuna. She diminishes your reputation. Your enemies will see this for what it is: a crack in your throne.”

They slammed the base of their staff against the ground, the sound reverberating through the courtyard like the toll of a bell. “And when that crack widens, it will shatter you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of their challenge pressing against my chest like an iron hand. But I didn’t flinch.

My grip on Sukuna’s arm tightened slightly, the pulse of the choker at my throat quickening as I met the curse user’s golden gaze. There was no fear in my expression, only a sharp, simmering defiance that burned against the malice they aimed in my direction.

Sukuna’s grin widened slowly, his crimson eyes gleaming with dangerous amusement. But he didn’t speak, didn’t move.

Not yet.

The hall stood frozen, the air sharp with anticipation as the curse user’s mocking words settled over the gathered lords like a veil of smoke. Whispers stirred faintly at the edges of the crowd—uneasy murmurs exchanged between wary glances, though a few lords allowed smirks to curl their lips, relishing the unfolding spectacle.

Others were less amused. Shifting uncomfortably, they avoided looking directly at Sukuna, as if fearing that their silent observations might invoke his wrath. The air itself seemed to hum with tension, the braziers’ flames flickering erratically as cursed energy rippled faintly at the edges of the dais.

I felt the weight of every gaze, the sting of every sharp glance, but I didn’t shrink beneath it. Instead, I stepped forward, the hem of my crimson gown whispering against the smooth stone as I placed myself between Sukuna and the curse user.

The shift in the air was immediate.

The lords’ murmurs grew louder, their voices rippling with a mix of surprise and curiosity. Some leaned forward slightly, their expressions sharp with intrigue, while others sat back, their eyes narrowing as they waited for me to falter.

“You have a lot to say,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet with a calm precision that carried far more weight than the venomous mockery that had preceded it.

The curse user’s golden eye flicked to me, their scarred lips curling into a grin that was equal parts amusement and malice. “And the witch speaks,” they said, their tone laced with mockery. “Have you come to defend your master’s honor, little pet?”

A faint ripple of laughter echoed from one corner of the hall, quickly silenced by a sharp glance from Sukuna’s crimson eyes.

I tilted my head slightly, the faintest smile tugging at my lips as I met the curse user’s glare head-on. “You’re bold to stand here, speaking of honor,” I said, my tone smooth but edged with steel. “Bold, or desperate. Perhaps both.”

The curse user’s grin faltered for the briefest moment, their expression hardening as a faint murmur ran through the lords.

“I see no desperation in my standing,” they said, their voice colder now. “But I see plenty in yours. A witch clinging to the coattails of power, pretending to be more than what you are.”

I took another step forward, the choker’s pulse steady against my throat as I allowed the faintest ripple of my own cursed energy to thread through the air. It wasn’t overwhelming—not yet—but it was enough to make the lords shift in their seats, their discomfort rippling outward like the widening circles of a disturbed pond.

“Pretending?” I echoed, my voice soft but sharp. “Pretending is what you do when you stand here, trying to convince yourself that your words carry weight in his court.” I gestured faintly to Sukuna, whose expression remained unreadable, though his four eyes gleamed faintly with a dangerous amusement. “But they don’t. You’re nothing more than a whisper in the wind—a hollow threat wrapped in a tattered robe.”

A murmur swept through the lords again, louder this time, tinged with approval from some and disbelief from others.

The curse user’s grin vanished entirely, replaced by a sneer as their fingers tightened around the jagged staff they carried. “You think you can intimidate me?” they growled, their voice low and rough. “You think your borrowed strength makes you untouchable?”

I held their gaze, the faint glow of the choker’s crimson gemstone flickering like firelight against the polished stone of the dais. “I don’t need to intimidate you,” I said, my voice calm. “Your fear is already written across your face.”

The words struck like a blade, and the curse user’s cursed energy surged in response. The air grew colder, heavier, as their jagged power coiled outward in sharp, chaotic tendrils that rippled through the hall like the crack of a thunderstorm.

Lords flinched, some recoiling from the raw energy as it lashed against the edges of the gathering, stirring the braziers’ flames into frenzied flickers.

The curse user took a step forward, their staff slamming against the stone with a resonant crack that sent shards of light splintering outward. “You hide behind him,” they said, their voice rising with a cold, biting fury. “But let’s see what you are without Sukuna’s shadow to shield you.”

Their cursed energy surged again, twisting into a jagged arc that lashed toward me with a force that made the ground beneath my feet shudder. The air burned sharp and cold, the raw power snapping like the strike of a whip as it tore toward me.

I didn’t flinch.

Instead, I raised a hand, the pulse of the choker igniting as my magic flared to life. The air around me shifted, the sharp, deliberate tendrils of my own energy coiling outward to meet the attack head-on.

The collision was explosive.

A burst of light filled the room as the two forces clashed, the resulting shockwave rattling the columns and shattering several of the delicate ornaments that lined the hall’s edges. Lords recoiled, some shielding their faces as the force rippled outward, sending faint vibrations through the polished stone floor.

The curse user pushed harder, their jagged energy clawing at mine with wild ferocity. But where their power was raw and chaotic, mine was deliberate—shaped by precision, guided by intent.

I took a step forward, my magic coiling tighter, sharper, cutting through the chaotic tendrils like a blade through fabric. The curse user’s sneer faltered, the golden glint of their eye narrowing as the balance shifted.

“You think this display makes you strong?” they growled, their voice laced with fury as they pushed harder.

“No,” I said, my voice steady as I took another step forward. “But it makes you weak.”

The final surge of my power lashed forward, cutting through their energy entirely. The jagged tendrils shattered, dissolving into the air like smoke, as the force of the blow sent them stumbling back, their boots scraping against the polished stone.

The room fell silent.

Every gaze in the court was fixed on me, some wide with disbelief, others narrowing with grudging respect. The air was still heavy with tension, but it was no longer oppressive—it was charged with the undeniable reality of what had just unfolded.

The curse user straightened, their staff trembling faintly in their scarred hand as they glared at me with unrestrained fury. “You’ll regret that,” they snarled, their voice low and venomous.

It was then that Sukuna moved.

He stepped forward, his pace unhurried, his crimson robes whispering against the stone as his cursed energy surged with a ferocity that sent chills racing down my spine.

The curse user froze, their golden eye widening as Sukuna’s presence swallowed the space between us like a wave overtaking the shore.

“You’ve made your point,” Sukuna said, his voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “And now you will leave.”

The curse user’s jaw tightened, their grip on their staff tightening as though they were contemplating another strike. But Sukuna’s grin widened, slow and deliberate, and the faint ripple of his cursed energy grew heavier, pressing against the room like the weight of an oncoming storm.

“Unless,” he continued, his tone softening into something colder, more dangerous, “you’d prefer to stay and entertain me.”

The words weren’t a threat—they were a promise, and the curse user knew it.

They straightened, their sneer returning as they took a step back. “Enjoy your moment, Sukuna,” they said, their voice dripping with disdain. “It won’t last.”

They turned toward the gathered lords, their golden eye sweeping over the court with calculated malice. “This is what your king has become—a fool blinded by indulgence.”

The curse user’s voice rose, echoing through the hall with a chilling finality. “War is coming to your domain, Sukuna. And when it does, I’ll tear down this court and everything you hold dear.”

The silence that followed was sharp, cutting through the room like the aftermath of a blade’s strike.

Sukuna’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, his amusement gleaming faintly in the sharp light of his crimson eyes. “Then you’d better bring everything you have,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Because the last thing you’ll see is my shadow swallowing yours.”

The curse user didn’t reply. With a sharp crack of their staff against the stone, they turned and strode toward the hall’s entrance, their energy trailing behind them like the ghost of a storm.

The sound of the curse user’s footsteps faded into the distance, but their words lingered like a poison seeping into the air. For a moment, the hall was silent, the oppressive tension hanging heavy as the gathered lords processed what had just transpired.

And then, chaos.

Whispers rose first, sharp and urgent, like the rustling of dry leaves in a rising storm. Lords turned to one another, their voices rising with each passing moment, their fear and unease spilling over into frantic exchanges. Some gestured wildly, their silk sleeves fluttering like banners, while others kept their words low, their gazes darting nervously toward Sukuna as though afraid he might catch wind of their panic.

“What does this mean?” one lord whispered harshly, his face pale and tight with tension.

“They’ll attack!” another hissed, his voice trembling. “If war comes, none of us will—”

“Silence!” a woman snapped, her fan snapping shut in her hand with a sharp crack. “Do you want him to hear you?”

But the murmurs continued to build, rippling through the court like waves crashing against the jagged rocks of Sukuna’s presence. A few shouted outright, their voices laced with accusations and fear.

“He’s made us vulnerable!”

“This witch has brought ruin to our doorstep!”

“She’s a liability!”

The words cut through the air like blades, sharp and unforgiving, each one carrying the weight of the court’s mounting anxiety.

I stood beside Sukuna, my chest tight as I processed the magnitude of what had just transpired. The curse user’s retreat wasn’t a surrender—it was a declaration of war, a promise that blood would be spilled, and that Sukuna’s dominion would be tested in ways even his lords feared to imagine.

The pulse of the choker at my throat quickened, its energy threading through me like an anchor, grounding me as the storm of voices grew louder. I refused to look away, refused to let the weight of their stares and accusations crush me.

Sukuna remained seated, his towering presence unshaken as he watched the chaos unfold. His expression was calm, almost amused, as though the shouting and whispering were nothing more than a distant echo of a storm that couldn’t reach him.

And then he moved.

Rising from his seat with a deliberate, unhurried motion, he stepped forward, his crimson robes pooling around him like molten fire. His cursed energy surged, coiling outward in a wave that pressed against the gathered lords like an iron hand.

The room fell silent in an instant.

Every voice stilled, every head turned, the weight of Sukuna’s presence swallowing the chaos as though it had never existed. The lords froze where they stood, their gazes fixed on him with a mixture of fear and reverence.

Sukuna’s crimson eyes swept over them, two half-lidded with faint amusement, while the others gleamed with a sharp, predatory focus. His grin widened slowly, deliberate and menacing, as though savoring the weight of their collective fear.

“Are you done?” he asked, his voice low and resonant, cutting through the silence like the crack of a whip.

The lords flinched, their discomfort palpable as they bowed their heads, some murmuring faint apologies under their breath.

Sukuna stepped forward, his movements slow but deliberate, his cursed energy rippling through the air like the distant rumble of thunder. He stopped at the edge of the dais, his gaze turning to me briefly before sweeping back to the gathered court.

“Let them come,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of absolute certainty. “I’ll enjoy this.”

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike, their finality pressing against the lords with a force that left no room for argument.

His grin sharpened, the faint gleam of his teeth catching the light as his crimson eyes burned with anticipation. “War is not a threat to me,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “It is an opportunity. And I suggest you remember that.”

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, their fear barely concealed as they bowed their heads again, their voices stilled by the suffocating weight of his presence.

Beside him, I straightened, the pulse of the choker steadying me as I met his gaze. His expression didn’t soften—not for me, not for anyone—but the faintest flicker of approval glinted in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of my place at his side.

The storm had come.

And Sukuna stood at its center, unshaken, unrelenting, and utterly unafraid.

The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of braziers casting shifting shadows across the lacquered walls. The faint hum of cursed energy lingered in the air, sharp and steady, as though the estate itself was bracing for what was to come.

I stood near the low lacquered table at the center of the room, my fingers brushing against its polished surface. Uraume sat cross-legged at the opposite end, their pale eyes sharp and focused, their usual composure carrying a subtle edge of tension.

Sukuna leaned against the far wall, his crimson robes pooling around him like molten fire. His four eyes gleamed faintly in the flickering light, their sharp intensity fixed on the map spread across the table.

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, until Sukuna finally spoke.

“They’ve been planning this for some time,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. His tone wasn’t angry—if anything, it carried a faint edge of amusement, as though the idea of an impending war was more of an inconvenience than a threat. “They wouldn’t dare move against me without reason. Or desperation.”

Uraume nodded, their fingers tracing the edge of the map. “The curse user who appeared today,” they began, their tone measured, “is Kaito of the Obsidian Claw. A known figure in the western regions. He’s ruthless and ambitious, but until now, he hasn’t had the power to challenge you directly.”

“And now he thinks he does,” I said, my voice calm but edged with defiance.

Uraume’s gaze flicked to me, their expression unreadable. “He wouldn’t have issued a challenge without allies. This isn’t just his doing. There are others—likely curse users and lesser lords dissatisfied with Sukuna’s rule. Their rebellion isn’t born of strength, but of collective arrogance.”

Sukuna chuckled, the sound low and sharp, reverberating through the room like the tolling of a distant bell. “Arrogance is easy to crush,” he said, his grin widening. “But collective arrogance? That could be entertaining.”

I glanced at him, my brow furrowing slightly. “You’re treating this like a game,” I said, my tone sharper than intended. “But they aren’t bluffing. Kaito isn’t the type to back down, not after a declaration like that.”

Sukuna’s gaze shifted to me, his grin softening into something colder, more deliberate. “And why should I be worried?” he asked, his voice laced with mockery. “Do you doubt my ability to handle this?”

“No,” I replied evenly, holding his gaze. “But dismissing them entirely would be a mistake. They’re betting on that arrogance.”

The air between us crackled faintly, the weight of his cursed energy brushing against my senses. But I didn’t falter.

“She’s right,” Uraume said suddenly, breaking the tension. “Kaito knows he can’t match your power alone. He’ll rely on numbers, on alliances that give the illusion of strength. He’ll strike where he believes you’re vulnerable—through your court, your lords, even your borders.”

Sukuna’s grin widened, his eyes narrowing with sharp amusement. “And let him try. It’s been far too quiet around here. A little chaos might do everyone some good.”

Uraume’s expression didn’t change, but their tone shifted, carrying a faint edge of urgency. “This isn’t just about the court, my lord. Kaito’s challenge today wasn’t just aimed at you. It was aimed at her.”

The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike.

I straightened, the pulse of the choker at my throat quickening as Sukuna’s gaze flicked back to me.

“Of course it was,” Sukuna said, his voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “They see her as the crack in my foundation. The weakness they can exploit.”

“They’re wrong,” I said sharply, my voice cutting through the tension.

Sukuna’s grin widened further, his expression gleaming with dangerous satisfaction. “Prove it, little witch,” he said softly, his tone both a challenge and a command.

Uraume’s gaze shifted between us, their pale eyes narrowing slightly. “If Kaito believes she’s the weak link, he’ll target her directly. He’ll aim to discredit her, to drive a wedge between her and the court. And if he succeeds, it won’t just weaken her—it’ll reflect on you.”

The weight of their words pressed against the room, the charged silence stretching taut.

I exhaled slowly, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “Then I’ll face him,” I said, my tone steady despite the tightness in my chest.

Sukuna chuckled, his voice low and resonant. “Oh, you’ll face him, little witch,” he said, his crimson eyes gleaming with sharp intent. “And when you do, you’ll remind him why he never should have dared to stand against me.”

Uraume’s lips pressed into a thin line, their expression unreadable as they inclined their head. “If we’re to prepare, we’ll need to gather intelligence—confirm his alliances, his movements, and the full extent of his plans. That will take time.”

“Time I’ll give you,” Sukuna said, his tone soft but carrying the weight of command. He turned to me, his grin softening into something sharper, more calculating. “But when the time comes, you’ll be ready. Won’t you?”

I met his gaze, the pulse of the choker steadying me as I straightened. “I’ll be ready.”

Sukuna’s grin widened, his satisfaction gleaming faintly in the flickering light. “Good,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Because war is coming. And I intend to enjoy every moment of it.”

Uraume inclined their head, their sharp, pale eyes lingering on Sukuna for a moment before flicking to me. There was something unsaid in their gaze—a quiet warning, perhaps, or an acknowledgment of the tension that crackled faintly in the air between us.

“Then I’ll see to the preparations,” Uraume said, their tone even but carrying an edge of finality.

Sukuna dismissed them with a wave of his hand, his focus already shifting. The door clicked shut behind Uraume, the faint sound swallowed by the thick, charged air of the room. The glow of the braziers cast flickering shadows across the lacquered walls, the firelight catching on Sukuna’s robes as he shifted. His cursed energy pressed outward in slow, deliberate waves, brushing against my senses like smoke curling around a flame.

I stood still, my heart thrumming steadily against the pulse of the choker at my throat. Sukuna didn’t speak immediately. He turned instead, his movements slow and deliberate, his crimson robes pooling around him like molten fire as he leaned against the low table.

When he finally looked at me, his four eyes held a dangerous gleam, their sharp intensity leaving no room for misinterpretation.

“You’re holding your own well, little witch,” he said, his tone carrying the faintest edge of amusement. “But tell me—are you truly as fearless as you pretend to be?”

I lifted my chin slightly, refusing to shrink under the weight of his gaze. “I don’t need to pretend,” I said evenly. “I’ve stood before you, haven’t I?”

His grin widened, slow and predatory, as he pushed off the table and began to move toward me. The air seemed to thrum with his presence, his cursed energy coiling tighter, sharper, as though testing the limits of my composure.

“Brave words,” he murmured, his voice low, a velvet rasp that sent a shiver racing down my spine. “But bravery and foolishness often walk hand in hand.”

“And which do you think I am?” I countered, forcing my voice steady despite the tension tightening my chest.

He stopped just a pace away, towering over me, his gaze burning with unspoken intent. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” he said softly, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. “You’re still standing, which is more than most can say. But standing and enduring are two different things.”

I didn’t flinch, even as his cursed energy brushed against me, warm and suffocating, its weight settling against my skin like a second heartbeat.

“Maybe you’re testing the wrong person,” I said, my voice sharp despite the heat building between us.

His grin deepened, his teeth catching the light like the gleam of a blade. “Oh, I know exactly who I’m testing,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower.

Before I could respond, he moved closer, his hand bracing against the wall beside my head with a sharp crack that sent a jolt through the air. His other hand found my waist, his grip firm but not painful, pulling me flush against the cool surface of the wall.

The heat of him was overwhelming, his cursed energy pressing against me with a force that left no space for air, no room for doubt. His crimson eyes burned into mine, their sharp intensity leaving my chest tight, my breath shallow.

“You’re different,” he said, his tone softening into something more deliberate, more dangerous. “You don’t tremble. You don’t break. And I can’t decide if that makes you clever—or reckless.”

“Maybe it makes me neither,” I said, my voice quieter now but edged with defiance.

His grin shifted, softening into something darker as his nose brushed lightly against my temple, his breath warm against my skin. “No,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. “It makes you mine.”

The words sent a rush of heat through me, the weight of their implication leaving me momentarily breathless. My hands twitched at my sides, caught between the instinct to push him away and the maddening pull that drew me closer.

“You assume too much,” I said finally, my voice steady despite the storm building between us.

His laughter was soft, a low rumble that vibrated against my senses. “Do I?” he asked, his tone dripping with mockery. “Or are you simply afraid to admit that you feel it too?”

I turned my head slightly, my gaze locking onto his with a sharp defiance I barely felt. “Feel what?”

His lower hand shifted, his thumb brushing lightly against the curve of my waist. “This pull,” he said softly. “This fire between us. You’re not blind to it—you’re just afraid of what it might burn.”

The air between us crackled like lightning, the pulse of the choker quickening against my throat as his cursed energy coiled tighter, pressing against me like a vice. His gaze dropped briefly to my lips, the motion deliberate, maddening, before returning to meet mine.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, my voice sharp but quiet, each word deliberate.

“No,” he said, his voice low, a quiet growl. “You’re afraid of yourself.”

The words hit harder than I expected, a blade that carved through the tension with unsettling precision. His upper left hand moved to tilt my chin upward, his claws brushing lightly against my jaw as he brought my face closer to his.

“I see it in you,” he murmured, his tone carrying a dark satisfaction. “The power you keep caged. The fire you’re too scared to let consume you. But it will, little witch. One way or another, it will.”

My breath hitched, the weight of his cursed energy suffocating, the heat of him leaving no space for thought, only sensation. His lips hovered just a breath away from mine, his gaze unrelenting, as though daring me to close the distance.

“Stop playing games,” I said, my voice trembling between defiance and something far more dangerous.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and resonant as his teeth grazed the edge of my jaw, the motion deliberate and maddeningly slow. “This isn’t a game,” he said, his voice a velvet rasp against my skin. “This is inevitability.”

The words hung heavily between us, the tension suffocating as the pull between us became unbearable. And then, just as suddenly, he pulled back, his cursed energy retreating like a tide, leaving the air cold and empty.

“Think on it,” he said, his grin sharp and triumphant as he stepped away. “You won’t resist forever.”

He disappeared into the shadows, his presence lingering in the faint hum of the choker and the wild thrum of my heartbeat. I leaned against the wall, my chest heaving as I fought to steady myself, the storm he left in his wake raging long after he was gone.

dividers by @strangergraphics

AUTHORS NOTE I'm trying my hardest to keep up a schedule of putting a new chapter out everyday, but my college classes have started up again, so be forewarned that I may not be able to have a new chapter out as consistently. I'll try my best to keep up, but know you have my sincerest apologies if I fail to make it.

TAGLIST @slutlight2ndver @surielstea @duhhitzstarr @arcanefeelings @numbuh666 @tejan-sunny @lavenderandoranges @after-laughter-comes-tears @maomimii @theplacetoputfics

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fashionsfromhistory · 2 years ago

Photo

Crocheted Evening Dress

Kostio de War

c.1938

Capitalizing on a broader enthusiasm for hand knitting that emerged in the mid-1930s, [Kostio de War] became famous for her unique hand-knit and crocheted evening gowns. Initially, she explored the idea in chenille thread, pairing sheaths in “loose, large mesh patterns” over slips of “lacquered satin,” as Women’s Wear Daily described in 1935. A sometimes enthusiast for surreal touches, she competed briefly with Elsa Schiaparelli for headlines, particularly when the latter also introduced several hand-knitted pieces in her winter 1935 collection. The U.S. press, however, found several distinct virtues in the elegantly practical garments made by Kostio de War: the dresses could be easily rolled up for travel and resisted wrinkling, while her heavier knitted metallic evening jackets could quickly dress up a simple dinner dress. In 1937, Paris-Soir reported on the popularity and practicality of knitted garments for sport as well as for evening wear, writing, “The more we lead busy lives, the more precious handmade goods become.” They announced that Mme. Kostio de War had recently unearthed in central Europe an amusing book from about 1830 containing instructions for a variety of unusual historical stitches, which she had used in crafting her latest collection: “For evening, she has created with threads of copper, steel, [and] platinum, gowns of the most rare sumptuousness.” In 1938, Denise Veber of the French paper Marianne called these “miracle” evening gowns of gold or silver very simple, but nevertheless of an almost magical (féerique) appearance. (Cora Ginsburg Auctions)

Cora Ginsburg Auctions (2020 Modern)

#evening dress #fashion history #vintage fashion #1930s #kostio de war #20th century #crochet #1938 #silver #cotton #france #up close #cora ginsburg auctions #popular

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luciacaminoz · 1 month ago

Note

APOLOGY for the gaslight gamerbro himself perhaps? idk i would just love it if you had a reason to make julian grovel for his wife just a lil

Hearts/Wires (2.2k, nsfw)

February 2021

Here’s the thing about Julian Sim: when he wants to gut you, he uses a scalpel, not a cleaver.

The main area of the penthouse haven is all dark wood, black marble, muted LED underglow—reeking ego.

Three neon-lit servers hum like a hive mind stacked neatly in a small, panelled alcove; on top, a lacquered black terminal and various split-screen monitors. There’s an entire wall of vintage gaming consoles and rare, limited edition collector’s items, all bespoke shelving and shiny sleek casing.

A cyber koi dominates another wall on a matte black canvas, silver and teal metallic paint catching light, glowing circuit-board patterns along the scales and through its fins. There’s an Eames chair beneath that; dark grey, horrific little Licker plush perfectly centered, and a thin, bioluminescent algae tank splits the space, tints everything in cyan.

Portishead’s Glory Box is an audio autopsy; drags lazily from somewhere.

Sol leans against the back of a leather suite by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching her first snowfall skirl thick over the city. Elena’s in the HQ sublevel garage; Nadia’s still spying downtown.

Julian’s fingers fly over a tablet.

“Hey,” he says.

Sol just glances over her shoulder.

He swivels in his chair, grinning—that fuckboy grin. That one.

“Got something for you.”

“If it’s another USB drive of NFTs I swear to god, Julian, I’m out.”

“Nope.” He stands, all lean lines in his stupidly expensive techwear, and gestures to a black case on the marble-topped kitchen island. “Open it.”

She saunters over, pops the latches.

Inside: a leather jacket—deep shade of grey-brown, oversized, buttery-soft, lined with Kevlar. The back’s embroidered with two tiny hummingbirds in black and silver thread; the cuffs studded with citrine and gunmetal hardware. Sewn into the pocket: a rosary—each bead delicately carved obsidian.

“Customized the Kevlar weave,” he says, too casual. “Stops .50 cals, UV-resistant, self-healing nano-fibers. Also, y’know. Looks hot on you.”

Sol runs a thumb over the hummingbirds.

“You had this made?”

“Nadia sourced the leather. I did the code for the nano-fibers.” He steps closer, smelling of designer cologne and mint gum—he’d held another 2100X lecture at the University of Denver earlier this evening. “And the embroidery’s mine. Took a week. Fuckin’… needlework.” He mimes stabbing himself. “Torture.”

Sol keeps her expression carefully neutral.

“You should’ve stuck to hacking.”

“Probably.” His grin fades.

The jacket’s perfect. Infuriatingly perfect. So perfect she wants to cry or hurl him through the ten-storey window. Instead, she shucks off her old one, slides into the new. It molds to her—alive.

Sol can’t help the small smile. Her palms run along the smooth leather and she turns to him with a brow raised, exaggerated bedroom-eyes: Like what you see?

Julian’s gaze darkens. He closes the distance and smirks as he fixes her collar, tucking loose hair behind her ear, and it’s like every drop of squirming vitae in her system suddenly streams towards his touch.

She slaps his hand away.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that. The… soft shit.”

He catches her wrist.

“You’re mad. I get it, Sol. Be fucking mad.” They’re chest-to-chest, her back against the counter, so close his breath ghosts her scar. “But let me at least try while you’re mad.”

“Try?” She snorts. “Try what? Try to fix this? You get fucking and fighting and nothing else. You don’t know the first—”

Julian drops to his knees.

Sol shivers.

Hands on both sides of her hips, his mouth laves a hot, pleading stripe up the inner seam of her jeans. Sol grips the counter’s edge, knuckles white.

“Julian,” she hisses, but her thighs part anyway. Fuck him. Fuck his pretty little mouth, fuck his goddamn eyes—wide and wet like he’s the one being gutted. She shoves him back, but he catches her foot, pressing a kiss to the snake at her ankle. “Fuck. You.”

“You first,” he murmurs, tugging her jeans down.

She should knee him in the fucking face. She should. Instead his breath scalds through the fabric of her underwear and she whines like a kicked dog. He noses her clit, deliberately slow, savoring.

Sol’s head thuds back against the cabinet. She fists his hair—god, his hair, still so fucking soft, no one but her allowed to mess with the stupid fucking coiff—and grinds down.

“Hate you.” It sounds laughable on the tail end of a moan.

“Mmhmm.” Julian drags her panties with his teeth, then bites the fleshy inside of her thigh hard enough to leave a bruise. Two fingers slide into her, curling exactly right, and she hates how he remembers her body. “Tell me again, Sol.”

She doesn’t. She can’t, because his tongue replaces his fingers, lapping at her like she’s the last O-neg he’ll ever fucking see. The whimper chokes out of her throat, sharp, shallow, broken. Julian groans against her, vibration ratcheting her even higher.

“Solona,” he rasps, fucking her with his tongue now, deep and filthy. “Missed you. Missed how you taste—”

Her legs almost give out. Her claws unfurl, digging into the marble.

“Shut—fuck—shut up—”

He doesn’t. It’s Julian—he talks; words muffled but relentless against her clit.

“I remember when you used to beg me not to stop—”

“Julian—”

“Beg.”

“Go to hell—”

He pulls back, cold air hitting her soaked cunt. Sol nearly sobs. He looks up at her, lips glistening, pupils huge.

“Say it.”

She slaps him.

He blinks; when he meets her eyes he’s smiling again—shit-eating, I’m-untouchable—but his hands tremble.

She holds his gaze for two seconds before her heel slams his shoulder.

Julian crashes back into the algae tank, cyan light rippling violently over the room. In that moment he looks scary; his fangs drop with one slick schlick, eyes flat black fucking fury—

Then he laughs.

“You’re savage tonight.” He staggers up, licking vitae from the cut on his palm. He sounds as unhinged as she feels, spreading his arms like some shitty messiah. “Okay, Solona. Hurt me.”

She’s on him, fangs bared, slamming him against the server wall. Monitors clatter; the Licker plush tumbles to the floor. Julian’s cock strains against his pants, and the scent of his blood—wired monsoon nights, algorithmic zips of lightning; hers, her Sire’s, mine mine mine—drags a guttural moan from deep in her chest.

“Hate you,” she sobs, clawing his shirt open. “HATE.”

“I know. I know—”

It’s not a kiss she pulls him into. It’s teeth and tongue and ten years of fucked-up festering feelings. Sol shreds his belt with her claws. He lifts her onto the marble counter, ice-cold against her bare skin, and she resents how easy it brings her back—how his hands stay gentle, how his cock twitches against her stomach, leaking and desperate, how she wants to curl up and keep him inside her forever.

“Sol, look at me,” he whispers.

“No.”

“Please.”

“You left,” she snarls.

“I came back. I was always coming back.”

“To use me.”

“And you let me. Is that what you want to hear?”

She slaps him again, harder, tips of her claws splitting skin; two thin jagged slices across his cheek bone.

The crack echoes. Julian’s head snaps sideways, hair falling over his eyes. He touches the blood blooming beneath his eye and just sighs.

“Feel better?”

“No.”

He cups her jaw, pressing his forehead to hers and Sol exhales a shuddering breath between them.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Forget it. Just fuck me.” Her eyes are steepling with red. She’s using every gram of composure to keep them from running over.

Julian fucks her like he’s trying to carve an apology into her bones. Sol fucks him like she’s digging a grave.

Her heels cut into the small of his back. The counter’s edge bites into her ass. He slows, angling deeper, hitting that spot that makes her vision white. It’s a conscious effort to retract the claws, but she does, finally gripping his shoulders, grasping the nape of his neck, their foreheads still tight together.

“Look at me.” Begging. Begging. “Solona, please.”

Sol opens her eyes and stares into him the way she did when she thought he hung the stars.

Then, tears.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—” The words glitch out of him—staccato, inelegant, cracking. His thumbs swipe, smearing blood like warpaint.

He kisses her. It’s clumsy. It’s not enough. It’s everything. His lips tremble against hers, hands cradling her face like she’s made of cracked glass.

She kisses him back, nails digging crescents into the softness of his neck. Blood mingles metallic and salt-bitter between them. Julian’s hips stutter, buried to the hilt, chest hitching.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he repeats against her mouth.

She doesn’t answer. She wraps her legs tighter around him. Her hips roll slow now, aching, like she’s trying to fuse their skeletons.

Julian matches her pace, each thrust deep and punctuated—I’m. Here. I’m. Here.

His kiss trails along the thin ridge of her scar, her throat, her collarbone, every mole and freckle he finds there. When she comes, it’s silent—clenching around him, full-body shudder. Julian follows with a choked groan, forehead to her sternum, watching mingled vitae paint her thighs.

For a long moment, they stay like that, suspended—sticky, bleeding, Julian’s arms locked around her waist like she’ll ash if he lets go.

The algae tank continues to pulse, low and steady.

Sol shoves him.

He stumbles back, red scratches across his cheek almost closed over, Dior shirt hanging in tatters. She eases off the counter, legs shaky, and stalks to the bathroom. Julian follows, silent, hovering in the doorway as she splashes cold water on her face.

“Sol—”

“Don’t. Please.”

He doesn’t.

She strips, steps into the shower. Julian leans against the sink, watching through the glass as steam fogs the edges of her silhouette. When she’s done, he’s there with a towel—

Sol snatches it, wrapping herself tight.

Julian’s fingers brush her wrist.

“Let me fix your hair.”

“Fuck off.”

He retrieves a comb from the drawer anyway.

She gives him a look… but perches on the toilet lid.

Julian kneels behind her, carefully detangling the damp mass of waves. He used to do this—since the first weeks after her Embrace, when her hair would snarl from Sonoran winds whipping through the Geo and in the later 00s after messier Camarilla hit jobs. His fingers move in gentle, practiced patterns.

“We’re so fucked up,” she mutters.

“Maybe.”

“Lettow should’ve killed us both in Tucson.”

His mouth twitches.

They don’t speak after that. She leans into his touch despite herself.

Julian finishes her hair, silently debating a shower. Not wanting to leave her alone long, he burns vitae to blur through the motions, veins sparking with hunger, then dresses in a faded Evangelion t-shirt and black sweatpants.

Ridiculous, giddying relief slumps his shoulders when he walks back out into the living area and finds Sol slouched in the Eames chair, toeing the Licker plush on the floor, wearing one of his older hoodies—still raiding his wardrobe even here, even now.

Snow whirls behind her in the darkness outside, choking Denver’s skyline. Her eyes are closed, head drooped, limbs heavy, and he feels it too—the pressure droning behind his brow bone, blood beginning to stick and clump as arteries dry up to collapse. Dawn’s close.

Julian rakes his fingers through damp, painfully mussed and un-styled hair, and grabs the prayer mat tucked in a compartment beside the arch leading to the bedroom. It’s silk, deep olive green and embroidered—ayat al-Kursi in delicate gold calligraphy.

“Prayer time,” he says lightly, mostly to bridge the awkwardness stretching between them.

Sol looks up and frowns. He’s paler than usual, deep circles under his eyes, movements sluggish as he hits in a key code on the far wall and then lays out his mat.

“Skip it.”

Julian pauses.

“You know I can’t.”

She strains and stands, grabbing the Licker plush and what can only be an incredibly expensive throw blanket from the arm of the leather suite.

Julian watches, an almost imperceptible tightening in his jaw, as she follows him over, drops both to the floor beside him, and lies down.

“Fucking hypocrite.” She sighs, eyes closing. “You think Allah’s cool with diablerie?”

“He’s cool with me surviving sunrise.” Julian shrugs. “I’ll be quick.”

She watches him kneel, forehead pressed to the rug, earring glinting as he rocks forward, and thinks he looks beautiful like this.

The murmured Arabic is a familiar rhythm. She’s listened to it a thousand times as a fledgling in their trailer, but tonight it aches differently.

When he finishes, he doesn’t move.

“Julian?”

“I meant what I said in Santa Fe, Sol. Monterrey’s yours if you want it,” he says quietly. “I’ll follow you. No scripts. No strings.”

“No backseat Blood Sorcery?”

He finally flashes a smile at her, but she’s still lying on her back, eyes closed. He rolls up the mat with quick precision, even half-dead and mid-dying, and crawls over.

“None.”

“Liar.” Sol opens her arms.

He collapses into her, face buried in the crook of her neck.

“Missed this,” he mumbles.

“Missed you whining through Fajr.”

“Mean.” He flicks her nipple through the fabric.

Sol tugs his hair just enough to hurt. Julian purrs, fucking purrs, like some deranged cat.

Right before daysleep takes her:

“...Thank you. For the jacket.”

Julian smiles against her skin.

“Wait til you see what’s in the garage.”

[ prompt list ]

#THANK YOU BREE <333 #x: exit wounds #jez writing #vtm night road #julian sim #oc: soledad #i hope this is ok.. little more serious but it was fun conceptualizing ^^#not gonna indent anymore bc when i do it on blocks of text like this it crashes my phone aghh. ill make an ao3 for easier format

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