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sttoru · 1 month

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sukunas fav concubine being bullied by the other concubines?? maybe they push her into the fountain 👀👀👀

·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. being bullied because you’re sukuna’s favorite concubine is nothing out of the ordinary. when sukuna finally notices the harassment you’re going through, he doesn’t hold back.

wc. 2.2k-ish

tags. true form!sukuna x concubine! female reader. fluff, angst (hurt to comfort). heian era. bullying. one mention of d.ecapitation. vile language. reader gets called ‘brat’. beta reading? what’s that

“she’s got nothing going on for her,” “right? i don’t get what he sees in her,” “tch—he’s only using her for her body anyway,” “duhh. he can’t be pleased by her looks. i mean, she’s really ugly. i bet he thinks of her as just ‘nother hole to use. . .”

and the shushed gossips continue. the concubines hanging around the garden have noticed your arrival, though do nothing to stop badmouthing you. they couldn’t care less if you hear what they say.

you’re used to it by now. you’ve adjusted to this life of yours as one of sukuna’s concubines. his favourite at that—which automatically makes you a victim of verbal (and sometimes physical) harassment. the other women in the ruthless sorcerer’s harem can’t stand you.

your eyes are glued to the path you’re walking on. your lady-in-waiting doesn’t utter a single word as well, holding her head low as she follows behind you. you know that the concubines will immediately pick on you if you make eye contact with one of them.

it’s moments like these where you actually miss sukuna. his intimidating presence and (in)direct threats would immediately make the others fall silent. you wouldn’t have to hear them call you nasty names.

though, unlucky you, sukuna’s out on business. uraume is left as a temporary supervisor of the entire estate. to make sure nothing goes wrong. despite all of that, you still find yourself in an unfortunate predicament.

“hey. we’re talking to you,” a female voice rings from behind you. it isn’t your lady-in-waiting, but the brown-haired woman whom you recognise as one of sukuna’s concubines. her name. . . you can’t recall.

she forcefully pushes your shoulder with two fingers. you stumble backwards, nearly tripping over the material of your kimono. you look down at the hem and notice a subtle muddy stain on the cloth now that you’ve accidentally stepped on it.

you curse the woman out under your breath. the kimono is one of your favorites since sukuna had it made and tailored to suit your taste.

“my apologies,” you mumble politely. you do not wish to make a scene as much as you want to defend yourself. not in front of those poor servants who are simply minding their business and tending to the garden.

the lady scoffs. another one joins. soon, four of them surround you, leaving you no place to escape the situation. with every step you take back, they take one forward. it’s intimidating, though you try to make it seem like you’re not afraid of their words.

“tell me,” the blonde one speaks up and her hand trails up your arm. she twirls a strand of your hair around her index finger before harshly tugging at it. you wince, but she doesn’t budge, “tell me what sukuna sees in a worthless slut like you.”

it’s about sukuna every time. you’re getting sick of the way they treat you because of something you can’t control. you don’t know why he favors you out of all the other women at his service. the way you’re treated because of something that you cannot change is getting frustrating.

the brown-haired woman follows the other lady. she pushes you until the back of your shoe bumps against the edge of a fountain. the grande fountain in the yard that you always love to admire.

the tugs at your hair get stronger. your patience is wearing thin. you take some time to reply to the other concubines, hoping to silence them for now.

you look up at the group surrounding you—a grin tugging at your lips as you decide to taunt them. you scoff, “hah. you cannot blame me for satisfying my lord better than all of you could do together.”

audible gasps sound from the group of concubines. they can’t believe you had the audacity to talk back and be disrespectful about it. the comment you made clearly struck a nerve. or in this case multiple.

“oh, you slut!” the blonde one shrieks, clearly more than upset by your doubts about her services as a concubine. in a flash of rage, she gives you a firm push, sending you backwards until you fall into the fountain with a loud splash.

your lady-in-waiting is the one gasping this time. she looks at you with great worry in her eyes, not knowing if she needs to go fetch uraume or not. she doesn’t have much say in the matter either way.

you’re humiliated by this. you can feel the water seep into the robes of your kimono, staining the beloved material. your hair is wet as well, the water droplets falling off the ends of your locks.

“pah, you look pathetic,” one of the lower ranking concubines chimes in—giggling at the unfortunate situation you got yourself in. the others follow with their own high pitched laughs, “serves you right.”

you don’t even know what you should do. your body feels heavy because of the water wetting your clothes. your nails drag along the fountain’s surface, trying to compose yourself before you do anything irrational.

you grit your teeth and take a deep breath. you’re shaking, both because of the cold settling over your body as well as the anger simmering inside of you. you open your mouth to say something, only to be interrupted.

by someone you didn’t expect to see any time soon.

“enough.”

the deep tone sends chills down your spine. the volume of the male voice nearly shakes the ground. it’s powerful, dominant and quite aggressive. as if the owner of the voice is pissed. no, more than that.

the group of concubines freeze, not even daring to turn around and face the unexpected visitor. you notice your lady-in-waiting immediately falling to her knees, bowing at the man whom you know very well.

“my lord,” you stammer out, being the first to speak up and address him. you’re surprised to see sukuna back this early from his business trip. he normally stays away from the estate for days on end.

sukuna’s footsteps are heavy. his strides are menacingly slow. the aura surrounding him makes the others shake—one concubine being smart enough to bow to him. the king of curses is not one to be messed with, especially when he’s angry.

“tsk. have you lost all your respect while i was gone?” sukuna growls, seeing how the group of concubines are frozen in place with fearful expressions on their faces. the fact that they’re not bowing before him worsens his temper, “kneel.”

he raises one hand and they all knew what was going to happen. you squeal and shut your eyes, hearing that familiar and dooming sound of slashes around you. it doesn’t sound like they’ve hit anything, so you peek through your eyelashes.

you see how the group of women have dropped to their knees the instant sukuna raised his hand in that specific manner. everyone knew just what that meant; death to anyone who’s got their head held high in his presence.

you’ve all seen enough people get decapitated by that same action to know that the sorcerer was not playing around.

sukuna scoffs. he walks up towards you, ignoring the pleas of the other concubines that are begging for his forgiveness. his bottom set of eyes look down at them with disdain before focusing on your figure again.

he silently stands still at the edge of the fountain. his large frame looms over you and you find yourself struggling to get up from the water to bow at him as well. you keep your eyes on your lap, “i’m sorry, my lord.”

sukuna hisses at your apology. a warning for you to shut your mouth. you’re apologising when it’s not your fault and that irritates him more than anything. two of his strong arms reach down to pick you up from your vulnerable position.

the king of curses hoists you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. he’s not bothered by the fact that you’re dripping wet. in fact, both of his left arms wrap around your torso in attempt to warm you up.

“stay. you’ll all be dealt with accordingly when i return,” sukuna harshly orders your aggressors as he turns around and walks away from the group. he carries you in his arms, not sparing a single glance at his concubines.

he doesn’t even care that he stepped on one of the women’s hands as he passed by. the high pitched shriek only serves to annoy him, which you notice by the way he squeezes your waist in response.

it’s silent between you two for a bit. sukuna steps inside of the estate, his ominous aura making you hesistant to speak. you decide to stay quiet for the sake of keeping the peace. for now.

sukuna’s breathing is a little heavy. he’s trying not to lash out or say anything hurtful. he doesn’t like raising his voice at you—but sometimes he feels like he needs to. especially when you land in situations like those.

“how long has this been going on?” sukuna asks through a heavy sigh. his red eyes are focused on the end of the hallway, where his chambers lay. the veins in his neck look like they could pop out any second now, “and don’t you dare fuckin’ lie to me, y’hear?”

you gulp. you’ve never been so nervous to answer him, ever. you attempt to respond, “uhm, for quite a while, my lord.”

sukuna breathes in sharply at the revelation. the fact that you did not specify your answer only made him think that it’s worse than you’re making it out to be. he stops in his tracks, two hands on your waist as he forces you to face him.

your body dangles in the air as sukuna makes you look at him from up close, showing you that dangerous look in his eyes. you do not dare to avert your gaze from his as he speaks.

“you should’ve told me the moment they started disrespecting you like that,” sukuna grunts. another big hand grabs your jaw firmly, squeezing your cheeks together. you whine as it hurt a little. he scoffs and releases your jaw with a light push, “pathetic.”

you feel your body get thrown into your original position once more. your head is upside down and your legs hang limply over his shoulder. you try to defend yourself in a quiet tone, “i thought you were too busy. i didn’t want to bother you with such unimportant matters.”

it’s true. as much as you wanted to tell sukuna about the mistreatment you were receiving, you knew how busy he was attending to more urgent business. you didn’t want to annoy him with your own problems that you could easily solve.

if only you could stand up for yourself.

“nonsense,” sukuna raises his voice in a moment of weakness, though remembers that you’ve probably been through enough for the day. he doesn’t need to add to that by treating you like shit as well.

he simply sighs it off, “unimportant, huh? ‘s that how you think i view you?”

you raise an eyebrow at sukuna’s last sentence. you’re at a loss for words. you know sukuna values you more than any of his other concubines—it’s the main reason you’re getting bullied for—yet you never heard him speak to you in such a surprisingly soft way.

almost like he’s disappointed that you don’t realise the extent of his favoritsm. he cares about you more than you actually think he does.

“i-i’m sorry, my lord,” you stutter. you really do not have a clue about what to say. all you can do is apologise as you’re left overthinking that one little sentence he said.

“what a brat,” sukuna quickly regains his usual stoic and stern composure. he reaches his chambers and enters his personal bathroom before putting you down on your feet. he looks down at your short stature, feeling the warmth of your body leave his skin once you’re separated.

sukuna watches you shiver. he wants to get angry at you for not telling him about anything that’s been going on while he’s not present, though he simply cannot at the moment.

he’ll let you off the hook for now. but, he’s surely going to give you your own special scolding after he’s taken care of the other concubines. the man grabs a large towel from nearby and messily wraps it around your upper body.

sukuna turns around to walk out of his bathroom, looking over his shoulder once more, “get dressed into something else before you catch a cold.”

he calls for a couple servants to tend to you while he’s away to take care of those deviant concubines. sukuna watches the three maids rush to your service, preparing you a new set of clothes as well as trying to dry you off.

his gaze lingers on you for more than is necessary, his jaw clenching at the sight of you trembling from the low temperatures you’re experiencing. sukuna’s going to make sure those other women pay for what they’ve done to you.

he leaves the bathroom after that, though not without leaving you an order to follow;

“you’re staying in my chambers tonight.”

#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #jjk x you #sukuna x you #jjk x y/n #sukuna x y/n #jjk fluff #jjk angst #sukuna fluff #sukuna angst

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blingschlingers-blog · 7 months

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suzannahnatters · 1 year

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So here's one of the coolest things that has happened to me as a Tolkien nut and an amateur medievalist. It's also impacted my view of the way Tolkien writes women. Here's Carl Stephenson in MEDIEVAL FEUDALISM, explaining the roots of the ceremony of knighthood: "In the second century after Christ the Roman historian Tacitus wrote an essay which he called Germania, and which has remained justly famous. He declares that the Germans, though divided into numerous tribes, constitute a single people characterised by common traits and a common mode of life. The typical German is a warrior. [...] Except when armed, they perform no business, either private or public. But it is not their custom that any one should assume arms without the formal approval of the tribe. Before the assembly the youth receives a shield and spear from his father, some other relative, or one of the chief men, and this gift corresponds to the toga virilis among the Romans--making him a citizen rather than a member of a household" (pp 2-3). Got it?

Remember how Tolkien was a medievalist who based his Rohirrim on Anglo-Saxon England, which came from those Germanic tribes Tacitus was talking about? Stephenson argues that the customs described by Tacitus continued into the early middle ages eventually giving rise to the medieval feudal system. One of these customs was the gift of arms, which transformed into the ceremony of knighthood: "Tacitus, it will be remembered, describes the ancient German custom by which a youth was presented with a shield and a spear to mark his attainment of man's estate. What seems to the be same ceremony reappears under the Carolingians. In 791, we are told, Charlemagne caused Prince Louis to be girded with a sword in celebration of his adolescence; and forty-seven years later Louis in turn decorated his fifteen-year-old son Charles "with the arms of manhood, i.e., a sword." Here, obviously, we may see the origin of the later adoubement, which long remained a formal investiture with arms, or with some one of them as a symbol. Thus the Bayeux Tapestry represents the knighting of Earl Harold by William of Normandy under the legend: Hic Willelmus dedit Haroldo arma (Here William gave arms to Harold). [...] Scores of other examples are to be found in the French chronicles and chansons de geste, which, despite much variation of detail, agree on the essentials. And whatever the derivation of the words, the English expression "dubbing to knighthood" must have been closely related to the French adoubement" (pp 47-48.)

In its simplest form, according to Stephenson, the ceremony of knighthood included "at most the presentation of a sword, a few words of admonition, and the accolade." OK. So what does this have to do with Tolkien and his women? AHAHAHAHA I AM SO GLAD YOU ASKED. First of all, let's agree that Tolkien, a medievalist, undoubtedly was aware of all the above. Second, turn with me in your copy of The Lord of the Rings to chapter 6 of The Two Towers, "The King of the Golden Hall", when Theoden and his councillors agree that Eowyn should lead the people while the men are away at war. (This, of course, was something that medieval noblewomen regularly did: one small example is an 1178 letter from a Hospitaller knight serving in the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem which records that before marching out to the battle of Montgisard, "We put the defence of the Tower of David and the whole city in the hands of our women".) But in The Lord of the Rings, there's a little ceremony.

"'Let her be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone.' 'It shall be so,' said Theoden. 'Let the heralds announce to the folk that the Lady Eowyn will lead them!' Then the king sat upon a seat before his doors and Eowyn knelt before him and received from him a sword and a fair corselet."

I YELLED when I realised what I was reading right there. You see, the king doesn't just have the heralds announce that Eowyn is in charge. He gives her weapons.

Theoden makes Eowyn a knight of the Riddermark.

Not only that, but I think this is a huge deal for several reasons. That is, Tolkien knew what he was doing here.

From my reading in medieval history, I'm aware of women choosing to fight and bear arms, as well as becoming military leaders while the men are away at some war or as prisoners. What I haven't seen is women actually receiving knighthood. Anyone could fight as a knight if they could afford the (very pricy) horse and armour, and anyone could lead a nation as long as they were accepted by the leaders. But you just don't see women getting knighted like this.

Tolkien therefore chose to write a medieval-coded society, Rohan, where women arguably had greater equality with men than they did in actual medieval societies.

I think that should tell us something about who Tolkien was as a person and how he viewed women - perhaps he didn't write them with equal parity to men (there are undeniably more prominent male characters in The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, at least, than female) but compared to the medieval societies that were his life's work, and arguably even compared to the society he lived in, he was remarkably egalitarian.

I think it should also tell us something about the craft of writing fantasy.

No, you don't have to include gut wrenching misogyny and violence against women in order to write "realistic" medieval-inspired fantasy.

Tolkien's fantasy worlds are DEEPLY informed by medieval history to an extent most laypeople will never fully appreciate. The attitudes, the language, the ABSOLUTELY FLAWLESS use of medieval military tactics...heck, even just the way that people travel long distances on foot...all of it is brilliantly medieval.

The fact that Theoden bestows arms on Eowyn is just one tiny detail that is deeply rooted in medieval history. Even though he's giving those arms to a woman in a fantasy land full of elves and hobbits and wizards, it's still a wonderfully historically accurate detail.

Of course, I've ranted before about how misogyny and sexism wasn't actually as bad in medieval times as a lot of people today think. But from the way SOME fantasy authors talk, you'd think that historical accuracy will disappear in a puff of smoke if every woman in the dragon-infested fantasy land isn't being traumatised on the regular.

Tolkien did better. Be like Tolkien.

#tolkien #middle earth #jrr tolkien #lord of the rings #lotr #the lord of the rings #eowyn #writing fantasy #fantasy #female characters #writing #historical fiction #medieval women #medieval history #medieval #history #womens history

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smileysuh · 5 months

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after the seminar

🌙 staring. Wonwoo x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. In truth, Wonwoo has been tired. You haven’t fucked since the first night of the seminar, and although that was only two days ago, you’re definitely feeling the loss. On top of that, being wined and dined and looked after always makes you hornier than usual, and Wonwoo has been extra ‘husband’ today. He’s just so perfect. Well-mannered, kind, educated- God, you want him so bad.

tw/cw. sugar daddy Wonwoo, gentleman in the streets/softdom in the sheets, reader doesn't want to make choices, daddy/control kink, fingering, multiple orgasms, oral, blow job, deep throating, dirty talk, praise, masturbation, unprotected sex, holding hands while fucking, implied breeding/fullness kink, etc… I pet names: (hers) honey. (his) daddy.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 6.3k

🍭 aus. sugar daddy au, established relationship, fiance!Wonwoo, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. I know not everyone is into this level of sugar daddy control, but I think there's something to be said about the trust that reader has for Wonwoo. Sometimes I just wanna shut up and let a man do all the work, and today, that man is Wonwoo

Wonwoo’s had few loves in his life. During university, he’d had a love for law, a need to do what was right. In his thirties, he’d found a new soulmate in legislative procedures related to the sustainability and efficiency of whole cities. Finance had been another long-winded lover, and now, on the cusp of forty, Wonwoo’s found the one thing in the world he loves most, you.

Holding your hand while he drives through the city, Wonwoo can’t help but keep some of his attention on you.

Dressed in a tight-fitting red dress he’d bought you for your six-month anniversary in Paris, with your hair and makeup done, you look as stunning as ever. There’s a fat rock on your wedding finger, an engagement ring signifying his loyalty to you, and Wonwoo can’t help himself but play with it a little anytime your hands are linked.

As he makes a turn onto a busy street, the sun practically blinds him, and Wonwoo immediately lets go of you to adjust his visor. You make no movement, so he pulls yours down too, enjoying the way you flash him a small smile and whisper a ‘thank you.’

“You look lost in thought,” he muses, having noted your gaze fixed on the sidewalk trees passing by outside your window. “What’s on your mind?”

“Just thinking about seminar topics,” you admit.

Over the past three days, you’ve accompanied him to multiple talks focused on accessibility, affordability, and green solutions within cities like yours. Tonight marks the last evening of the event, and the two of you are headed to a meet-up with some of Wonwoo’s closest lawyer friends.

Wonwoo loves how diligently you’ve thrown yourself into his work-focused world. Not only do you attend the seminars with him, but you truly make an effort to learn, and that’s never more obvious than when conversing with his colleagues.

Wonwoo’s best friend, Kim Mingyu, has entertained a string of sugar baby relationships, and despite inviting three or four of those women to events like the one you’ve just accompanied Wonwoo to, none of Mingyu’s girls ever took to it the way you do.

You’re one of a kind, and Wonwoo knows how lucky he is to have you.

“I’m sure Seungcheol will have a few things to say about the housing crisis talk,” Wonwoo notes. Choi Seungheol, who had started in law and made the leap to real estate. He now owns half of the new developments being built downtown, and Wonwoo knows this will spur a contentious discussion later.

“He can’t argue with the stats,” you sigh, turning to look at Wonwoo, who threads his fingers with yours again.

“He can try,” Wonwoo smiles softly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

You return the smile, turning your attention out the window again.

You’re not voicing anything, but Wonwoo can read you like a book. It used to be his job to pay attention to body language, and while he tries to stay humble, people have called him something of a mind reader.

“It’s been an exhausting three days,” he notes. “We don’t have to be out for long tonight, I’m sure we both need our rest.”

“Hansol flies to New York tomorrow morning,” you remind him. “I want you to have as much time with him as you need before he’s gone.”

Your relationship is always something like this, the two of you caring for each other so deeply that you constantly make small concessions. As always, though, the ball is in Wonwoo’s court. He appreciates the way you can feel to him like an intellectual equal while still being submissive in other senses, although he never abuses this power over you.

He’ll keep an eye on you tonight, and when he notices you getting tired, or your energy depleting, he’ll excuse the both of you from drinks and take you back to his place. Then, he’ll take care of you in the ways only he knows how.

You love Wonwoo. You love him for the big things, his character, his good heart- but you love him for the little things too, the way nothing slips past his line of focus. He’s always a hundred percent on and present with you, holding open every door, guiding you by the small of your back, and pulling out your chair first when you join his friends on the top floor restaurant in the most expensive hotel in the city.

“You look amazing,” Mingyu compliments you, flashing you a toothy grin before standing to greet Wonwoo with a hug. “You definitely know how to pick them,” he praises his friend.

“And look at that ring,” Seungcheol has zeroed in on the diamond on your finger, and he reaches across the table to take your hand and get a better look at it. Wonwoo’s eldest friend has always had an eye for luxury, and he studies the oval rock and silver-colored band. “I’d ask if this is sterling,” he muses, “but if I were a betting man, which I am, I’d say it’s white gold.”

Seungcheol lifts his eyes to meet yours, waiting for an affirmative, which you give with a nod. “You know your metals, Mister Choi.”

“How many times do I have to tell you,” he lifts your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingers, “It’s Seungcheol.”

“Stop flirting with Wonwoo’s girl,” Hansol tuts, pushing at Seungcheol’s shoulder.

The elder man makes a face, brushing off his expensive suit. “Not flirting,” he clarifies. “Although,” his gaze shifts to you again, “if you have any hot friends-”

“Aish,” Wonwoo has rejoined the conversation after greeting Mingyu, and he takes the seat next to you, his arm casually coming around the back of your chair to pull you closer. “What have I told you about asking her for favors?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Sungcheol sighs, sitting back and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “She’s one in a million, aren’t ya, little miss future Jeon to be?”

“Try one in a billion,” Wonwoo corrects, hand finding your thigh now that he’s pulled you close enough. “Have you three ordered drinks yet?”

“We were waiting on you,” Mingyu says, handing Wonwoo a cocktail menu, which he settles between you both so you can also read it. “Their margaritas are pretty good.”

You quickly find a drink you’d like to try, and you wordlessly reach out a manicured nail to tap on it. Wonwoo follows your motion, giving a curt nod, then he leans in to press his lips to your cheek. He waves down the waiter a moment later, and orders you your drink, sparing you the socialization.

This is yet another one of those little things Wonwoo does for you that you find incredibly sexy, and you tuck closer to him, placing your hand over his own on your thigh.

“We should talk about the elephant in the room,” Mingyu sighs, drawing all eyes. You have no idea what he’s about to say, and then he hits the four of you with, “Cheol, you have to admit your new high rises aren’t sustainable or affordable.”

“They’re called luxury suits for a reason,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I’m not in the business of affordable housing.”

Wonwoo grins next to you, looking down and squeezing your hand gently. It’s funny how amusing he finds this whole thing.

“Don’t smirk like that, Woo,” Seungcheol tuts. “As if you didn’t do a walk-through of a penthouse suite in my new highrise last week.”

This is news to you, and you turn to look at your boyfriend. You’re generally not one to question him, and luckily you don’t have to, because Kim Mingyu is just as nosey as you’d sometimes like to be. “You checked out a penthouse? I thought you loved your apartment?”

“I’ve had it for years,” Wonwoo says, and you can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “However, I can admit that the amenities at Cheol’s new builds are quite impressive.”

“Amenities,” Seungcheol scoffs. “As if that’s what you were actually interested in.”

The two powerful men share a look, and it’s a battle of wills that makes your heart thump loudly in your chest.

What was Wonwoo interested in?

He’s never talked to you about moving, and you’ve been living with him for nearly a year. Besides, Mingyu’s right, Wonwoo adores his apartment. He’s had it forever and it’s decorated exactly the way he likes it. Your bedroom is a lovely corner location with views of the whole city, and his home office is a sanctuary you’ve loved to desecrate.

“We’ll talk about this more another time,” Wonwoo says finally, looking up as your waiter appears with a tray of drinks.

Your cocktail is set in front of Wonwoo, and he gently pushes it toward you before reaching down to give your thigh a squeeze under the table. He picks up his Old Fashioned with his free hand, and Seungcheol raises his own glass in a toast. “To friends and new engagements!”

Seungcheol nods to you before taking a sip of his scotch, and it fills your body with heat to know his friends truly respect and like you. They’re happy to have you joining as a permanent member of their social sphere.

You place your hand on top of Wonwoo’s as you bring your cocktail to your lips.

The discussion moves to details about sustainability, and the men at the table trade opinions on the seminars. Mingyu is fast in his manner of speaking, always intent to prove his point. Cheol is loud and boisterous, scoffing at opinions that don’t align with his own. Hansol is often quiet, but he makes good notes ever so often, and they make the whole table sit and think. And your Wonwoo is as calm and judicial as always, listening to his friends with a contemplative expression even while his thumb draws small circles on your thigh.

You give your own two cents a few times, and your musings are always the most well-received. None of the men at the table are about to pick a fight with you, and they’re attentive whenever you open your mouth, nodding and making one or two comments before getting heated with each other again.

The waiter comes and Seungcheol orders a few appetizers while Wonwoo opens the menu for you. When Wonwoo begins to list three of his own items, you tap your finger on the one you’d like most and he voices that as well.

God, how you love the fact that you only have to lift one little finger with Wonwoo while he does the rest. You really aren’t in a super talkative mood, especially when it comes to mundane tasks like ordering food and drinks. You save your voice to join in on the intellectual conversation taking place, and you prefer things this way.

Seungcheol and Wonwoo begin to argue over rezoning laws, and Hansol turns toward you, leaning closer. “Congratulations on your engagement,” he smiles.

“Thank you,” you grin back.

“Have you guys talked about wedding plans yet?”

Out of all the people in the world, you didn’t think Chwe Hansol would be one of the first to ask you about wedding details.

“We’re thinking destination,” you admit.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Hansol laughs. “And an expensive honeymoon too I bet.”

“Of course,” you grin, playing with the stem of your cocktail glass. “Although, if I’m being honest…” you lean closer to Hansol, lowering your voice while Wonwoo and Seungcheol continue to argue, “as much as I like the lifestyle I have with Wonwoo, you know I’m happy just to be with him.”

“But the expensive trips are a bonus I bet,” Hansol grins.

“I mean… would you say no to a trip to the Maldives?”

Wonwoo’s friend shakes his head, still smiling. “Never.”

“When are you going to find someone?” you ask. Out of all of Wonwoo’s close friends, Hansol is the most level-headed. He’s stable, and kind, and if you weren’t so into Wonwoo, you’d even admit Hansol is quite handsome in his own way.

“Someday,” Hansol sighs. “Maybe you’ll have cute bridesmaids at your wedding.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” you assure him.

Hansol laughs. “I’d appreciate that.”

Food begins to arrive at the table, and you sit up straight again, tucking close to Wonwoo. He’s done this thing, ever since your first date, where he helps plate food for you, and for some reason, it’s always been a huge turn-on.

You like getting baby girl treatment, and you watch Wonwoo with a grin while he cuts through some carpaccio and sets up a piece for you. He makes sure to get a little bit of everything on your plate before putting anything on his own, and his friends are already digging in by the time he’s gotten the both of you settled.

“Do you want anything else?” he asks, always the type to be certain he’s pleased you.

“This looks perfect,” you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, lingering by his ear so he’s the only one who can hear you when you say, “Thank you, Daddy.”

Wonwoo reaches down and squeezes your thigh, the only sign you have that your words have done something to him. He’s not the type to be big on PDA, and it’s the little things like a constant touch, or acts of service, that remind you he loves you as much as you love him.

You wait for Wonwoo to lift a carpaccio bread spread to his lips before you reach for your own, mirroring his motions so you can experience the food together.

You hadn’t been a carpaccio fan before meeting Wonwoo, but he’s expanded your pallet in the time you’ve known him, and you’re extremely thankful for this opportunity - as well as others - that he’s provided for you.

“Look at you two loved-up foodies,” Seungcheol sighs from across the table, watching you with eyes trained to assess.

Wonwoo only grins, reaching for his drink to take a sip. You follow that motion too, smirking over the rim of your glass before downcasting your eyes.

There’s no need to respond to Seuncheol’s comment because it’s an apt description of the pair of you.

“Stop being jealous,” Mingyu grins, reaching out to push at Seungcheol’s shoulder.

“Never going to happen,” Seungcheol retorts.

You know he’s in the market for a sugar baby, and Wonwoo’s told you how often Seungcheol brings you up when you’re not around. Apparently, his eldest friend is adamant that you’re one of the most perfect sugar babies he’s ever seen, and you wonder if maybe you should try to hook him up with one of your friends at the wedding. Give Cheol the Hansol treatment. However, in contrast to Hansol’s laid-back expectations, you’d have to give your Cheol-intended friend a cheat sheet booklet on how to please a rich man.

“Just watch,” Seungcheol continues, “these two are going to sneak off early and go to the bathroom or something. They’re sitting much too close together, and we’ve all noticed Wonwoo’s hand under the table.”

To show his innocence, Wonwoo lifts the hand in question. “We’re not doing anything,” he assures his friends calmly. “Although… unfortunately, we will have to leave early after appetizers.”

This is news to you, and you look at Wonwoo for further clarification, which he gives when pressed by Seungcheol.

“It’s been a long seminar,” Wonwoo explains, letting out a sigh of exhaustion. “I’d say Honey needs her beauty rest, but I think we all know I’m not so nice when I’ve been sleep deprived.”

You love it when he calls you Honey, in fact, he uses that name for you more than your legal one.

Seungcheol lets out a groan, but he doesn’t push further, because Wonwoo’s excuse is true. He’s never been rude to you when tired, but he definitely has a ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude when he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed.

“We’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning,” Mingyu agrees. “Maybe I should get another drink and call it a night too.”

“Come on Gyu,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I’ll let these two ditch, but this is Hansol’s last night in the city, I thought we could go to a roof on one of my new waterfront builds and hit some golf balls at the sea.”

“Right, because that’s very environmentally friendly,” Wonwoo tuts.

“Jesus, you are tired, aren’t you?” Seungcheol laughs.

It’s a rhetorical question, and Wonwoo simply lifts another appetizer to his mouth, chewing with a tight-lipped grin.

In truth, Wonwoo has been tired. You haven’t fucked since the first night of the seminar, and although that was only two days ago, you’re definitely feeling the loss. On top of that, being wined and dined and looked after always makes you hornier than usual, and Wonwoo has been extra ‘husband’ today.

He’s just so perfect. Well-mannered, kind, educated-

God, you want him so bad.

You take a sip of your cocktail again before resting your hand on Wonwoo’s thigh, and he stops what he’s doing to look down at your fingers toying with his pants. Then his gaze rises to you, and he cocks his head slightly, obviously a little stunned by how forward you’re being tonight.

It’s such a small motion, but it speaks volumes, and when paired with a small flutter of your lashes, Wonwoo reads you like he reads the books in his impressive office library.

Part of you wants to toy with him, wants to tease your touch up to his crotch just to see if you can get him hard at dinner with his friends, but you know that would lead to something akin to consequence.

As easy as it is for Wonwoo to read you, he’s not such an open book and his reactions vary drastically. You don’t want to push your luck today, not after you’ve been such a good girl for him for three seminars straight.

You remove your hand before playing with fire gets you burned, and the two of you continue to finish your appetizers. Each bite is one step closer to leaving with Wonwoo, but you try to take your time, try not to be too glutenous to make way for lust.

Wonwoo finished eating and he lifts his drink with his left hand, his right palm finding your thigh again. His touch is soothing, gentle, but it still stirs a fire within you.

You shift your knee, letting it rest against his, and you sip your cocktail trying to pay attention to what Mingyu’s saying about the stock market.

Wonwoo is generally quite the stocks man. He pays attention to Mingyu, but you can tell his focus is still partially on you, and you reach down to play with his fingers, enjoying how pretty his hands are.

You need him so badly.

That’s when you realize Wonwoo has almost finished his drink, and you quickly grab at yours too, wanting to reach the bottom of your own cup.

You’ve not been drinking since the seminar started, and the booze in your cocktail definitely heightens your senses. An electric tingle consumes your form, and it’s getting harder to ignore the panties sticking to your core.

The conversation reaches a lull, and Wonwoo lets out a sigh, squeezing your legs. “Well, it’s been fun,” he says, “but Honey and I should get going.”

“One more drink,” Seungcheol practically begs, already lifting a hand to call over a waiter.

“Not tonight,” Wonwoo says, soft but firm.

He stands up first, grabbing your hand to help you out of your own seat. “Good luck with your flight tomorrow, Hansol,” he nods to the man on your right.

“Good luck with wedding planning,” Hansol retorts, rising from his chair to pull you and Wonwoo into a hug.

Hansol’s not usually a touchy guy, and the hug means something. It’s a true acceptance that you’re permanently a part of Wonwoo’s life, and it means the world to you.

“Now I want a hug,” Mingyu also stands, holding out his arms for you and Wonwoo.

With a laugh, your fiance’s hand finds the small of your back and he guides you into Mingyu’s warm embrace, trapping you between their large bodies.

Now you’re really turned on.

Seungcheol doesn’t stand, he simply watches, lips all pouty. “Let me know about that penthouse,” he muses. “I’ve got some foreign buyers already wanting a walk through and I won’t hold it forever.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Wonwoo promises, giving one last nod to Seungcheol before he begins to guide you out of the restaurant.

As you make it to the front desk, Wonwoo stops and addresses the staff member there. “I’m going to take care of my table’s bill tonight.”

“I’ll put it on your tab, Mr. Jeon.” She nods, typing something into the ipad infront of her.

“That was kind of you,” you muse as Wonwoo escorts you into the elevator that will lead to the underground where his expensive Mercedes is parked.

“We’re leaving early, it’s the least I could do.”

“You know… I hope we didn’t leave on my account,” you say, thinking about the conversation you’d had in the car earlier.

Wonwoo leans down close to you, grinning. “I can safely say we left due to my own personal needs, although they’re not sleep-related.”

“You really like this dress, don’t you, Daddy?” you smile, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck while his hands settle on your hips.

“I like what’s under it,” he retorts, which is a cheeky response by Wonwoo’s standards.

“Been missing my body, haven’t you?”

“More than you realize.”

Wonwoo had kept his composure on the drive home. He’d even kept his hands mostly to himself on the way up to your apartment, but your stoic lover is on you the moment the door to your home is closed behind you both.

He presses you up against the wall, grabbing your waist and tugging you close while simultaneously blocking you up against the hard surface at your back. His lips are hot against your own, his tongue invading your mouth and making you giggle as you grab the front of his shirt, already popping buttons open.

You release a moan when he reaches down and cups your core, pushing up your dress to access your lacey panties. “Where do you want it, honey?” he asks, biting at your lip.

“I don’t want to think tonight,” you admit, tired from days of brain power.

You love that Wonwoo likes to check in with you. He’s not the type to simply throw you over a kitchen counter and rail you when you might prefer the bed or even the shower- but at the same time, as soon as you give him full control, Wonwoo’s very good at taking charge.

“I’ll take care of you,” Wonwoo promises, pushing your panties to the side so he can slide two fingers against your heated core. You can feel how wet you are, and the contact against your clit has you whining, grabbing his face to bring his mouth to yours again while he pushes two digits knuckle deep into your aching core.

You’re sensitive from a few days without being touched, and it feels like heaven to have Wonwoo worshipping you like this again. You tangle your fingers in his hair as he draws his mouth down to your jaw then your throat, peppering your skin in kisses that have you shivering with pleasure.

“Daddy-” you whimper, your hips thrusting toward his hand as he works you open, palming your clit with delicious pressure.

“I know, Honey, I know,” he soothes, and between gasped breaths and moans, you can hear your pussy squelching already.

It’s getting harder and harder to stand on your shaky legs, your heels not meant for standing sex or heavy petting like this. But it’s also clear to you that Wonwoo has no intention of stopping his motions until you’ve cum on his fingers, so you do your best to grab his shoulders, steadying yourself while that wonderful feeling builds in the pit of your stomach.

“I’ve missed this pussy,” Wonwoo tells you, voice low. It’s not often that he uses vulgarity, even in the bedroom, and his words betray how much he truly needs you. Your skin tingles with excitement, pussy throbbing, heart thundering in your chest-

It’s crazy how one sentence can nearly shortcircuit your brain when paired with Wonwoo using his hands like this- stroking the parts of you that he knows better than anyone else in the world.

Your fiance has taken his sweet time getting to know your body, and it shows in moments like these.

“I’m so close-” you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders. You should care about his expensive suit jacket, but you don’t- all that matters is the orgasm you’re desperately chasing, hips moving to ride Wonwoo’s hand while his unrelenting fingers get you closer and closer to the edge-

“Come on, honey,” Wonwoo grins, mouth returning to the spot on your neck that always makes you go feral, “cum for me.”

One more rough thrust with his fingers has you moaning, tumbling past the edge as your orgasm overtakes you.

If you’d nearly been falling over before this, you almost crumple to the floor with all the pleasure coursing through you now. Wonwoo’s free arm loops around your waist, and he presses you closer to the wall, keeping you propped up while his hand continues between your shaking thighs.

He releases a low groan, and you can feel his cock pressing through his pants by your hip. You feel delirious already, body pulsing, skin tingling. Wonwoo’s broad shoulders are your lifeline, and you grip them desperately, taking everything he has to give you like the good girl you are.

“Wonwoo-” you whimper, seeking out his lips, cupping his face to draw him closer. His tongue glides against your own, and you’re enough of a distraction that his fingers begin to slow inside of you.

Finally, he pulls his hand away from between your thighs, dragging his lips from yours so he can sink his digits into his mouth. You watch him lick them clean, listening to the groan of satisfaction that escapes him while you do your best to catch your breath.

“You’re always so good for me,” Wonwoo tells you, lifting his gaze to yours again.

You swallow thickly, mind swimming, searching for a response. “You deserve it,” you assure him finally.

“And I know what you deserve tonight,” he retorts.

In one quick motion, he lifts you up bridal style. One of your stilettos crashes to the floor from the sudden way your body has just been swung like a rag doll, but neither of you care as Wonwoo carries you through the apartment toward the bedroom.

You can’t help the giggle that escapes you. Wonwoo always makes you feel like a princess, and he looks like a classic prince while doing it. His side profile is so regal- all sharp bones and pretty lips. God- how did you ever get this lucky?

When you get to your destination, Wonwoo is gentle when he sets you onto the mattress. He straightens and looks down at your form, letting out a deep breath.

“Can you take that pretty dress off for me, honey?” he asks, already shrugging off his suit jacket and setting it over a chair nearby.

“Of course, daddy,” you grin, reaching down to grab at the hem of the silky outfit, dragging it up your thigh.

His eyes are glued to you even as he works on his cuff links, and you take your sweet time as he makes it to the buttons of his shirt. The dress has a corset style back, and you tug on the ribbon before slowly working it open.

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything, but you can see his breathing pick up as the fabric gets less tight on your chest, revealing more and more of your bralessness.

When he makes it to his pants, you remove the dress, leaving you in nothing but your thong, which is soaked through.

Your fiance swallows thickly. “Panties too, honey. I don’t think I have the patience to wait any longer tonight.”

His lack of patience is clear in the way his cock slaps up against his abdomen, released by the pants now pooled by his feet.

Wonwoo looks like a fucking God, especially while naked. He’s lean but muscled, and you’ve spent hours tracing each ridge and bone. His cock is an impressive length of around seven inches, it’s pale like the rest of him, but when he’s really turned on, it flushes in colour.

Right now, his cock is a pinkish red, and you can see the angry tip already leaking desperately.

You stand up, sneaking a kiss to his lips while hooking your fingers in your panties. Pushing them down, you get onto your knees.

“Honey, you don’t have to-”

“Maybe I’m impatient too, have you ever thought of that, daddy?” you ask, grabbing the base of his length and leaning forward to kitten lick the tip.

Wonwoo releases a low groan, reaching down to thread his fingers through your hair.

“I’ve missed you,” you murmur, enjoying the way he reacts when you kiss his cock gently. “Missed the weight of you in my mouth.”

“Fuck-”

It’s not often that Wonwoo curses, and the word goes straight to your core.

“Can I touch myself while I suck you off, daddy?”

“I’d be upset if you didn’t,” he admits. “I want you dripping when I finally pull you off my cock and fuck you the way you like it.”

You whimper, your whole body alight with energy as you take him into your mouth. You’re already practically drooling from his fingers earlier and the dirty talk now, which makes it easy to coat him in spit.

You’ve never been able to take all of Wonwoo in your mouth, but you do your best, gripping the base and bobbing your head while you begin to toy with your clit.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Wonwoo groans, taking a deep breath as his hand guides you on his cock. “Always so good for me.”

The praise only makes you suck on him harder. You sink so far down onto him that his tip hits the back of your throat. You feel yourself constrict around him and Wonwoo lets out a loud moan, fingers flexing in your hair.

“Careful, honey, I don’t want you to choke,” he tells you, but his voice has lost it’s usual commanding tone. He’ll let you do anything you want to him, even if it means gagging on cock- but he’ll do his best to be gentle with you verbally at least.

You get lost in the feeling of pleasuring him, closing your eyes and letting your mouth show him how much you’ve missed him… however, not in so many words.

Actions speak volumes, especially in this case.

You continue working on your pussy too, eventually slipping two fingers into your wet core, which makes you moan around Wonwoo’s cock.

“Honey-” he groans.

You can tell that he’s on the verge of breaking, so you pull off his length, looking up at him while catching your breath. “Ready to fuck me now, daddy?”

“I’ve been ready all night,” he grins, reaching down to grab your hand and help you to your feet.

He kisses you then, cupping your face and leaning forward, taking your breath away all over again. His palm flatens against the small of your back and he dips you backward- then you’re falling, a small squeal escaping you-

The fall is only an inch or two, and you hit the mattress, Wonwoo bearing down on your form almost immediately. You grab at his shoulders as his lips find yours, your legs wrapping around his lean hips to tug him closer.

His cock is still wet with your spit, and it rubs deliciously through your soaked folds, bumping your clit and making you moan into the kiss.

As impatient as Wonwoo seemed to be, he’s not quick to adjust himself against you- or at least, not quick enough for your liking, so you reach between your bodies and grab his cock, lining him up with your wet hole.

Wonwoo grins against your lips, and in one motion, he sinks into your core.

You moan loudly, digging your nails into his strong shoulders and throwing your head back as he fills you perfectly, stretching out your walls.

Your fiance takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, finding your sweet spot.

He feels like heaven- you’re really not sure how long you’ll be able to last tonight, but that’s never mattered with Wonwoo. You have forever with this man, which means you can be as fast or slow as you’d like to be.

He begins to thrust in and out of your core, and it makes you cry out again, walls contracting around his cock. You can feel him so deeply, especially as he adjusts your legs, pushing your thighs closer to your chest.

“Wonwoo-” you whimper, not a care in the world for using a ‘correct’ title. Your fiance might enjoy the daddy kink, but he’s never been the type to punish you for slipping up and calling him something different.

It’s clear to both of you how far gone you are, and Wonwoo only grins against your throat, picking up his pace.

“How about you rub your clit for me, honey?” he asks.

You’re not one to question him, and your hand slips between your bodies to seak out the sensitive nub. More sounds of pleasure escape you as you begin to rub yourself, and your moans only push Wonwoo to fuck you harder.

Each thrust has his cock hitting a spot deep inside of you, and it’s making you delirious.

Wonwoo finds your free hand, threading your fingers and using you as leverage as he presses you against the mattress. His breath is hot on your throat, but soon he’s seaking out your lips again, and you eagerly kiss him as if your life depends on it.

There’s an orgasm building in the pit of your stomach, spurred on by your fingers on your clit and the cock filling you up with each rough thrust.

Wonwoo doesn’t need to check in on you, and you don’t need to tell him you’re close, you’re certain he can tell. He tightens his grip on your hand, a silent invitation to let go whenever you want.

Each drag of his cock against your inner walls draws you closer and closer to the edge, and when he breaks the kiss to lick your throat, it allows you to focus entirely on the pleasure between your legs.

“Fuck, daddy-” you whimper, back arching as you shift below him.

“I know, honey,” he groans. “Me too.”

“Yeah?” Your body jitters with near orgasmic bliss. “Can you cum with me?”

“Of course, just tell me when.”

“Please-” you moan, writhing against the sheets as he fucks you even harder. “Please, daddy- I want you to fill me up-”

Wonwoo groans, teeth dragging by the sensitive skin of your throat.

“Please, please- fuck, I’m almost there-” you rub your clit harder, body tensing on the precipice of your orgasm-

“Shit,” Wonwoo tightens his grip on your hand to the point where it almost hurts- and even though he doesn’t say it, it’s clear to you that he’s reached his own high.

The thought that Wonwoo is so turned on he’s just cum before you - something that never happens - is enough to drag you over the edge, your core clamping down on his cock, eager to milk him for everything he’s worth while you cry out in ecstasy.

He’s gasping against your throat, thrusts even deeper now- slow, steady little ruts as he coats your insides with him cum, filling you up perfectly.

You get lost in the feeling of him, squeezing his hand back as a silent encouragement while your pussy continues to squeeze his cock, eager to get every last drop.

When he finally comes to a stop, he simply lays on top of you for a moment, the both of you breathing heavily.

“Wonwoo?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’ve just remembered-” you pull your hand away from your clit, instead moving to stroke his hair, “What did Seungcheol mean about the penthouse you were looking at?”

Wonwoo lets out a small chuckle. “Do you really want me to spoil the surprise?”

“Yes, please.”

Your fiance pulls away from your throat, looking down at you. “I’ve been thinking we might need a bigger place… one that could accommodate a few extra rooms.”

“Extra rooms?” you cock a brow.

“For any kids we might have, you know, after we’re married.”

Your entire body tingles with excitement.

While the two of you have talked about children in a general manner before, nothing has ever been set in stone. But you suppose now that you’re engaged, it’s natural this sort of thing would be on Wonwoo’s mind.

“How do you feel about that?” Wonwoo asks.

“I feel like…” you swallow thickly, “I want you to fill me up again, and also that I should book a doctor's appointment to discuss going off birth control.”

“I can definitely help you with that first one,” Wonwoo grins, pressing chaste kisses all across your face while you giggle and hold him tighter.

“We’re really doing this,” you whisper.

Wonwoo’s thumb brushes by the ring on your wedding finger. “Honey, I couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else.”

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🔮 preview. You pull away just as his lips are about to meet yours. “You know how appreciative I am whenever daddy gets me a present,” you say, acting innocent. This only makes him laugh, and he grabs the back of your head, pulling you into a passionate kiss. You know buying things for you does the same thing to Wonwoo that it does to you. He loves seeing the excitement in your eyes, the way you light up at gifts. He truly lives to provide for you.

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, mentions of breeding kink/wanting to get reader pregnant, sugar daddy Wonwoo, daddy kink, soft dom!Wonwoo, oral, pussy eating, fingering, breif edging, squirting, groping, sickly sweet loved up sex, crying during sex cuz reader is so in love, mentions of pain kink, hair pulling, teasing, dirty talk, fucking on a kitchen counter, Wonwoo talks about reader getting ‘plump’ with pregnancy, he adores the ‘soft bits’, etc. I petnames. (hers) honey (his) daddy.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 4k I teaser wc. 300

🌙 staring. Wonwoo x afab!Reader

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“Can I take this off yet?” you ask, wobbling in your heels as you grab at the silk blindfold blocking your vision.

“Be patient, honey,” Wonwoo breathes in your ear, his hands firm on your hips as he guides you to whatever surprise destination he has in store for you tonight.

Christmas is a week away, and the last time he blindfolded you like this was for your birthday. He’d taken you to a Mercedes dealership to let you choose any car you wanted. You have no clue what he has in store for you now, and you’re practically shaking with excitement.

You know he’s driven you somewhere, and you’ve been in an elevator, so it must not be another car- your list of gift possibilities is somewhat thin. You have a hunch, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself just in case you’re wrong about where your fiance is leading you.

Wonwoo’s lips find your throat, and his hands stop you in your tracks. His breath is hot by your ear a moment later, and he lets out something like a contented sigh. “Okay. Let me help you take this off.”

His deft fingers work at the loose knot behind your head; soon the blindfold slips away.

Your eyes adjust to the light, and you blink while taking in the space in front of you. You’re in a large open-concept kitchen, a living room sprawled in front of you with views of the whole city. The decor is lavish luxury, and you recognize the design concept as a Choi Seungcheol special when you notice a specific lighting fixture that Cheol puts in all his expensive builds.

“Wonwoo-” you breathe, mind spinning.

The man behind you flattens his chest against your back, wrapping his arms around your frame while he rests his head on your shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“Is this…”

“It’s ours,” your fiance confirms. “I wanted to show it to you on Christmas day, but I couldn’t help myself.”

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meiieiri · 4 months

Text

𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 [gojo satoru]

HC: GOJO JUST CAN’T SEEM TO GET HIS SERVANT GIRL OUT OF HIS HEAD.

WARNINGS: fluff! sickening blegh blegh fluff. maybe some undertones of misogyny but that’s only because i lowkey have a thing for naoya zenin please don’t judge me, please don’t. and i know, i know, i’m sorry for the late updates, but i’m working on the new chapter of WE as fast as i can, hahaha. just feeling so demotivated lately so i decided to write something new for a bit.

╰┈➤ gojo satoru who falls harder and harder for you everyday as you dutifully help him with his kimono, prepare his bath, and plan out his meals. one day, i’ll marry her, satoru vows silently as he watches you brew his hōjicha just the way he likes it.

╰┈➤ gojo satoru who waits for you at every blind corridor in the gojo estate, hoping to steal a kiss from you while you’re working. “satoru—!” what was he thinking, pulling you into a searing kiss while you carried a laundry basket full of his clothes? he finds it cute how you instinctively melted in the feeling of his luscious lips, clumsily dropping the laundry basket on the hardwood floor. “is my little servant distracted? tsk, tsk. we can’t have that, can we?” he grins against your lips but before he could lean in for another kiss, he takes a step back. “get back to work, (y/n)-chan~” he waves to you as he struts down the hall.

╰┈➤ gojo satoru is a bold man when it comes to sashaying around his clan’s vast banquet hall, purposefully keeping you within ten feet of him as he speaks to the other clan heads, indirectly showing you off in the new yukata he got for you. though his only concern about the yukata is how troublesome it’ll be to take it off of you and he really doesn’t want to rip another piece from your wardrobe. as you pour him another cup of sake, he wonders if he should’ve just bought you a lingerie set instead.

╰┈➤ gojo satoru has gotten used to his mother nagging him about getting married soon. his family has been growing impatient since the day he turned twenty-six for satoru to find an upstanding lady from another one of the big three clans of jujutsu. he’s seen countless women, been forced to kiss the backs of their hands, and he’d pull through outstandingly - charming one bridal candidate after another who’ve no idea that the entire time, satoru is thinking of the little lady he keeps back home in the gojo estate.

╰┈➤ gojo satoru who takes your hand one day and says: “follow me.” he leads you into the tea room, and finally reveals what the two of you have in front of his elders as he slips an engagement ring, a family heirloom, onto your finger unbothered that the elders whispered among themselves about how shameful it would be for the greatest sorcerer of this generation were to get married to some nobody. “i’d sooner drop dead than see our clan head getting married to this whore!” one of his elders snarls at you, instinctively causing satoru to shield you from them. his face hardens as he speaks his next homicide-coded words. “that could be arranged, auntie.”

╰┈➤ gojo satoru who purposefully chooses a rainy day for your wedding date, so no one could see the joyful tears streaming down his cheeks as he finally makes you irrevocably his.

#jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo headcanons #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru headcanons #gojo fluff #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk #jjk drabbles #jjk headcanons #jjk fluff

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klemen-tine · 14 days

Text

No Prince Charming

(Batfam x Mom!Reader)

Anonymous asked:

Hello, I really like your work.

I saw that you have an open request, so I want to share an idea that has been sitting in my head for a long time.

Reader married Bruce for convenience. (In my head, the reader is a woman, but I'll leave it to your taste) The wedding takes place shortly before the appearance of the first Robin. Bruce and reader have a cold relationship. Reader comes from the wealthy population of Gotham. Therefore, reader is well educated and intelligent. So after a while, when Dick already appears, reader understands what her husband does at night. But reading doesn't say anything about it or hint at it. The reader doesn't want to get involved in any of this, it scares her. And although the reader is planning a divorce, she takes care of all the members of her new family. And although she is neglected in the family, the reader becomes a parental figure for children. But the children won't admit it. When Damian appears, the reader doesn't say a word to Bruce. But Damian treats reader very badly. And that becomes the trigger. The reader slips Bruce the divorce papers.(not to mention that they are getting divorced, since Bruce is likely to protest) and when Bruce signs them, he leaves the estate, leaving the divorce papers and the wedding ring on the bed when no one notices. And only then does the family realize what they have done with their neglect of reader. Their yandere trait is waking up in them and now they need to somehow find their reader.

Sorry if it's too much.

And I apologize for the English, I am writing with a translator

❤

Warning: Non-consensual drugging, not descriptive sex. It's just mentioned, no details. Hinted at Dick's trauma with his sidekick.

It was a marriage of convenience. That's all it was. Bruce Wayne knew Y/N L/N since childhood, and while they weren’t close, Y/N was the only one who never treated him any differently after his parents were murdered. Maybe it's because her own father was murdered, and she understood that sometimes the greatest support was to act like nothing changed.

Fast forward to young adults, Bruce Wayne was now Brucie in public, and Y/N was the unstoppable woman leading her own company by the reins. Bruce had come to her with an offer, one that had her brows raised and painted lips smirking. For Bruce Wayne, this will help solidify his position as someone who was not Batman, and for Y/N it would finally silence the hecklers that gnawed at her heels and bit into her shoulders.

A frigid marriage, filled with cold greetings, Brucie still entertaining women, Y/N still controlling her company with painted lips, and rumors surrounding them. Despite the coldness, Y/N knew a lie when she saw one. She knows a front when she comes face to face with one, and it is why when she saw Batman in the hallways of Wayne manor, staring at her in shock and apprehension, she rolled her eyes and continued to sip her wine as she made her way back to her office.

“Please don’t stain the carpet. Alfred just shampooed them.” They never brought it up again. Bruce was no Prince Charming, despite the front he put on for strangers. There were no whispered promises, no flowers, no gifts, nothing but ‘hellos’ and ‘goodbyes.’

Then, along came Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson. A child who had blinked up at her with large blue eyes, and Y/N could feel her heart crumble. She had welcomed him with open arms and smiles. She had welcomed all of the Robins in. Her manicured nails getting shorter each time, so she doesn’t have to fear hurting one of them, and her smiles became softer. Y/N had never tried to replace any of their mother’s, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel like one.

But it was Bruce they had a closer bond with. Which is why they started following his behavior towards her. Clipped words and rolling of eyes were common, as were the cold shoulders and tense silences.

“You’re not my mom! So stop asking how school was!” Y/N stared at Jason in shock and curiosity about where that outburst had come from. Alfred was the only one to say anything. A stern, “Master Jason,” and a look that had even Bruce cowering had the young boy apologizing. Y/N ignored the way her heart slowly broke, as the quirky child full of smiles, sass, and who loved classics, turned his back on her.

As if she wasn’t the one to introduce those books to him.

Y/N doesn’t blame them for their cold behavior towards her. She doesn’t blame Dick’s disregard, Jason’s hurtful words, Tim’s cynical looks, Steph’s taunts, and Damian’s heated actions.

Y/N had cried at Jason’s funeral, she helped Bruce fight for custody for Tim, she had consoled Dick after some of his own traumatic experiences, and she sat there and listened as Damian compared her and Talia. Talia, of all people. She had met the woman once, and Y/N had nodded at her. Y/N never judged Bruce for sleeping with the woman. Hell, Y/N would have too. Y/N can recall the day Damian came to their manor, and the short look Dick had given her when she and the child made eye contact.

Y/N doesn’t know if it was a look of concern or mockery, but she knows he did look.

She was there for Richard when his trauma with his sidekick happened. He may have never told her, but Y/N is a woman. A woman who has known people that have suffered the same way Dick has. That are still suffering like he is.

“I’m sorry Richard.”

“What do you even know?! You know nothing! Absolutely nothing so just butt out!” Dick glared at her with blue eyes that had put the arctic water to shame. Y/N stood there and took it all. She stood proudly with her shoulders back and chin up.

In public, she was a stoic mother keeping the children in check while Bruce goofed off. She was the woman who failed her children, because she chose to continue running her business. Her very, very, very successful business. A business that had taken her and her mother from the bottom of High Society, to the top 10%. A series of great investments, smart marketing, and pretty words have lined her pockets with money that she could easily retire on.

Yet, all that money couldn’t save her mother. The woman died of a heart attack, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing Y/N could do besides bury her mother.

“Bruce please.”

“I am busy.”

“I know but Bruce, this is my–”

“Ask Alfred.” He had turned his back and Y/N was stuck staring at the retreating man with a new feeling of heartbreak. The tabloids ate up that she was alone at her mother’s funeral. A private event that no one was allowed into besides close family and friends.

When she came back, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped, Damian had picked the time to make his disdain known again, “–and my mother would have never let herself go like that. You look horrid, unbefitting of a Wayne. A disgrace.”

Blank E/C eyes stared into raging green and she sighed, “Thanks, Damian.” She spared him no glance after that, and she walked towards her bedroom to take a hot shower. It was there, under the hot spray of water that she finally cried. She cried for the last part of family she had, and the years she lost from marrying a man who didn’t even like her enough to attend a godforsaken fucking funeral. She cried for the children she couldn’t even call her own.

She cried for the life she missed by marrying Bruce fucking Wayne.

“Honey, are you happy?”

“Of course Mama.”

“You never could lie to me sweetie.” Her mother kissed her forehead and looked into E/C eyes with nothing but love, “You’ve worked so hard, sweetie.” That acknowledgement alone had her almost in tears, “But please start working for yourself now.”

Taking a deep breath, Y/N hopped out of the shower and called her lawyer. Divorce papers were in her hands within 24 hours, and her bags packed in 3.

She stood next to Bruce, ignoring the scowl on his face as she ‘disrupted’ his work. Y/N kept her face neutral, because if she smiled it would give it all away, and handed him the page he needed to sign.

For a billionaire and for a vigilante, he sure didn’t read the damn paper. Which is fine. Great even, because now, after being here for over a decade, Y/N is free. She laughed in her room, laughing so hard that it almost tore her throat. Leaving a copy of it on Bruce’s bed once he was gone, she grabbed her suitcase and accidentally ran into Alfred on her way out the door.

The old man took a look at her clothes, her bags, and her expression before sighing, “Shall I drive you for the last time, Lady Y/N?” Y/N smiled, bitterly at the thought of leaving Alfred, her only solace in this cold mansion.

“To the airport, please.” The ride was silent, and Y/N didn’t look back as they left the gates of the mansion. It wasn’t until they were halfway there that Y/N spoke up, “My lawyer will call in a few days, just to hash out the details.”

“Is that so?”

“There’s nothing I want. No assets, no money, nothing will be taken, I just want a divorce.” She just wants the law to recognize that she is not a Wayne. That she will never be a Wayne.

“Lady Y/N, perhaps a check for compensation for the emotional strain would be nice?” Y/N laughed, bitterly and sad, “I don’t want his money. I want nothing to do with him anymore.”

“And the kids?”

“They don’t need me. They never did. I doubt they will even notice.” Gotham International Airport wasn’t crowded, and that may be because it was 1pm on a Tuesday. Alfred helped her with her bags, and the old man stared at the woman before him. He remembers meeting her for the first time, a confident young woman who had a way with words and was unfairly intelligent. Matching wits and able to speak confidently in a room of people who thought little of her.

It's good to see some of that coming back.

Y/N hugged Alfred, “Thank you, Alfred. For everything.” The older man sighed and watched as the woman took her bags and walked away. Not once did she look back and Alfred decided to stay until her form disappeared in the building. He sighed heavily and when got back in the car, he dialed a number he knew by heart. It only took three rings before the voice of the man he raised answered, “Alfred, is everything okay?”

“Master Bruce, I fear you may have lost something precious, and I do hope you, and the young masters, have a plan to make this up to them.” He hung up afterwards as he merged into traffic, and he hoped his message finally hit something within his son’s dense skull.

When he returned back to the manor, he began the preparation for making dinner. All was silent throughout the manor, until the door opened and the rush of the footsteps began marching towards him.

“Master Richard, I urge you to not run.”

“Bruce told me there was an emergency and to hurry to the manor?” Alfred sighed, “While it is an emergency, it is not one you can fix on your own.” No, this was something for Bruce to fix seeing tha all the problems stemmed from him.

Dick raised a brow, “What kind of emergency is it?” Alfred pursed her lips, “Miss Y/N Wayne is now Miss Y/N L/N once more.” He turned to look the man he has considered his grandson in the eyes, and he could see the revelation sink in.

“Y/N divorced Bruce?” Alfred nodded, “The papers have been signed.”

“Bruce would never sign those papers.” Alfred raised a brow, “They are signed and waiting for him to read.” Dick slowly walked out of the kitchen, “Is she still here?” Alfred turned back to the food and Dick began speed walking towards Y/N’s room. As a child it never occurred to him why they would they never slept together, but as he got older he understood.

He knocked on her doors, calling her name like he used to as a kid.

Dick had always understood that Bruce’s and Y/N’s relationship was not one of a couple in love. He also understood that Y/N’s treatment in the manor by the residents of the manor was unfair. Whenever he could, he would correct Damian’s harsh words, but even he himself couldn’t fully bring himself to be all that kind to her.

He tried. He desperately tried, because he saw all that she did for them behind the scenes. He saw the mistreatment and judging looks others would give her as her ‘husband’ was out fooling around.

Dick saw the blank look she had given Damian after her mother’s funeral. The one none of them had gone too.

“What do you mean you didn’t go?” His voice panicked as he talked to Tim, “I didn’t go. I was under the assumption someone else would go.”

Y/N could have been Gotham’s biggest bitch, but not even then would she have deserved that. What made it worse was that Y/N was not a bitch. She wasn’t cruel, or unkind. She was as much of a philanthropist as Bruce was. Always aiding those whose needed it and desperately trying to make Gotham a better place.

Dick opened her doors and was greeted with an empty room. Gone were the picture frames, and the closet was empty along with the bathroom. Her prized jewlery, the things she took care of almost obsessively, all of it was gone.

He could remember beng 9 and sitting next to her as she cleaned one of her sapphire earrings. Thin fingers with long nail held the earring next to him, a scrutinizing look on her face before she would break out into a grin, “As I thought, nothing could ever compare to our Dickie’s sapphire eyes.”

“Holy shit.”

“What’s going on- why is Y/N’s room empty?” Tim looked throughout the room, and Dick could see the wonder across his younger brother’s face. Right, between all of them, Tim and Y/N had the least amount of time spent together.

Dick stared at his brother as the image of Y/N smiling at a string of pearls entered his mind. She had explained to him when he asked that pearls, while feminine, also symbolized new beginnings. She had gotten it when Tim’s custody was signed over to the Waynes.

“She’s gone.” Tim met Dick’s eyes, “Like… taking a vacation gone?” Dick gave a humorless chuckle, “She divorced Bruce, Tim. Y/N is gone.” This must have been what Alfred saw when he broke the news to Dick. The confusion and then realization coming to light in those blue eyes.

“Bruce would never sign those papers.” Dick had said the same thing, and yet here she was. Gone. As if to emphasize his point, Dick made an exaggerated expression and motioned to the empty room.

Tim looked around and he could feel a headache forming, “Bruce is gonna be pissed.” Dick groaned, “Fuck Bruce for a second, the only stable-mentally healthy-adult figure that isn’t Alfred is gone, Tim.” The boy didn’t look all that bothered, “Well, if she’s happier then I don’t mind.”

Of course he doesn’t mind. Why? Because this little stalker most likely knows where she’s going. Tim did a good job hiding it, but Dick was raised by Bruce. He is trained to spot the mciroexpressions of people, and even if they are his own siblings.

Tim is panicking. The very thought of Y/N leaving had not once occurred to them, and for Tim who loves planning, this was not once ever in the plans.

Not once. Y/N had been a staple within the manor, and to imagine her not being here was rough. Evenw hen she left for business trips, it was fine because they all knew she was coming back. SHe would come back with souvenirs, handing each of them something that reminhded her of them, before running upstairs to get out of the family’s judgemental line of sight.

“Fucking hell.”

++++

Bruce entered the condo with ease. His steps light as he walked through the dark room, noting the all the furniture. There was no Y/N in the living room or kitchen, but when he looked out the balcony door, he could see her back. She was leaning against the edge of the infinity pool, without doubt a hot tub of some sorts because it was too cold to be swimming in a regular pool.

She didn’t even turn around to look at him, her attention focused on the view of the snowy mountains and raging seas in front of her. Bruce could see the wine bottle left on the side of the pool and the glass that looked like it was finished only a short while ago. When she did turn around, E/C reflected the stars and dimly lit light around the pool, making them shine and sparkle like they were the galaxy.

Bruce isn’t blind. He knows Y/N is an attractive woman who had many people lusting after her even when they were married. Talia even made a note of it, “You should see if she wants to join next time.” He should have known that his clipped response was a sign.

It was all there, and yet he did everything within his power to ensure that he would not fall in love with her. Falling in love has always been out of the question, and when Y/N came into his life, Bruce made it his mission to do just that. The woman before him had never complained, and she never seemed to fault him for it, but he could tell there was resentment. If he couldn’t have allowed himself to fall in love with her, he could have at least offered her friendship. One that made life more bearable for the both of them, and set a good example for the kids.

“What are you doing, Bruce?” She didn’t seem shocked that he was here, let alone in her vacation condo. Bruce took off his shirt and pants, stripping down to his boxers before joining her in the hot tub. He had grabbed two glasses of wine before doing so, handing her one and taking a sip from the other.

“Is it wrong of me to want to join my wife on her vacation?”

“Ex-wife. The documents are signed, and besides this is a girl trip.” Bruce re-read those documents and kicked his foot for not fucking reading them when he first signed them. He should have known she was up to something.

“Y/N, come back to the manor.” He stared into E/C eyes as she took another sip of the wine. Bruce had come with a speech prepared, ready to convince her to come back with him, but it was all lost as he stared and observed the woman in front of him drink delicately from the glass. Y/N L/N has always been a woman of class, even when she was near the bottom of high society. It wasn’t her good looks that landed her in the top 10, possibly even top 5%, and like every classy woman, she was only allowed to regret a few things. Their marriage is one, but leaving is not even an option on the list of things she wants to regret but can’t.

He knows this. She knows this.

And yet, Bruce could only focus on how beautiful she looks, and how beautiful she would look sprawled on the silk bed sheets. Y/N has aged like fine wine, looking even more beautifully and worth more and more with each passing year. Aging gracefully and beautifully as the years passed and still catching the attention of others.

It's a shame his younger self was more into whiskey than wine.

He wonders how different their relationship would be if he had gotten to know her before and during the early years of their marriage. Without a doubt it would be easier to talk to her. Easier to convince her to come back to a manor that now misses her.

“And why should I?” It’d be easier to answer her with a compelling reason, one that would have her actually debating on whether or not to come back. Bruce reached over and brushed a strand of hair out of her face, and he’s shocked that she even let him do that. She didn’t flinch, nor did she lean into his touch. Y/N stood still as he moved the H/C lock behind her ears.

“The manor misses you.” He’s never heard her laugh the way she did in that moment. Throwing her head back and exposing unblemished skin to the night air as she laughed, and continued to laugh. Her shoulders shaking from the force and slightly distilling the wine.

Once she was done, her cheeks were red from the laughter and she was gasping for breath, “Yeah, okay. So Alfred misses me, I’ll make sure to give him a call then.” She turned her back to Bruce and began walking towards the edge of the pool.

“The boys, girls, and I do too.” Chateau Petra was on his lips and the feeling of cold wine hitting his face and upper chest had him closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, Y/N’s wine glass was empty and on her face was a hard expression. Cold E/C eyes glaring into his as she pulled herself out of the pool, and grabbed the rest of the wine bottle.

“Sleep on the couch. You’re going home tomorrow.” Her steps quiet as she stalked into her home and she headed for the bathroom. Bruce sighed, and stared at the night sky with a new look in his eyes, ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’ He would like to believe that he is above this. He wants to believe that this was the worst case scenario happening and therefore this needs to happen.

Has to. The very thought of Y/N being away caused an itch to form under his skin and a burning fire in his chest. A fire he never knew blazed in him until it went out. Now, more aware and protective of it, Bruce found himself craving the warmth in ways that had his mouth foaming and muscles tensing. He looked down at the water and saw the red wine diluting and sprawling throughout the pool water, looking like blood for only a second.

A smile curled on his lips and he pulled himself out of the pool water, drying himself off before making his way into the shower with his ‘ex-wife.’ They may have never been lovers, but they were two adults living under the same roof.

So, of course they have had sex.

Hate sex is the best and worst sex. It is the best because Bruce can go as hard as he wants to and Y/N will love it. It is the worse because hate sex is all Y/N will see this as. Y/N will only see it has hate sex and not for the love Bruce feels for her. She won’t feel it in the way he caresses her skin or in the way he leaves his bite marks on her thighs. All Y/N will see this as, is hate sex.

Which is fine. If hate sex is what Y/N needs to see this as to work then Bruce will take it. He has time. He has plenty of time to show her how much he cares and loves her. Those divorce papers will be long gone, every single one of those copies non-existent. He loves her. He loves her in the way a cactus loves the sun, or how the stars love the moon.

Bruce was so enamored by her, that he couldn’t help but to fall deeper. Her soft hands, that have never broken a bone but have broken many hearts, cradling scarred shoulders and sharp cheeks. She didn’t flinch when his own rough hands gripped her’s, bruising and secure, and she didn’t flinch when intense blue eyes met hers. In fact, she smiled, like this was all a joke he was the butt of it.

It pissed him off that even she could have secrets and inside jokes that he doesn’t know about. As she laid there, her eyes now closed and body relaxed, Bruce pulled out a syringe filled with something that will keep her asleep. Only for a few days. Barbara is already working on getting rid of the divorce papers and the kids were preparing for her return.

Bruce kissed her forehead, smiling down at his Sleeping Beauty. If need be, the manor will be her castle and the kids her vines covered in thorns. Bruce, in all his daunting and terrifying glory shall be the dragon, keeping her locked within her castle because nowhere was safer than the castle. Only she could keep him calm, and only she could make him feel human.

Batman was never Prince Charming.

_________________________________________________________

Not my best work in my opinion... but I still like tbh.

@problematicreblogger

@kurai-hono-blog

@rosecentury

#yandere batfam #yandere dc #platonic yandere #batfam x reader #platonic batfam #batfam #platonic batman #bruce wayne #batman x reader #yandere dick grayson #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #yandere damian wayne #alfred pennyworth

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chronically-ghosted · 7 months

Text

in another life . . .

rating: explicit, 18+

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 7K

summary: Partner. That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. And then he met you and the definition changed again.

warnings: domestic!frankie, marriage kink (if that’s a thing), oral (f receiving) but i think that’s an expectation from every frankie fic, improper use of a kitchen table, unprotected piv, no use of y/n, brief mentions of PTSD, improper use of Spanish, eating in bed

a/n: requested for my 100 followers event! Anon: hiiii firstly! congrats on the big one hundo you totally deserve it 🥂‼️ secondly wondering if I could rq a Pedro boy drabble with prompt number 12... I wanna do laundry for Frankie Morales :D “did you just wash these sheets?” “I did.” “they smell nice. and they’re still warm.”

🤍Masterlist

. . . I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.

Frankie fills the silence of the house without you in it with music. This house, it had been your choice, even though he never expressly made you choose, or even presented the dichotomy. This house, with its leaky faucet and janky AC unit and finicky pilot light, was what you wanted instead of a diamond ring, and so he gave it to you. First down payment, along with every other red cent you and he had both saved up, went into buying your first home together. This wasn’t forever, you both agreed (with only two bedrooms it wasn’t enough room for a baby, he often thought) but even as the real estate agent glanced around with disdain for the house and your budget, one look from you and it was settled.

“It has good bones,” you said, standing out on the concrete deck overlooking a postage-stamp-sized backyard. There were weeds in the corners and holes from some unknown animal but he could see the wheels in your head turning, imagining how you, like everything else you did, planned to tackle and wrestle control over it with your bare hands. “It needs work, but I think there’s something special here.”

“Yeah?” he asked, threading his fingers through yours, the real estate agent no doubt off somewhere inspecting the drains. “Is there something here?”

You grinned and shoved your nose then a soft press of your lips into his denim-shoulder.

“I’m sure of it.”

All his life, Frankie worked best in a unit. As children, his older brother, his younger brother, and him were practically inseparable, their physical similarities almost presenting as the same person but at different ages, and when that group disbanded because Oscar left for college, he went on to find another one. First, his army unit, then the boys. His boys. Left to his own devices, Frankie was terrible at remembering to eat, sleep regularly – focus on anything other than fixing cars and planes, really – but he’d do it for them. He hated to see that worried crease show up on Will’s brow when Frankie admitted he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hated that Benny had to show up at his apartment to drag his ass outta bed to get him into the sunlight. And he hated when Pope felt obligated to take him out to bars to try and meet women.

“I’m not dating someone just so they can be my mother,” Frankie muttered into the lip of his beer bottle. “I don’t need anyone thinking I need to rely on them like that.”

“Yeah, but you do better when you have people relying on you.” Pope’s dark eyes flitted from a woman at the bar top to him, with intention and full of force. “And I’m not saying I’m trying to get you to fuck your mother, but you need a partner.”

Partner.

That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself.

And then he met you and the definition changed again.

You are his best friend. You are the woman he wants to fuck every day for the rest of his life. You are the first person he wants to tell good news to and the first person he wants to talk to when he’s had a shitty day. Your voice quiets something inside him that has been far too loud for far too long. You are a relief and a refuge. For all his faults, you love him and sometimes he can’t fathom why.

You are his partner – in life, in marriage (one day), and forever (he hopes).

“I might not always like you, Catfish,” you said to him in Will’s backyard for Benny’s birthday party. You had been drinking and every sip seems to bring you closer and closer to him. With your face tucked up into his neck, arms up under his flannel and hugging his waist, the only way he could be physically closer to you was if he was inside you – which he was about two seconds away from suggestion when you leaned in close. “‘M not always going to like you, but ‘m always going love you.”

And love him you did. You loved him when he decided to go back to school to get some additional certifications so he could maybe teach flight school. The army would pay for most of it, was a fucking relief to your shared thread-bare, cartoon-spider-web empty savings account. But what the army would not pay for was for you to go to nursing school. You worked in hotels for the events services branch, coordinating everything from weddings to conferences, walking (mostly running) from one end of the hotel to the next. Your sister got you a Fitbit for Christmas one year and after the holiday rush, you walked twenty miles in two days.

“After that, this nursing stuff should be a breeze,” you said flippantly as you signed your paperwork for admissions.

Of course you got accepted at one of the better hospitals in the city – he never doubted for a second you would – and as the fresh-faced trainee, you got stuck with most of the night shifts.

Which meant his days looked a lot like this: wake up at 6AM, drive an hour to the helicopter tour building on the coast, fly rich idiots around all day, eat the lunch you had prepped for the both of you on Sunday night, continue flying rich idiots around, drive home in two-hour traffic, change into his work overalls, go work on some cars Benny’s buddy had at the local garage for some extra cash, then go home, heat up dinner you also made Sunday night, and then attend to the most pressing thing you or the house needed.

Which could be:

Fixing the AC unit, resealing the back door so it would close properly, re-caulking the shower, building more attic space, repainting the back fence, or replacing the hand towel holder.

Frankie didn’t mind the hard work. It kept his mind and his hands busy. What he did mind was the house silent and eerily empty without you here.

He didn’t mind the hard work because even for a few hours, he got to hold you while you slept. He got to eat with you at 10:30 at night and it was the highlight of his day.

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Sicker than the rest, there is no test, but this is what you're craving?

Frankie bobs his head, his earphones carefully tucked up under his shirt to prevent the laundry from tangling up in them. He hauls out the latest load and moves onto the washer, fishing out one more sock when suddenly the lights go off. All of them. Total darkness.

And then light and he’s staring down the bottom of the drum.

Then dark. And light.

You. Your code. One you designed when you read that PTSD victims are often triggered into a fight-or-flight response when startled. You, who knew before he did, how to manage the symptoms, create workarounds, and find a pathway through, instead of not at all.

He takes out one of the earbuds and smiles.

“Hey, you’re home.”

You lean against the doorway, smiling that smile that is reserved for him and him alone. Sometimes he’s selfish and wants everything of yours to be only for him – all your smiles, your laughter, your sighs – but that’s like trying to capture sunlight in a butterfly net: too focused on the impossible and you end up missing the daytime.

“How goes this fucking Sysphian task?” You nod at the baskets of laundry at his feet, referring to how you’d often rant and rave about how laundry, the dishes, and grocery shopping were never tasks that could simply be done. He knows how much you hate being unable to cross things off your to-do lists, so he holds your hand during all of these rantings and kisses your knuckles when you take a breath.

“Good,” he shrugs. “‘Bout to fold your scrubs for tomorrow.”

“Ah, have I told you lately that I love you?” You swing into the room and kiss him on his cheek, on the division where his patchy beard meets his skin – the place that you most often claimed on him. Your fingers squeeze around his bicep as you pull away and your eyes fall to the basket behind him. You gasp with glee.

“Did you just wash these sheets?” You ask like you’d just uncovered buried gold.

He smirks, propping his hip up against the dryer. “I did.”

Without another word, you scoop them up in your arms and inhale sharply.

“Mhmm, they smell nice.” You bury your head in deep. “And they’re still warm.”

In the rare moments when you’re both home and going through laundry together, he never fails to scoop up a load of hot towels and dump them over your head, relishing in the girlish giggle from beneath the clean laundry. “It’s so toasty,” you whimper with glee.

“They’re not gonna be if you get your hospital gunk all over them,” Frankie tuts, going back to add a new load into the washer as you glare at him over the lump of sheets.

“Ha, ha. Move over, Mr. Morales, and watch a master at work.”

“Yes, Mrs. Morales.” It’s stupid but his heart always fumbles when he calls you that. It started as a joke, one that you initiated, but now it’s like berry jam on his tongue, sweet and sugary. He’s thought about calling you that while he’s inside you but figures he should save something for the wedding night.

He sidles back, giving you space near the dryer as you pick up a basket of t-shirts.

“You know there’s dinner waiting for you in the kitchen.” He shakes his head as you begin to fold the shirts with lightning speed and precision – a side effect of being the oldest daughter in a family of five kids.

“Yeah, but you’re in here,” you say and bump his hip. He bumps you back and helps with the load. “Besides, it’ll get done faster with two people.”

He can’t exactly argue with that, so he lets the silence grow. But it’s not silence, not really. In the distance, dogs bark. Outside the room, the temperamental AC grumbles, a sound he never thought he’d come to appreciate. Inside the room, fingers tug at fabric, the soft thump as the shirts grow into a continuous pile. Then there’s you, breathing in the lilac-scented air, the scent of his deodorant and sweat and something entirely unique to him– his Frankie-ness as you’ve called it many times without elaborating. I’d bottle it if I could, you told him, bathe in it. You’re kinda weird, he told you, and you know he likes it.

Every once in a while, his elbow brushes up against yours, yours skirting around his, but never colliding, an awareness of the other always present and attended to, a flow of familiarity and recognition he’s never felt before or known since.

Bit by bit, you’ve taken pieces of him into you, picked them up, held them to the light and found them beautiful, until a second bit of his soul lives outside of his body. He knows every inch of you, how every atom calls out to him, begs to be close to him, and held tight. It’s not sunlight he’s trying to keep safe, it’s your heart. Your precious, wonderful heart that is somehow so full, it was enough to fill him up too. Gold filling in the cracks.

Kintsugi, Benny called it, when he got obsessed with anime for three months that one time two years ago. Frankie never could remember the actual name, and maybe that wasn’t the point and maybe it was a little ridiculous, especially when it was explained by a deliriously drunk and bleary-eyed Ben Miller at one in the morning on his brother’s lawn chair.

Maybe a better way of thinking about it was how separate, disparate, jagged and raw edges came to fit together. How someone like him got a do-over, another chance to be remade in the kiln, and how someone like you was allowed to love unselfishly, to ask for things and never be threatened with reparations of some kind – as if loving you deserved some sort of compensation.

Pieces, broken and scattered – he looked up and saw you carrying yours, and you witnessed the scars and blood dripping from the shards of his own past, his life, his love, and despite how slippery his pieces were, how dried and empty and wanting yours were, something pulled them together and made them stay.

Something stronger than light.

Stronger than gold.

You shook his hand and looked at what you built together, the pieces that came together, and in the end, that was your partnership. A creation of something greater – home, family, love.

So much fucking love.

In the end, Frankie Morales used love to build his life, not death, and you’re the one who gave it to him.

He drops the last shirt on the stack and he turns, his fingers seeking the drawstring of your pants.

You know what he wants. You want it too. A singular desire in two separate bodies.

The inherent closeness of domesticity draws you into him, closing the already limited space as hands find waists and lips find skin. He drags his nose against your jaw, somehow already shaking, his teeth grazing your throat, unwilling and unable to press his lips to you, wanting to drag this out as much as possible. He squeezes your hips, thumbs flipping under your shirt to touch, touch, touch, until his fingers wrap around your ribs and you make your first sound of the night. It snags at his restraint, pulling it threadbare.

“Frankie,” you sigh and he cannot fight the cataclysmic pull towards you – he stumbles, pinning you to the laundry room wall, his tongue cupping your earlobe into his mouth and he sucks. The next noise you make is high and keening and it turns his touch frantic.

Caught between the wall and his broad shoulders, he does with you what he wants. He nips at your cheek, your neck, the dip of your clavicle, as his thumb presses up each knot of your spine, drawing out the tension from your body like draining poisoned blood, and by the time he pinches off your bra, you’re all but hanging onto him.

“Baby–,”

He can hear you say, it’s late, we have work in the morning, you don’t have to do this,

I’m not worth this

With a low growl that is all possession, all anger that someone ever made you feel like your love was too much, he tugs your shirt off, knocking his hat off as he goes. In the drift, he sees your eyes flutter, mouth twisted in pleasure and guilt – you don’t want to be asking for things like this – and so he silences every doubt, every worry that he’s tired or it’s too late or his knees are aching too much to make you feel the way you deserve – he kisses you with enough force to knock out every unpleasant thought you’ve ever had about yourself and flattens you against the wall.

You let him pry you open, his touch fervent and insistent, tasting of iced coffee and gum. He licks into you, telling you things with his tongue, the way he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth, in the soft puff of breath that escapes him when you cup the back of his neck. Closer, he begs, closer.

His wide palm arching your lower back into him, he squeezes your ribs, up under your breast, before finally taking your nipple between his thumb and the meat of his hand and twists, just enough to make you break apart from his demanding mouth, gasping as if tapped by a live wire. But it’s him who is electrocuted, who catches fire, who wants to be chewed down and swallowed up. He shuffles and pulls you into him, the throbbing in his pants bordering on painful. He rubs himself against you once and you sigh like you know he hurts. You nod.

Your fingers peel your shirt up and over your head as he cups one thigh then the other until your hips hug his waist, smearing the hem of his shirt up over his skin. He feels the heat coming from between your legs, the slight dampness, against his lower belly and he groans, low, right near that source of warmth he wants to die in.

You curl above him, tipping his head back, as you dive into his mouth again, fingers twisting into his hair, thumbs brushing his temple right where you know he tends to get headaches. Your tongue brushes against his upper lip, tasting his mustache, and his knees threaten to buckle.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he laments, he praises, into the supple wetness of your tongue. You nod, pleased, and press your chest into him. He cannot fucking wait to get his mouth around your tits.

Mouth sealed to yours, hands cupping the meat of your ass, Frankie works entirely on sense memory to carry you into the kitchen, to a long wooden table beneath a wide window, white curtains closed and blinds shut.

This table had been one of the first purchases for the new house. Tan cedar boards with white knobby legs, it instantly reminded him of the one in his own childhood home, where he and his brothers fought over meals and did homework together. Where he held his mom after his father died and where he dropped his bag after coming home from a life too long spent fighting other people’s wars.

This table mattered to him and he’d be damned if it wouldn’t mean something to his own child one day.

That was something you too wanted to give your child, never having a table like this in your own life. You loved the stories he told about the table in his kitchen. How much it meant to him.

And now he was going to fuck you on it, this symbol of stability.

He just wonders how stable it really is.

His fingers clutching the back of your neck, arm running in tandem with your spine, he lowers you down, shifting your weight onto his arm so you don’t bump your head against the wood. He releases you but you protest, a muffled uh-uh, as he tries retreating. You loop your arms around his neck, tugging him flat against you and he feels your breasts mold against his chest, nipples already tight.

“Baby,” he breathes, sucking up and out of your mouth, “let me make you feel good.”

Behind him, he hears your sneakers clatter to the floor, your heels digging into his back as you toe off your shoes, and you shake your head.

“I am.” Kiss. A thumb under his bottom lip. “You do.” Breathless, reverent, grateful.

Grateful.

Grateful that he is kissing you.

Not good enough. God, he’s going to eat that self-loathing right out of you.

You whine, frustrated and hot, as he pulls back. He wants to go right for your pussy, but stutters at the sight of your unmarked tits. Smooth, flushed, heaving. There is no part of you he does not love, does not feel the need to worship on his knees.

But suddenly sour shame strikes him as he realizes enough time has passed since the last time you’d had sex for the hickeys to heal. He intends to amend that right now.

His thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, to calm himself, he folds himself over you, dribbling kisses along your throat, over the wings of your clavicle, at the barest incline at the top of your breast, and then to the meat of your tit, the heaviness, the sway, and he bites down. Predictably, you yelp, nails scratching roughly into his scalp and that only makes him suck harder. You have very strict rules around where he can mark you, but on the places he can – oh, you beg him for it.

He palms your other tit, just to feel the goosebumps break out across your skin, to roll your nipple with the calluses on his palm. His teeth release, his tongue laving over that already pink and swollen skin, and he glances up, his other thumb coming to massage that fragile patch.

Being a pilot, a soldier, a brother, a son, those are the things he is. But Frankie lives – aches, pines, desires – to watch you come apart.

The purple bruise on your tit shining like a luxurious necklace, your eyes flutter open when you feel him pull up. Your fingers around his ears, your chest wet with his spit, you let him take you in. You give him this, because you know you’re about to get so much more. With your legs still wrapped around his waist, he can feel the soft cant of your hips, the quiet, patient begging, as you thought he needed reminding that you needed this. You rub up him, knees pinned to his ribs, and he lets you pull him into your mouth, grounding him. This kiss is brief, soft, a far cry from the tearing and biting that got you onto the table. Knowing exactly the state you need to be in to ask for what you want, he holds your jaw, thumb against the apple of your cheek and he slips his tongue out of your mouth. Again a protest, an instinctual reaction to the repeated pattern of abandonment, but like all cries for help, he quiets your squirming by sliding his thumb between your lips.

“Suck,” he murmurs gently. Your eyes flutter shut, your nails carving half moons into his forearm, lips creating a vacuum seal around his knuckle and you obey – you suck – and he rewards you with a trail of kisses across your sternum, over your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach. He nuzzles your belly button and you groan, eyes still shut and his thumb still in your mouth. He bites, softer than before, just above the thatch of hair and you whine around his finger, body going supple for him. He slides his thumb out, dragging a shiny string of spit over your plush lips, down your chin, joining his other hand at the waist band of both your panties and your scrubs.

Any fast movement will awaken that anxious, overthinking, beautiful brain of yours, now that he has it fuzzy and unfocused, so he keeps kissing, keeps sucking and biting, that spot just above your curls. He tongues your hip, and then the other side, your bottom half wonderfully bare before you can open your eyes.

His shoulder bumps the back of your thigh as he stands up right, inhaling the sweat behind your knee, the pungent tang of your glistening curls, your almond butter body lotion. It’s hunger, he feels, but not a tangible hunger, one that can be so easily satiated. It’s not painful, or weakening – no, he is made stronger by it. He feels your blood pulse beneath his hand on your inner thigh as he opens you up and he’s made better by it.

He kneels, a holy servant before the divine meal of their goddess, on shitty linoleum beneath harsh lights in a kitchen he can barely afford.

Frankie takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and slides your grip into his hair.

“Recuérdame cómo te gusta, nena.”

He eats. He consumes. He licks. He sucks. He slurps.

He tastes your dripping wetness on the seam of your cunt, before his tongue ever gets the chance to explore, to open, to divulge. He licks until he feels your breath hitch – a curse in the shape of his name, as if he needs scolding for making you feel so good – and then he opens his jaw and tongues your hole.

In a lust-drunk haze you once told him he has something better than DSL – he has a pussy-eating nose. He prods you with that nose you can’t seem to get enough of, licking in as far as he can, coating himself in everything as it leaks out of you, and he moans as he can feel it on his chin. You vibrate with the sound and above him, your fingers clench down into his hair.

“Oh, fuck, holy – fuck, Frankie–,” your trembling shakes the bowl of your hips, spilling his meal, so he sucks your clit in a way that makes your body freeze and then melt. You go limp, pliable, and gushing. He gets a few more moments of twisting and sucking and swallowing, until by the third time he puts his lips around your clit, you open-mouth whine and it’s like his body violently remembers he has a cock. He is seized with such a need to fuck you in this warm, wet place he’s dug out with his tongue, he doubles over and rests his teeth against your thigh.

“Frankie, I’m so close,” you writhe, chest flushed and brow sweaty.

Before you, he never knew sex could feel like this, could do this. Sure, he used sex to keep away those circling, vulture-like thoughts from time to time. But this, this drawing out and unthreading, unspooling, of himself and someone else, tearing at ego-drenched threads until all that was left was a being of pure want and desire – he didn’t know this was possible.

He didn’t know he could feel like this.

One more broad lick, coating everything in what he hope fucking smells like him, and you arch, thighs shaking, his hair in danger of being ripped from his scalp. You gasp as you flatten, the first orgasm of the night rolling through you, sweat making your skin salty, as though you had been breached by the ocean.

He laps you through it, of course, a nascent smirk on his face.

You open your eyes to this self-satisfied Frankie, eyes only visible over the top of your cunt, and you whine.

You reach for him and he goes, smearing your slick over your face, offering it to you in supplication on his tongue. He tastes your rising desperation, the way you sharpen your teeth against his lips, batter his tongue into the corner of his mouth, try to claim what your cunt already has. His hunger is an infection and your fever has reached a boiling point.

Your trembling fingers curl his shirt up his back, passing over the ruddy scar on his shoulder where he got hit with a stray bullet, the jagged white line over his ribs where a knife nearly split him open. He used to only fuck with his shirt on. He doesn’t now.

His shirt crumples to the floor as he sits up, you following, eyes dark, and you bite his pec muscle, your love for him twisting you into an anthropophagist. You want to consume him, like your pussy swallows his cock. Having him impale you is not enough; you want intercourse with him on a subatomic level.

You inch back to give yourself enough space to unbutton his jeans and he sees the wet slick left behind on the table. The heat behind his groin shoots up his spine and he grunts, burying his face into your neck where he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth, hands planted on either side of you.

“Hurry, baby, I gotta fuck this pussy,” he whispers against the curve of your jaw. He wants to leave a giant purple bruise there, this instinct to claim, to mark, stoking the roiling heat at the base of his spine and drawing up his balls.

But his attention snaps back to your hands when he hears a click, the release of his zipper is almost euphoric. He moans in relief, unable to see through his half-lidded eyes the explosion of goosebumps over your skin as his breath tumbles over your back and down your chest.

His urgent hands overwhelm yours, one pushing his jeans down his hips, the other palming your stomach, pushing you back and you go willingly, but seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his aching, flushed cock springing up against his stomach. You lie down, but only barely, still on your elbows, as he tugs you by your ankles to the edge of the table.

Your uneven breathing could mean a lot of things. He thought you were being complementary the first time you told him he was too big, but your eyes always widened at the sight of his cock.

“Do you need to be opened up some more, cariño?”

At his rawest, Spanish came out of him like a spilled bottle of molasses, sweet, slow, rich.

“Hmm? Tell me what you need. Hable mas alto por favor.” He rubs your knees, your thighs, hoping you’ll ask for what he wants.

“F-fingers, Frankie,” you swallow, eyes still latched on to his now weeping cock. You glance up at him, face open and full of trust, and he feels his dick pulse. “Please, Frankie, put your fingers in me.”

“Fucking anything.” He plants one hand and cups your mound, lost for a moment in the soaked curls, before pushing two fingers inside and thrusting. “I’ll fucking give you anything you want.”

His hips jerking slightly in tandem with the pulse of his fingers, his slacked mouth an indication of how unconscious his humping has become, as he watches you dissolve with every stroke of his hand. God, he didn’t know they made things this pretty. His hand pushes your knee up and back, finding room for three fingers and your eyes roll back in your head. You scrabble for anything to hold onto, fingers searching for the ghosts of your bedsheets, but finding none, your arms curl over your head and latch onto the other edge of the table. You present your fucking tits to him like you’re letting him admire artwork.

It almost brings him to his knees.

“Oh, I’m coming, oh, Frankie, I’m gonna –,”

He pulls out his fingers just enough to let you gush down his palm, his wrist, and he licks it up like a glutton. It drips a bit onto the linoleum and he smears it with his bare feet.

Frankie slides two fingers back in, his brain going fuzzy at being away from the clutch of your cunt for too long, when you grab his wrist.

You can barely breathe, your skin a pale pink, your cunt no doubt must be sore, but your eyes are as hard as diamonds in your skull. He swallows the flush of spit in his mouth.

“Now, Frankie,” you plead, fingers tight around his wet wrist, the hairs on his arm standing up at the sound of your commanding voice. “Fuck me, now, I need you inside of me.”

It always makes him a bit dumbstruck, the way you beg, the way you let him and only him see this side of you – this side of you that is sick with wanting.

His hand squeezes the base of his cock once, eyes fluttering, to remind himself he cannot blow his fucking load the instant the tip of him is inside you. He taps your clit, once, twice, lubing himself up as if he hadn’t moved around internal organs to make way for himself. He notches, then slides, white-knuckling his impending orgasm in favor of making this good for you. He steps farther between your legs, hands sliding from your thighs, up to your waist. He thumbs your nipple and your pussy twitches around him. He swears his heart flat out stops for a concerning length of time.

“How is a pussy this good all mine? All fucking mine?” He rolls his hips, pushing deeper, movements marionetted by the high-pitched whimpers and moans of your mouth. He could catalog every single one of them, has done so in the deep recesses of his brain, and it takes just a second to know when it switches from pleasure to pain.

He bends over you, you choking on his dick, and kisses you hard, shattering the tense look on your face.

“I love you,” he tells you, a secret that despite being well-known to anyone who sees him look at you, still feels precious and fragile. His hand plasters your hair to your sweaty neck as he kisses you desperately, speaking a language only you understand. “I love you so fucking much.”

You sigh into his open mouth. “I wanna marry you, Fransisco Morales.”

He is covered in gold. Dripping with it.

His nails at your hip dig into your skin and you know exactly what you’ve done.

“Say it. Say it louder, nena,” he snarls, face pressed into your cheek, and he thrusts forward with enough force to rock the table. The table legs squeak as you pin him to you one more time and nip at his ear. The last drop in the well, the rope slipping over the edge, the coil locked into place.

“I wanna fucking marry you.”

With a breathy grunt, he yanks you down onto his cock by your waist and slaps your ass with his balls. It’s been a while since your cunt has taken a beating like this. You clutch at the edge of the table again, mouth torn open.

He knows you like it when he plays with your clit, and he will, but he needs to get this out of him.

“Yeah? You’re gonna marry the guy who’s fucking your pussy so good right now?” It’s amazing that words escape at all through his gritted teeth, jaw taut. He watches as he disappears and reappears in you, your lips puffy and pink already but he needs more. He doesn’t want you to be able to walk out of bed tomorrow.

“Yes, Frankie – oh, god, there, right there – yes, I’m gonna marry you.” He tips your hips up as he pounds down and you arch, crying out at the angle, the depth, how full you feel. He fucks like he’s trying to bruise your ribcage through your pussy.

The thoughts in his head collide with the others, knotting together, blurring, until the only noise he can make, the only thing he can verbalize is the tight grunts, the hm, hm, hm, as he focuses on chasing this fire.

He feels it approach so fast, he’s nearly taken under by the intensity of his orgasm so he slows, grinds instead, and with his eyes on your face, he cups himself around where he’s split you open, feeling your lips suck in and out with every thrust.

He closes his eyes briefly, helpless against the waves of arousal that coat his fingers. He smears your clit with his thumb and his name is a split, jagged thing that burns your tongue. He wants that taste on his tongue again.

You throb once, a sharp climax warming your pussy, and he backs out, drops to his knees, and licks you up again. He can taste his sweat there this time and he groans. His hands slip over your skin from the sweat in the crease of your thigh.

The cries from your mouth are wet now, on the curve of a salty tongue. You tremble like your orgasm is a physical thing, thrumming under your skin, warming your blood and you claw at his forearm.

“B-baby, please–,”

Wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, then licking up the mess he made, Frankie stands. He swats your bottom lightly, tutting. He’s a mad man, he knows it, he can’t tell if it's delirium from the rough ache of his balls or masochistic joy in hearing you beg, but again he rubs himself through your folds. It’s not the same, not nearly enough, but it helps last just a bit longer.

“No crying until after I’ve made you come.”

“I’ve already come twice,” you whine as you buck your hips, trying to take him in deeper. “You said I can have anything I want.”

“And what does princesa want?” Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with him.

Your eyes flash as your nails dig into his shoulders, that fire he so loves to stoke flaring out.

“I want to come on your cock, Mr. Morales.”

And he unravels, divinity calling his name.

His pace is slow, then rough, then deep.

The table is just the right height. He balances on knee on the lip, bending your knees over his shoulders, and fucking down into you. He’s going to snap you in fucking half and maybe he does but he’ll be there to seal you back up again.

Pour himself into you. Fill you. Make you whole once more.

Baby, please.

The first drip of tears starts out the corner of your eyes as you come, open-mouthed, throat exposed, a cry loud and in the shape of his name tearing from your lips, your body locking up, cunt squeezing him until he feels himself burst.

With a shudder and a groan, he spills, hot and flush into you. He comes, and comes, and comes, until his gooey spend is forced out of you and down the crack of your ass. He can’t see anything past the white spark in his eyes, feel anything but you and the tingle of his limbs.

The excess of you and him is everywhere, leaking out onto the kitchen table, soaking the wood. There’s a ringing in his ears he can’t quiet.

Your breath is hot on his neck, sweaty skin stuck tightly against his, he knows he’s crushing you, his arms given out at some point, but he really doesn’t think he can stand up right. He kisses your cheek by way of apology and thanks but you don’t seem to mind, your own gaze unfocused on the ceiling.

“Fuck, Frankie . . .”

He laughs, realizes his legs aren’t working, so trembling and uneasy, he slides out of you and manages to make it to the floor. He blames the sudden dizziness on a lack of food and then blames the dizziness for lying down on the floor.

His eyes flutter and somehow you’re suddenly curled up next to him, your palm resting over his pounding heart. His fingers find their way up into your sweat-damp hair, thumb gently rubbing against the knot at the base of your skull.

“Your back is gonna be killing you in about fifteen minutes, sweetheart,” you grumble sleepily into his chest, a grin on your face.

“I can’t feel anything below my waist right now.” He yawns. “So, we’ve got some time.”

You nod, absentmindedly stroking the dark hair on his chest.

“We need to talk about Pope’s birthday party this weekend. Will put us on drink duty . . . but I can’t really focus on anything right now.”

“Good,” he smirks with his eyes shut. “That was some of my best work.” And then he frowns. “You need to eat.” He pokes your side and you huff.

“Okay, if you’re awake enough to berate me, we can at least go to bed.”

Groaning, you pull him up and he threatens to stumble you both into the wall, but he kisses your cheek and swats your ass, before snagging a tub of ice cream and a spoon. He meets you in the bedroom with the cap off and a smear of chocolate around his lips.

You’ve got one of his shirts, grinning up at him from the center of the bed, and he’s torn about whether he likes you in his boxers, or nothing at all.

You take the ice cream from him before he has a chance to flop down on the bed.

“Not exactly a nutritious meal,” you mutter around the spoon and he turns his face from the pillow to glare at you.

“That’s the other dinner I made for you, so eat.”

Your giggle is all you can give to show your thanks.

He rolls onto his back, groaning theatrically, before tucking his hand behind his head, and his fingers coming to rest on his stomach.

Behind the lids of his eyes, he can feel you watching him.

“What?” He grumbles, feeling around for your foot to pinch your ankle. He hears you move so he knows he’s close. “Not the right flavor, princesa?”

“No,” you laugh and prod his hip with your toe. “It’s just . . .”

His eyes open, finding yours in the half-lit gloom. You’re grinning the spoon in your mouth, eyes bright with something unnameable. You shrug, eying his hand between you both.

“I just never knew Fransisco Morales could be domesticated.”

He wipes the chocolate off your chin with his thumb.

Yeah, who knew?

#frankie morales #fransisco morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales smut #triple frontier #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #frankie morales x f!reader

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wttcsms · 4 months

Note

"i (Nanami Kento) bet on losing dogs" x the losing dog (reader)

no other sadness in the world would do, kento nanami ;

pairing kento nanami x f!reader word count 1.5k synopsis a quiet and intimate examination of modern day suffering content contains implied abusive spouse (for reader), implied unrequited love (nanami has feelings for reader)

There is nothing in this world that Kento Nanami despises more than baseless loyalty.

What a pathetic trait, he would think to himself. How could someone just blindly follow someone, constantly chasing after their shadow, only to be mistreated time and time again? It’s disgusting. Shameless. Weak.

He feels disgusting, shameless, weak.

Powerless, too. That’s a new one. That’s how things usually go when it’s just the two of you; you start evoking all sorts of new emotions, like he’s a video game character and you’re helping him unlock upgrades to his character. It’s a bit disarming, really. Kento much prefers to remain as impassive as possible while in the office because unnecessarily giving up any pieces of himself to this skyscraper shithole feels like he’s letting his stupidly rich clients win.

Kento likes routine, which is why he settles into one quickly and refuses to make adjustments unless absolutely necessary.

And then you became his new desk partner, and his perfect, meticulous cycle is thrown off course.

Being observant does more harm than good. He notices the shiny ring on your finger and draws an invisible, never-to-be-passed boundary. He already has made up his mind on not engaging with any of his coworkers, female or male, married or otherwise, but with you, he makes the mental effort to visualize the line, the flashing red warning signs, the whole nine-yards. This is the first sign that you are going to fuck up his life. Already, you’re embedded in his insides, owning real estate in his subconscious long before he can even realize it.

At first, you don’t talk to him much; you don’t talk to most of the men working here, and Kento can’t fault you for that. Most of them are assholes, and all of them don’t have any morals. If this wasn’t the case, they wouldn’t be working here, after all.

Eventually, you start to withdraw, and Kento becomes the person you’re most comfortable with talking to. What you see is what you get with him. Kento refuses to be one of those people who are a waste of perfectly good oxygen, and he doesn’t speak unless it’s absolutely necessary. You’re in an industry where men purposely like to talk over women, just because they can get away with it. With Kento, you are given free rein of the conversation. It’s kismet, you and him.

He gets used to your constant conversation, never seeming to be put off by the fact that he doesn’t offer up his opinion unless explicitly asked. Kento normally doesn’t like it when people talk to him when he’s trying to get work done, but your voice is pleasant, your topics always interesting (“do you think there are different levels in Hell, or is a one-victim murderer being prodded by pitchforks right next to Hitler?”), and he finds that listening to you speak relaxes him somewhat. He doesn’t go home with a tightness in his shoulders and a persistent, throbbing ache in his head that aspirin can’t seem to fix.

The first time Kento initiates conversation is when he sees you wearing a blazer during the sweltering heat of one of Japan’s most unforgiving summers.

“A bit warm for all that,” he says, trying to adjust his tone and make it sound like a joke. Even if it did sound like a joke, he knows that your reaction would remain the same.

“Oh,” you give a nervous, insincere laugh, reflexively tugging on the sleeves even though your arms are still very much covered. “I get cold easily.”

That’s a lie. Kento knows because he knows you well enough to tell that you are the most genuine person he has ever interacted with. He doesn’t know how you ended up with this job when you’re much better suited for a career that actually helps people. He thinks back to when the office’s air conditioning went haywire and blasted the office with near-freezing temperatures. You had remained in your short-sleeved blouse, saying that you love the cold.

He doesn’t call you out on it, though. He just makes a noise from the back of his throat and turns back to his monitor.

He can only pretend to ignore your erratic behavior for so long. You keep yourself covered to the point where you make a nun seem indecent. You withdraw from him, not initiating conversation unless Kento brings something up (he’s never been good at making small talk, and so more often than not, the conversation fizzles out quickly and awkwardly). And then you come to work with a black eye, and Kento refuses to let you suffer in silence any longer.

You break down and cry, feeling pathetic, feeling lost. You beg him not to say anything to anybody, that this is just a rough patch, that this’ll pass, and everything will be okay. Amidst your sobs, Kento finds himself wondering who you’re trying to convince right now.

He holds you on the comedown.

Now, there’s a new cycle. Things don’t get better for you; it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure that one out. If a man lays his hands on you once, he’ll do it again. And again. And again.

To take a life is a serious thing, but sometimes, there are worse ways to kill someone without ever murdering them. Your husband is killing you right now, a slow, soul-sucking type of death, and Kento would like to kill him. Some people are more curse than human.

What did your husband do, Kento wonders, to make you fall in love with him? What can your husband do to make you finally wake up and realize that he is entirely undeserving of your love?

Kento Nanami does not belong to any religion, does not attend church, does not even bother questioning the possibilities of a potential afterlife because his current life is already a bust as is. But after every late night he spends comforting and consoling you, holding you while you wet his button-down with your tears, he goes home and prays that you get the strength to fucking leave him. Pack your bags and get the hell out of Tokyo. Even if it means he’ll never see you again, the only person who makes this insufferable existence somewhat bearable.

But the cycle doesn’t seem to ever break. He’s watching you fade away, and he decides that all the faith systems are fucked up for ignoring his pleas.

“You should leave him.” He tells you, handing you a tissue. It’s technically a waste of breath; he tells you this shit all the time, and you never take his advice, but he says it anyway. Foolishly hoping that this time will be the time where you decide to listen to him.

(And besides, he finds that anything he says to you could never be a waste.)

“But I love him.” You give him that same sad, watery smile, and Kento wants to pity you, but you wouldn’t accept it. Outwardly, he treats you the same as he used to, before he knew all that stuff that happens to you behind closed doors, because he knows what it’s like to be treated like you’re incapable of processing anything but kindness. The sweet, sugary kind of kindness, too — none of that blunt, pragmatic stuff. Kismet, he snorts. How fortunate that the kindness you need — re: blunt, pragmatic — is the only type he’s capable of giving to you.

Being treated like you’re surrounded by broken glass and everyone around you is trying desperately to avoid it makes people feel even worse. When Yu died, everyone acted like not being overly nice to Kento would somehow make him snap and go off the deep-end. The fact of the matter is, none of these people have ever been so overly cautious around him, and it actually made the pain of losing Yu somehow more unbearable.

There are lots of replies that rest on the tip of his tongue.

But does he love you?

Why?

Have some self respect, holy shit.

Your love is killing you from the inside out.

I could love you.

He tosses away your snotty tissues into the trash can, somehow not disgusted by you even though you think he should be. His grocery list now includes painkillers, band-aids, and bruise ointment. He thinks prayers are a waste of time, and before bed, he takes a shot in the dark and hopes some benevolent god is rooting for you like he is. There is nothing in the world that Kento Nanami despises more than baseless loyalty.

“I know.” And he leaves it at that.

#kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #nanami x reader #jjk x reader #one shot #drabble #sleepover event

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hauntedestheart · 8 months

Text

The Ghost Of Hartford Manor (Male Possession)

"Frederick, what on Earth are you doing?!" Lady Priscilla shrieked to her son. "Get out of the water this instant!"

"Oh but it's such a hot day and the water feels so lovely!" Frederick called back to her, and then he turned his eyes to the other genteel folk attending the garden party. "Won't you all join me?"

He placed his hands on his hips, as if to draw attention to his nether regions, and everyone at the garden party gasped at the sight of the pendulous manhood swinging freely between his legs for all to see. Frederick beamed at the crowd without a stitch of shame (or pants) and waved his arms, beckoning them towards him, and the party erupted into whispers.

Frederick Hammlebutton, heir to the Hammlebutton fortune, behaving so shamelessly at a high society function? It was the scandal of the year! And if the women folk peeked at him over their fans, eyes drawn to the way the water made his tight shirt cling to his musculature, and a few gentlemen gazed at his cock for a few more seconds than was strictly appropriate... well, it was simply because they wanted to get the latest gossip, that's all. This was a big story.

Only one woman seemed immune to Frederick's charms,

"What a brute!" Lady Catherine Hartfort harrumphed, giving the unclothed man a stare icy enough to freeze the lake around him. "And to think, I almost considered marrying my daughter off to this man! This simply will not do." Catherine turned her eyes to her daughter, the lovely young Dahlia Hartfort, and sighed. "I'm sorry my dear, but the engagement is off."

"Is it?" Dahlia mustered up a forlorn sigh and a small shake of the head. "Oh, darn. And I was so looking forward to marriage."

Truth be told, Dahlia wasn't the least bit disappointed that her potential beau was making an ass of himself with his ass out- on the contrary, his behavior was her doing.

You see, Dahlia had no intention of getting married. She had gotten involved in this newfangled feminism movement, which had opened her eyes to the injustices facing women in their modern society. True. wasn't opposed to the idea of having a man beside her, but the laws surrounding marriage in the modern era were so draconian- the second a man put a ring on her finger, she would become his property. And Dahlia was not about to become someone's property! Besides, she quite liked running the family estate by herself and intended to do so for as long as she could.

Her mother, however, had other ideas. An old fashioned "proper" noble of the old guard, she was a stickler for tradition and stubbornly insisted that her daughter's husband be (quote) "a respectable man of means." And, thanks to the law, if Lady Catherine arranged a marriage with an eligible bachelor, her daughter was bound to follow through.

So since Dahlia couldn't change her mother's mind, and she couldn't say no, she had to find another method of getting her way.

That was when Norman came into the picture. Dear, sweet Norman.

Norman was a dead man, and Dahlia's secret weapon.

The same friends who had introduced Dahlia to feminism had also introduced her to spiritualism, and on one stormy evening she had invited a genuine psychic over to hold a seance. She and her friends had held hands, shrieked and laughed as the lights flickered, and then bid each other goodnight- however once everyone departed, Dahlia found that she was not alone.

A foggy shape hung heavily in one of the mirrors, and when she placed her fingers upon it, a face that was not her own filled the glass. It was the round face of a pudgy young man, with wild untamed hair and a brutal looking bruise around his neck, and most surprising of all- he bowed to Dahlia politely.

Shock held her tongue and prevented her from screaming, but the man in the mirror assured her that he meant her no harm. He introduced himself by the name of Norman, and he waited very politely while Dahlia gathered her wits about her enough to question the spirit.

Norman's story was a sad one: a faithful servant of the family since he was but a boy, he'd confessed his affections towards one of the butlers who had rejected him and in turn gotten him fired from his position with the family. Disgraced and with nowhere else to go, Norman had taken his own life in the study and his spirit had roamed the halls ever since. His existence had been vague and foggy until that very evening when Dahlia's seance had ripped the veil from his eyes and brought him back to the side of the living.

What stood out most to Dahlia about Norman's tale was her family's involvement in the poor man's death. She apologized profusely to the deceased gentleman, who politely accepted, but pointed out that it was probably a bit late for that. Still, Dahlia insisted, to chase someone out simply for who they loved... that was the true disgrace!

But Dahlia was shocked by the notion of two men engaging in amorous congress- how would that even work, she inquired? So Norman guided her to his well-hidden stash of erotic novels, and a quick skim of literature did wonders to change Dahlia's mind. In fact, upon thorough examination, she found the image of two men thrusting their bodies together rather appealing.

(Better they take that aggression out on each other than a woman, she rationalized. And the drawings in some of Norman's books made her mouth water,)

Despite their incompatible orientations the two found themselves to be kindred spirits, both individuals trapped out of time in a society that wouldn't allow them to be who they wanted, and Norman quickly became Dahlia's closest confidant. She was careful to keep their friendship a secret (because if her family knew she was "talking to ghosts" they'd have her institutionalized) but every evening, without fail, she would report to the study and give Norman the latest gossip, or share the newest chapbook she'd acquired.

And when she'd come to Norman one night, sobbing about how her mother intended to marry her off, he proposed a plan to her. Since the seance, his spirit had been growing stronger- strongest of all when he was around Dahlia -and one of the spiritualist texts she'd brought for them to read had contained an interesting idea.

"What if," he proposed to her. "I could superimpose my spirit into the body of another man? That way I could call the engagement off for you. Could be a good way to solve your problem!"

"And be a bit of fun for you," she teased, knowing full well that her friend often lamented his lack of a physical form, and Norman gave a lopsided grin.

She'd agreed, of course.

She still remembers the first man that the two of them had teamed up to take down. Lord Orson was a stunning statue of a man, so painfully gorgeous that Dahlia had briefly considered sacrificing her morals and becoming a dutiful wife if it meant she could be wed to such a prince of a man- until he'd opened his mouth and begun to complain about everything.

What an arrogant ass! Dahlia thought to herself, though she was all smiles on the outside.

His spoiled, sour attitude meant she'd felt little guilt about pulling him aside in the study for a "private chat" beside the old mirror. She watched with mild horror as his eyes rolled back into his head and his body pulsed, groans of agony issuing forth from his handsome lips, and for a moment she was afraid that she had made a mistake and the innocent man was dying- but then he straightened his back and gave her a lopsided grin.

That was her Norman alright.

Norman's first steps as Lord Orson had been strange- he stumbled about like a newborn colt, decades out of practice with having legs, and he complained to Dahlia that he was unused to being so tall. On the whole Lord Orson's physique was a far cry from the one he'd inhabited before his passing, which came as quite a delight to him. His hands pressed into his chest and squeezed at Orson's powerful chest- and when he lifted his shirt, Dahlia understood why the man had struck her as so arrogant.

Norman had been so excited to be amongst the living again that he'd immediately divested himself of his clothes, eager to explore Lord Orson's chiseled musculature, and while Dahlia had enjoyed the sight of the gorgeous man examining his body in the mirror, she had to beg him to remain decent at least until dinner. Norman begrudgingly agreed, but if anyone noticed that Lord Orson seemed strangely preoccupied with readjusting his britches all afternoon, they wisely kept their mouths shut.

Getting to spend the afternoon cavorting about with Norman had been delightful, and even her mother had been surprised by how well Dahlia and "Lord Orson" were getting along. She'd puffed herself up like a smug peacock thinking she'd found her daughter the perfect match- right up until she walked in on him buried balls deep in the stable boy.

And to think, her poor daughter had been struck frozen with shock at the sight and had helplessly borne witness to the whole thing!

Needless to say, Lord Orson was quickly dismissed after such a shocking display, and Dahlia was free to maintain her status as an unmarried woman. As for Lord Orson, the second he crossed the property line of the estate he claimed to have no memory of the events at all- though most people took these claims to be a shoddy attempt to save face.

The rest of Dahlia's suitors had met similarly strange fates:

The Duke of Chustlewitt was a slender thing, barely even of marrying age, but he threw himself at every man in his path with the appetite of a man twice his years and made eyes at them like he was a cheap whore. Lady Catherine had been horrified, but Dahlia insisted they give the man a chance- one that ended in the storeroom with the chef's assistant making very inappropriate usage of some butter.

The Earl of Trackspont, a great big bear of a man, had been dismissed after a few short hours when Lady Catherine realized he didn't plan to stop lifting his shirt up and shaking his own hairy belly at the slightest excuse to do so. He'd slapped at his stomach and called Lady Catherine a prude, and still managed to snag one of the serving boys on the way out.

Sir Timone had been a promising suitor, a dashing musician employed by the royal court, but when the guests at the afternoon get-together had begged him to play piano for them the song he'd sung had been shockingly lewd and concluded with him whipping out his hard cock and plunking it upon the keys.

Count Ludovich was an educated man with degrees from several universities, but he proudly informed everyone at breakfast that his proudest achievement was how many candlesticks he could fit into his buttocks. He'd made it up to four before he was forcibly removed from the premises.

Sir Barstew had made it all the way to dinner before stripping his pants and depositing his genitals into the stew- and then offering Lord Heckleston cousin a taste. (Dahlia had scolded Norman for that one- it had been too funny, she said, and she had almost burst out laughing at the table.)

And so on.

Unfortunately for Dahlia (but fortunately for Norman) each failure only seemed to increase Lady Catherine's determination to find a match for her daughter, and thanks to the estate's considerable means she found no short supply of suitors ready to take her up on the offer despite the unsavory rumors beginning to swirl around the Hartford estate.

Funnily enough, Dahlia had noticed that since she and Norman had begun their escapades, invitations to Lady Catherine's parties had become some of the most sought after social items in town.

Dahlia roused herself from her musings and returned her attention to the table, where the matchmaker was apologizing profusely to her mother.

"I swear, I don't know what's gotten into him!" The poor woman protested, eyeing the throbbing vein on Dahlia's mother's forehead. "He's always been such a polite boy."

"I'll tell you what's gotten into him-" Lady Catherine huffed, giving a haughty toss of the head. "He has the table manners of a horse!"

"And that's not all he has from a horse," muttered one of Dahlia's friends, drawing a snicker from the other girls at the table.

"And what is it that you lot are whispering about?" Catherine sniped, fixing her withering gaze upon the younger women, who all busied themselves with the tea and cakes.

"Merely remarking what a shame it is that such a remarkably gifted young man should go astray like this," one of them said quickly.

"Yes, such a shame," Damonia echoed, hiding her smile behind a sip of tea.

"How peculiar that this should happen to every single suitable bachelor that we have brought for you," Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes and glared at her daughter, and one eyebrow raised in an unspoken challenge.

"How peculiar indeed," Dahlia demurred, her face the picture of innocence. "It's so hard to find a proper gentleman in this modern era- it almost makes one think that the estate would be better off in the hands of, say a woman."

"Almost," her mother said, her thin lips pressing into an unimpressed frown. "But not quite yet. I've been in contact with another matchmaker and the Earl of Windton will be arriving in a fortnight- an upstanding military man, so we should expect no tomfoolery from him."

Dahlia smiled- a soldier? Norman would be most delighted.

She just hoped that Norman wouldn't be too rough on this one- he'd done such a job on the last beau that the poor man had fled to America to escape the scandal. This Frederick fellow had been humiliated enough, she would have to get Norman release him soon.

She glanced across the party towards the lake, where Norman was still frolicking about using Frederick's face and Lady Priscilla was still desperately trying to get her son's body out of the water.

"At least cover yourself!" Lady Priscilla wailed, then she lowered her voice to heated stage whisper. "Everyone can see your buttocks!"

"Cover myself? Why?" Norman gave a cheeky grin and his hands reached down to his backside and teased at the ample flesh of Frederick's cheeks. "I've got such a lovely bum! Everyone should get a chance to see it."

Dahlia vaguely recalled the matchmaker mentioning that Frederick was a horseback riding champion of some sort, and as she watched his copious buttocks jiggle, she could believe it.

She could talk to him later, she decided. For now, she was enjoying the lovely garden view.

#male possession #I. hate. coming up with names.

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ackerfics · 6 months

Text

my love is mine all mine ch 1 | toji fushiguro x female reader

part one of to the girls who are failed by the narrative series.

series summary:

'the glorified womb', 'the heir bearer', 'the blessed flower of the jujutsu society' — they are just some of the titles given to the women of your mother's clan, and all of them eventually fell to you, the prodigal firstborn who has the misfortune of birthing someone who will be stronger than their predecessors. with the fate of someone's clan on your shoulders, there are only a handful of things told to you while growing up; be as demure as you can be, never open your mouth and squash your thoughts, sit with a posture befitting that of a lady wearing an invisible yet heavy diadem. but the one that rings the most goes like this: your only purpose in this world is to be a silent wife to a man who will give you the opportunity to carry the next generation of powerful sorcerers. you remember all of these as you walk toward zen'in ogi in your uchikake, the constricting material around your waist akin to the gripping hold of your cursed technique.

and in fate's funny little ways of fabricating legacies and stories, you forget them when you are spirited away by the man who always welcomes the coming of the seasons with you without fail.

chapter title: their redness talks to my wounds

warnings: objectifying women, misogynistic beliefs, pregnancy, miscarriage, stillbirth, death, sexual assault/r*pe (but not to reader)

Each time a girl is born in your mother’s clan, a festival is held — flower lanterns drifting in the inky sky, bells ringing each passing second, and rhythms of geta filling in between the beats of the taiko. It is believed that your mother’s family was kissed by the deity of fortitude and fertility; very much like how the Mother and Father of the Shinto gods created the islands of Japan and brought forth a new wave of deities, the womb of the Hanamo clan will bring an heir to a dying clan. When the inheritance of The Glorified Womb is successful, all of the clans gather to get a glimpse of the future Lady of their estates and bid on who would welcome her to their gates. The festival is both a moment of celebration and sending off.

It’s the start of a new era and it is all ignited by the birth of a little girl whose body is blessed by a flutter of Izanami’s forefinger.

You were told that your festival was the grandest of all the events thrown by your family. No one anticipated the weight carried by your first cry. You weren’t there to witness it but the maids who brush your hair constantly tell you that when you announced yourself to the world like the coveted little Lady that you are, all of the flowers coloured the grounds of the estate with the reverse cursed technique innate in your mother’s bloodline and the utilisation from your father’s. They said that it was the moment the entire Jujutsu world stood still, holding their breath; offers were made, compromises were presented on the table, bounties continued piling on your little fragile head — and you weren’t even a day old. You were the product of a fruitful union between the Hanamo and Joushou clans, they said, a little doll to flaunt and to cradle until a worthy man comes to take you away as his young bride.

You don’t understand it until you accidentally nick yourself while marvelling at the beauty of the blossoms in the gardens of the main family’s house.

The blooming red on the tip of your finger fascinates you, the drops nourishing the soil underneath the carnations intermingling with the short redbud trees. Pain doesn’t even come to you as you tilt your head to follow the trickle of blood on your forefinger, the lines on your palm seeping with the most perfect shade of red you’ve ever seen. The flowers speak to you with the more time you spend letting your blood escape through your skin. You can hear them more — all asking the same set of questions that you pay no heed to. Are you alright, young Lady of the House of Purity? Do you need us to carry you in our petals? Does it hurt you? Who dares soil the most-yearned young Lady? They deserve to shrivel. You don’t notice the foliage of the shrubs going past their trimmed appearance to engulf the bundle of roses right in front of you, threatening to swallow the poor plant whole for hurting you. You’re about to place your bleeding finger in your mouth, curious about the taste of it, when the maids shriek behind you.

“Ojou-sama!”

Your hair follows the movement of your head as you turn around to meet their frantic mannerisms. “Hmm?”

“Oh, my Lord!” One of them swoops down to where you are, unravelling a ribbon from her yukata to wrap around your wound. She then scoops you from the ground, her hand holding the back of your head as gently as possible. “What are we going to tell Yoshiki-sama?”

You place your head on the maid’s shoulder, your eyes catching the retreating shrubbery trying to touch you with their fingers. Slowly, you lift your head to get a good look at them, opting to just wave your small, pudgy hands at the leaves and the twigs and the bark. Curious; they almost waved back. But you discern that it is a product of the gentle breeze entering the large gardens. After all, plants do not talk, at least not in the storybooks the caretakers and maids act out for you. The women around you keep on talking as if you aren’t there nestled in between them.

“Is it bad of me to think otherwise?”

“Mari, his daughter is injured!”

“But he will punish us if he finds out!”

The maid carrying you tightens her hold around you. “Even if the heavens ring malice over us peasants, I would gladly inform the head of this house of anything regarding his prized kin. Mari, I thought you were better than that. We are hired to protect Ojou-sama with every inch of our being.”

A hitched breath comes from the other maid. “Don’t you dare drop my name when you speak of this to Yoshiki-sama!”

“If he brings up the subject of the witnesses, I would speak with utmost honesty.”

The maid whisks you away. It is only when she passes by Mari-san that you take a good look at the troubled countenance wrapping around the worried maid. You don’t know the hierarchy around the household but you definitely know your father is the highest-ranking person here, judging from how people speak of him. You surmise that the maid holding you as if you’re the most fragile thing on the planet is higher in rank than Mari-san and that probably makes her sad just like now. Intending to make her smile a little bit, you raise your hand over the maid’s shoulder to wave at Mari-san, your smile beaming and crinkling the corners of your eyes. The lower maid notices it and her entire demeanour shifts into that of a person endeared. She feels better and you also feel better now.

“Ojou-sama, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

“What about Papa? Aren’t we supposed to go to him?”

The maid stiffens. “Right after we clean the wound and put some cute bandages on it, Ojou-sama.”

“Can I pick the pattern?”

The woman chuckles under her breath. “Of course; as long as it is in the box Ritsuko bought the other day.”

Ritsuko must be one of the maids as well. You think long and hard about the design you want, the image of cute cartoon characters filling your mind. With a little pout, you suggest, “I want Sanrio.”

“Let’s see if there’s any of the Sanrio characters in the bandages, then, Ojou-sama. Just a little more and—Mutsuki-sama!”

“I’ll take it from here, Aida-chan.”

The most beautiful woman who puts the flowers to shame — your mother. She was once the most desired bride, even threatening to break the close relationship of the oldest sons of the current head of the Zen’in family in hopes of finally giving birth to the sorcerer who will possess the Ten Shadows Technique they are praised for. Because of your father, the current head of the clan bearing a reverse cursed technique so notorious, that civil war was prevented and the Zen’in married other women from lower clans as a way to swallow their shame. All the funnier it was to the adults having meetings in your house when after marrying their chosen brides, the Zen’in sons weren’t blessed by Lady Luck — the eldest son’s children were never that exemplary (one didn’t inherit the Ten Shadows Technique and the other was an anomaly to your society) and the younger one’s wife experienced miscarriage and false positives.

Judging from the stories you’ve heard of that Zen’in dispute so many years ago, you understand with your little brain that your mother embodies the word pretty through and through — pretty enough to bewitch the young head of the Gojo clan, who is roughly around the same age as her. In the end, it was your father she chose and they were married as soon as she reached the age of eighteen. You graced their life four years after their marriage and she told you in hushed whispers behind a thin shoji that they prayed for your creation — that you are loved way before conception because there was not a night that she didn’t wish to the stars for your existence.

Your mother stands in the middle of the hallway, her maids lowering their heads behind her. The kimono wrapping her figure is anything but simple, one of the many gifts showered to her by your father. Her hair is cascading down her back and her smile is demure yet exuding with so much warmth that it compels you to reach out for her. Her glittering eyes shine ever more at your silent plea to be transferred into her arms.

“Oh, come here, my little petal,” she murmurs while taking you from the maid and in her frail arms. She huffs at the unexpected weight. “Aren’t you getting bigger?” Her voice is soft, almost like she is talking to an easily frightened kitten, even leaning forward to lightly brush the tip of her nose to yours. You giggle at the ticklish sensation and your mother hums a little amused laugh.

You place both of your hands on her cheeks. “Hello, Mama.”

“Hello, little petal.” Her gaze drifts down to the hastily wrapped ribbon around your finger, the red is still vibrant against the muted colours of the material. “Did you hurt yourself while playing in the garden?” Mother tuts under her breath. “We can’t have that now, can we?” The crinkles around her eyes harden into that expected of a Mistress of the house and all the maids present straighten their postures, all the while facing the ground. When the younger women keep their silence, Mother returns to gazing at you with that lovely look she usually has while trailing her eyes over your features. “I suppose it’s expected of children to have a little scratch here and there while enjoying life. After all, my little petal gets her love for nature from me. Isn’t that right, my darling?”

“The flowers talked to me in the garden, Mama.”

“Did they?” Mother glances at the maids before walking toward her room. “What did they say?”

You place a hand on your chin, tucking your head in the crook of her neck. “They were whispering about many things.” You gasp in realisation. “I think they found a little bunny!”

She adjusts you in her hold, her breaths deepening the more she carries you. “We’ll ask someone to fetch that rabbit for you.”

“Will Papa say yes?”

Mother pauses for a moment. The words coming from her throat are carefully crafted to never dim that enthusiastic gleam present in your irises. “Your father is weak when it comes to you; I’m sure he’s going to grant your wish no matter how bizarre it is. A bunny doesn’t even create a dent on anything he holds.”

“I’ll call it Melody.”

“Why the name, little petal?”

“Because it’s the only bunny in Sanrio.”

You watch the long corridors depict the opulence of the gardens of your father’s estate, all of the flowers arranged in a way that is akin to the traditional art of ikebana, making the lifeless plot of land alive. The previous head of the Joushou family decided that for their heir to win the heart of the flower of the Jujutsu society, they have to plant different species of flowering plants to the bland greenery they have in their backyard. It most certainly impressed the standing head of the Hanamo clan, who agreed to give their prized daughter to the man who would least harm her. Now, the garden is a testament to the love sprouting between your mother and father and many maids and butlers say that it is still revered by those who have heard it, all wishing for a love like that to save them from the fate given to them by the higher-ups.

A little honey bee drapes itself on one of the flowers, its wings fluttering rapidly against the purple petals. The flower sneezes though it doesn’t agitate the bee buzzing to get a taste of its nectar. You giggle at the incessant complaints brought by the flower, only to be met by the satisfied buzz of the bee.

“Look, Mama, the flower is talking so fast!” You point at the still-rambling flower, Mother following your finger with her hooded eyes.

“It’s reassuring to know that I’m not the only one to hear them now.”

You lean back from Mother’s shoulder, her hand immediately flat on your back to prevent you from toppling. “Careful,” she mutters under her breath. The crease on her eyebrows vanishes at the sound of your twinkling laughter.

“Sorry, Mama!”

Mother shakes her head. “It’s alright, petal.”

“Mama says she can hear the flowers, too!”

She sighs at your manner of speaking. “You said you can hear flowers, too,” she corrects without looking down at you, the door of her room right at her reach. “You can easily replace the nouns with pronouns, little petal. It’s not appealing to the ears once you get older. Best to remember to stop referring to yourself from a third point of view as well. It is unbecoming of a little lady of this house to have such impaired speech.” Mother hears nothing from you, so she takes a little peek at you before letting out a huff at the deflated posture you carry. “Your father won’t like it, petal.” She heaves another sigh. “And yes, I can hear the flowers because of our family’s cursed technique.”

“What’s a cursed technique, Mama?”

Once you enter Mother’s room, she pads on the tatami and gracefully lowers herself on one of the zaisu with you on her lap. You don’t see any first-aid kits anywhere that can help her clean and dress your small wound. Instead, Mother unravels the ribbon around your finger and holds it up for her to see. The blood has dried now, the wound stark on your skin. You never realised that the nick made by the roses’ thorns travelled from the tip of your appendage down to the line bordering your first knuckle. Mother remains quiet as she rubs the tip of her own finger over your own, making you flinch at the sting. She glances at the harsh movement of your little body and tuts, the sound echoing through the walls of her minimalistically decorated room. With the tenderness only a mother can have, she keeps on brushing her finger against your open skin, her breathing becoming laboured with each passing second.

The feeling that washes over you is ticklish in every sense. Something is coming from Mother’s touch that has you looking over at your joined hands. There is a pulsating glow emanating from between you two — blinding and warm. It travels from her fingertips to your wound, stitching it together like how she sews the tapestries displayed on some walls of the estate. The pain you felt earlier can be a figment of your imagination because when Mother wipes your finger with a clean napkin on the low table in front of you, the magic she did erases any sign of your injury. And right when she finishes doing her magic, the flowers in the ikebana around her room continue flourishing until more than one blossom can be seen. It’s only then that you realise they are singing in a chorus so heavenly that you have no problems hearing them all at once.

With a rugged pattern of breathing, Mother answers your hanging question, “That … can be classified as a cursed technique.”

You lift your hand to your eyes, blinking every so often and examining it for any scar. “Whoa,” you breathe. “That’s so cool!”

“That,” she catches her breathing, “is the reason why you should never be hurt.” She cups your face with her palm, cradling it like the world that you are. “Our very existence, our cursed technique, the way we were born, is proof of how special we are. They are the reason why your father is quite protective of you. Believe me when I say that you lit up the entire compound when I gave birth to you. In this generation, you are considered to be the most valuable possession of the Jujutsu society. There may come a time when a strong sorcerer will be born, but for now, the world will fall to its knees at the sound of your name. Because you have my blood in you and you know what they say about my family?” You sheepishly shake your head and she takes that as a sign to continue, with a knowing smile on her glossed lips, “Men would go to war just to have us. The near downfall of the Zen’in and Gojo clans hundreds of years ago says it all.”

“I don’t want that,” you murmur, now forlorn at the possibility of wreaking havoc in your world.

“It is the way of the world for us, petal,” Mother says, like an afterthought she always kept ever since.

“I want to watch Sanrio all day and look at the flowers and play,” you pout.

“That doesn’t exactly work for us in the future.”

“Then maybe I should run away!”

Now, both of Mother’s hands trap your head in place. Your eyes take her in — the franticness coating her features, the disbelief in the form of the sneer on her lips, and the underlying glint underneath her pupils. Your little heart starts pounding in your chest. Did you do something wrong to elicit such a reaction from her? Your mouth is about to form an apology when she cuts off your train of thought, “Never think of that again. You are the current flower of the Jujutsu society; running away is something that will have you executed. Do you understand me?” You nod, only jumping when that response rings unsatisfactory to Mother. She grits out your name before repeating, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mother,” comes your quiet response.

“Now, that’s a good girl,” her words are soft but they carry a weight enough to wilt the smallest of buds. “If you run away, you might as well be a dead woman crawling.”

You’ve always wanted a younger sibling.

You don’t particularly long for a brother to dote on or a sister to frolic in the garden with, all you want is someone to share this loneliness wrapping around every room you venture into. And you have reached an age where you wish you had someone to play with, being eight and now more aware that the attention people give you is devoid of genuine emotion. Father is busy with whatever adult thing he occupies himself with (as usual) and Mother has started becoming ill, staying in her room more than going out to get a dose of fresh air. You’re left in the company of maids, butlers, butterflies, and flowers. With so many festivals that have been postponed, you have lost hope that you will get that adorable little sibling in your dreams — until the spring of 1988 when news spread that Mother is with child and you will finally have the younger sibling she wishes for.

“Congratulations, Lady Joushou,” a passing visitor jovially cheers, their smile reaching the heavens as if it’s their wife who is pregnant with the next heir of the clan. “I hope it’s a boy!”

“Oh, imagine the joy Yoshiki would feel if a boy comes out,” an elderly lady from the branch family gushes with her mouth carefully covered by the sleeves of her kimono.

Mother simply passes them a smile, one that can’t be hidden by the products on her face. Her hand is carefully perched on her protruding belly, just two months away from giving birth.

Father decided that the announcement of the possible heir of the Joushou clan should come at a later date, with the news making an impact on the higher-ups and would eventually give the clan an edge compared to the others. Especially now that the Zen’in clan has failed to produce another child from the oldest couple of the current head, their last child still an odd specimen but a survivor of a room full of cursed spirits. Father said that wasn’t enough for them to be boastful about their prowess, you remember (he adds something along the lines of the entire Jujutsu world would bow before the boy who will carry his Nullification). But you never cared about clan politics or who has the more exceptional children, you just want your baby sister to be out into the world. You want to show her the storybook you created for her eyes and ears only, a story of a little princess in the flowers.

“You should eat more seaweed, dear,” another old lady pads over to suggest. “It would help with milk production if you plan on breastfeeding the future heir.”

“What are you talking about? Of course, Lady Joushou is going to breastfeed the future heir. Breastfeeding is vital for the relationship of the mother and the child after all.” One of the official elders of the clan swatted the lady from the branch family before taking the rein on the conversation, her smile making her eyes crease into lines. “Try some cucumber juice as well! It worked when I was carrying my last child. Your skin will glow when you drink it, too.”

“Dear, now that I see it,” the old lady from the branch family starts while placing her hand on her cheek. “You have been glowing lately.”

“That is wonderful news!”

Mother chuckles ever so slightly. “Why?”

“It confirms that you’re carrying a boy!”

“A boy?” Something lights up Mother’s eyes. “Are you sure?”

The elder of the clan hums, “When a woman looks decayed, it means that they’re pregnant with a girl because all of the mother’s beauty is being sucked by the baby. If the opposite happens like the mother getting prettier by the day, the baby is a boy because beauty is not something he needs.”

Mother blinks out of her stupor. “That’s … informative, Shizuka-sama.”

“But I remember that everyone thought he was carrying a boy when the little flower was born. You had the most noticeable case of pregnancy glow with her that we thought we finally had our heir. Turns out it’s even better — a little lady to carry on the mantle of being the glorified womb—!”

“Enjoying yourself listening to the elders, little petal?” Father’s voice makes you jump from the shoji. You look behind your shoulder to see him standing with his back straight, his long hair that was tied in a low ponytail hanging over his shoulder, and his smile gentle yet firm. Father is a man who commands attention wherever he's placed. You don’t see him without his usual stoicism. Even when he smiles, you feel as if he’s never within your reach. Father was once Papa and when Papa decided it was better for him to long for a child he could pass his technique to, he became Father. When you keep staring at him, Father lightly laughs, something that sounds more like a scoff than anything. “Come here, petal,” he softly says, letting his hands be free from the confines of his kimono to gesture you into his arms. He carries you once you reach him, releasing a playful huff, “You’ve gotten big, huh?” He noses your hair before opening the shoji.”

“Oh, Lord Yoshiki!”

“Did you have a good meeting, Lord Yoshiki?”

“You must be pleased to hear about the possible gender of your child!”

“Finally an heir to celebrate!

“We’ll definitely fix a festival that’s more extravagant than the Hanamo’s—!”

“Ladies,” Father cuts through, his smile glacial enough to make the elderly women freeze. “Can I have some time with my wife? Our precious daughter is asking for her mother and I can’t have our little petal deprive her of it simply because we have a party outside.”

The one from the branch family bows her head in front of the head of the clan. “Oh, right away, Yoshiki-sama! We deeply apologise for taking most of your wife’s time.”

You don’t fail to notice the look of disdain she gives your direction.

“Nonsense,” the higher in position among the ladies tuts.

“Shizuka,” comes from the weak admonition of the lesser lady.

“The girl has her maids, am I right?” The words are like poison on her tongue and her eyes are daggers that pierce through your little bubble. Ever since they didn’t get the heir they wanted the first time around, they find you lowly just like Mother. At the tender age of eight, you already grasp the reason why some of Father’s family look at you in a way that someone looks at an uncoordinated ikebana — with disappointment. Coming from a clan that’s purely known for their blessed wombs, it is easy for the other clans to assume that is all that the Hanamo clan is worth — bearing children with otherworldly looks that can make the entire world weak. The woman continues throwing her daggers, “The child your wife is carrying has more priority than the one you have now. This unborn child may be the next one to inherit our technique—”

“I appreciate the concern,” Father says without saying the name of the elder woman. “But I would like to dismiss you now.”

“Well, I—”

“You have said enough.”

The woman squawks like a chicken and you giggle at the sound. She meets your laughing form and the glare on her face can curdle milk. Your laughter ceases but Father places a hand on the back of your head as if to shield you from her. She chooses to save her life by tidying up her kimono and exiting the room, the other ladies following her like ducklings. Once the room encloses only you three, Father walks to where Mother is and sits at the end of the chaise lounge she is reclined on.

“How is the boy?”

Mother lets out a little laugh. “Not you, too.”

“Is there a problem?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

Father hums, the conversation ending there.

You look at them like a tennis match.

Once upon a time, you longed for a younger sibling, not caring about the sex of the baby. Now, with the weight of the elder’s eyes on your useless form, you start to think that you don’t want a little brother, one that can be a godling among mortals. You want someone to play with and at the same time protect from the harsh realities of the elders — not someone who will take everything from you. It may sound selfish when you let it sink into your brain. You resort to twiddling with your fingers the more silence seeps through the cracks of the room.

“I don’t want a brother,” your little mouth runs faster than your head. You pout as you fiddle with the material of your expensive kimono, embroidered with the different flowers that stand for your late grandmothers and aunts who married into other clans just like Mother. You don’t know what they mean but you figure that since they look pretty to be placed in a ceremonial robe, they might stand for something beautiful as well. While following the outlines of a chrysanthemum with your finger, you continue, “Brothers are going to be mean even if they’re little. I’ve seen my cousins and they’re rowdy — I don’t want my kimono to be dirty. Once, they threatened to push me off the bridge of our garden.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Father replies, adjusting you on his lap until he can face you while looking down. It’s genuine — the smile on his face; only reserved for his close family members, most especially you. He caresses the fluff that is making your cheek protrude with his thumb, his gaze seeing something that only he can envision. You may be imagining it but Father pulls you closer to his chest. He says nothing for a moment, instead leaning down to press a soft kiss on your hair inhaling that flowery scent your cursed energy pulsates with. “You will have a younger brother, petal. But fret not, your brother won’t be like your cousins because he has us. He will grow up to be sensible and kind and strong. He will carry on our name with him and you will be there as his guide.”

You tilt your head at him. “Won’t the elders do that instead?”

Father chuckles, his eyes fond as he keeps on rubbing circles on the apples of your cheeks. “I know he’d rather have you than those old people. The bond of siblings is something akin to an unsaid binding vow yet there are no conditions to be met because you are connected.”

You turn to Mother and all she does is smile. Looking down on Father’s rather plain kimono, you think it through.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, petal,” she tells you. “I, myself, have a brother and it’s not the end of the world. Every worry you have will vanish when he’s here with us.”

Your tentativeness comes in the form of reaching for Mother’s belly, curious to feel your potential younger brother. It’s almost like beckoning the bunny in the gardens to your hands four years ago; fur as white as snow and eyes as red as the red spider lilies decorating the inner corners of the foliage and shrubs (bad luck, the gardeners say). Confidence pools in your tiny hands upon finally touching the rough texture of Mother’s kimono under your skin because this time, you know that your younger brother would outlive any of you, unlike the bunny four years ago — the red of its eyes matching the blood pooling from its white coat, maggots squirming from its insides and onto the grass. The bunny died but your brother will live.

At least that’s what you constantly tell yourself when the entire estate is ablaze with the news that the baby boy Mother has been praised for for carrying, comes out pale blue as a stalk of delphiniums.

When your little brother never reached a full day of life and was placed with the ancestors the day after his birth, everything died in the Joushou compound. There is a lingering scent of rotting flowers in the breeze, encompassing the entire protective circle wrapping around the compound’s protective barrier. Mother won’t stop crying during the kokubetsushiki (where everyone says their farewells); not even your comforting tugs on her black kimono can quell the distraught her entire body racks with. Father looks forward as the son he prayed to the gods for will be burned — so tiny and so unfair, an image of a perfect clan head. You see the other clans wearing black like your family does but they don’t cry like Mother does nor grumble in disappointment like the elders do. You look over your shoulder at the clan with sharp eyes and you feel the flowers beside them squirm at their malintent, except for one. It’s a boy already staring at you, the deep green in his eyes reminds you of early spring when the greenery is at its most beautiful. The scar on the side of his lips is stark against his skin, so twisted that even without a smile on his face, it is prominent. He keeps on staring at you with so many emotions that you can hardly pick them out until your name is called.

“Yes, Father?” You look up at him.

Without returning your gaze, he says, “Let’s go.” You follow him through the door but Mother doesn’t. “Wife,” he announces, causing Mother to flinch.

“I-I’m going to say g-goodbye to hi—”

“Come.”

Her breathing hitches, having no choice but to always be obedient in front of so many prying eyes. “O-Of course, husband.”

The world carries on but Mother has never come out of her room ever since.

Nobody has ever entered it except Father, stoic but tumultuous, and the screams that follow are enough to give you nightmares at night — bone-chilling and grating.

“What were those screams, Aida-nee-san? It sounds like Mama is in pain.”

The maid finches at your question one morning while rubbing your skin with a soft sponge.

“For there to be blessings, one must suffer first, Ojou-sama — they were just making your baby brother. Your mother will be praised if the union becomes fruitful once again.”

You wish you never wanted a baby sibling at all.

You are nine when you are introduced to members of Mother’s family.

Your uncle, Hanamo Hatsugu, stares at you from across the table with eyes glistening with expectation. The table is painted with a variety of sweets from all parts of Kyoto, some intricate with their decorations (candied sugar moulded into swans on top of whipped cream) while others are the simple desserts that you see in catalogues (nothing but fruits as their jewellery, though also glistening with melted sugar). You have never owned a sweet tooth in your life, courtesy of the maids who think of your health, constructing nutrition charts for each day of the week, something that has to do with preparation. You think through all the possible things you can say to your uncle and all of them lead to him dejected or angry for your lack of enthusiasm at the spread he prepared. The most you can do is sit straight and let nature do its singing outside the window. Hopefully, it will drown out the silence you’re causing.

“So,” your uncle drawls out like a child, his eyes never dimming — they’re the same as Mother’s, which means they’re the same as yours, too. “Do you want the panna cotta? The roasted strawberry crumble? Ooh, ooh, the black forest cake from this cafe is absolutely divine, one bite and you will see heaven, I would say!” At your wide-eyed reaction to the chocolate-coated frosting on the cake, he pauses with a smile before brandishing a saucer of a smooth cake topped with berries. “How about some angel food cake? No one can resist a slice of good angel food cake!” You make no move and you think he finally reaches his final straw because he leans back and groans in frustration. “Come on, sprout, you have to eat something! It’s been hours since you’ve been here.”

Oh, so, that’s what it is. You look down at the desserts he arranged on the table (at least from what he boasts about earlier, saying that it’s something he comes up with like flower arrangement). There’s nothing displayed here that’s not overly coated with sugar or drizzled with too much syrup. You might as well accept your fate.

You pick the dessert that you assume to be the least sweet of everything here — a dark chocolate glazed doughnut with dried blackberries on top. The eyes drilling on your forehead can be quite imposing but you take a bit of the confection nonetheless. You carefully chew on the bittersweet piece of candy, letting it melt on your tongue until you get a taste of it combined with the blackberries. You can’t even deny that they complement each other.

“Huh,” comes from your uncle.

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“You can look like a kid your age,” Uncle Hatsugu muses with his chin supported by his hand, “I’m glad.”

You don’t understand, tilting your head to the right.

“Now that’s downright adorable,” he points at your scrunched-up nose, furrowed eyebrows, and jutted lip. “I understand why some of our relatives spread the word that your father can never refuse you anything. You are like a tiny mouse.” He reaches out over the table and the display of desserts to pinch your cheek but you evade the possible harmful gesture. “And a flighty one at that. You know, that’s useful when harnessing our cursed technique. Do you know a thing or two about it?” While he speaks, he waves at one of the maids stationed at the shoji of the room before signing something that awfully looks like a drink.

With your mouth nibbling on the doughnut, you nod in response. At the sight of you still eating the dessert, Uncle Hatsugu brightens like a child witnessing their first rain of fractals on a chilly, grey day.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

At that, you knit your eyebrows even more.

“Hah, you’re so much like Onee-chan when we were young.”

You gulp down what you’ve been chewing. “Mama?”

He grins when he finally makes you speak. “Yeah, Onee-chan is a curious individual. I never quite grasped what she is like but,” he emphasised the word, “she is the most adept at utilising the healing potential of our cursed technique — actually every woman who earned the title of Heir Maker has the ability to do that. You may be too young to be told this but I guess it’s better than later.” The mirthful air surrounding Uncle Hatsugu disappears and what is left are heavy lines making up his sharp face. “You and all the women before you are considered to be anomalies in the Jujutsu system made by the old gaggle of men who call themselves the higher-ups and because of that, you are unofficially given the title of Special Grades.”

“Special?”

“Yes, little sprout is special,” he forces himself to smile. “And it is because of our family.”

“What do you mean, Uncle?”

“Have you ever felt like the plants around you talk or relay their thoughts?” You nod and he puffs his chest in satisfaction. “Perfect, then, that means you inherited it. Our cursed technique lies in continuously seeing the world in a positive light, which means you will always have the opposite of cursed energy.” He flicks his hand to let blue flames cover his entire appendage, right to his elbows. You gasp at the hostility coming from Uncle but he only laughs at that and erases any sign of the flame from sight. “That is regular cursed energy. This, however,” this time, he cups both of his hands in front of him, putting more concentration than before, and instead of the blue flames from earlier, his hands carry white flames edged with green, “is the pinnacle of our cursed technique — the reverse of cursed energy.”

“Woah,” you gape, forgetting the doughnut in your hand and leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the white flames that only seem to grow brighter the more Uncle looks at you with fondness.

“Yeah, remarkable, isn’t it?”

You can’t help but nod in awe. “Mama healed me with it once when I got myself hurt from the gardens.”

“I heard from our elders that Onee-chan possesses the highest output of our cursed technique in centuries but she can only heal instead of attack,” Uncle Hatsugu ruefully smiles. “Too bad she is pushed to marry first before pursuing a career of fighting and protecting. But now,” his eyes that he shares with Mother gleam and you swear you see flowers bloom in his irises, “this is my chance to teach you how to use our cursed technique — Floral Anima.”

Only the men in the Joushou clan have the right to be sorcerers, that is if they successfully inherit the Nullification. As of now, you recall that there’s not a single woman sorcerer in your family. Being a sorcerer—no, wielding a cursed technique at most—is a figment of one’s dreams.

“But there are no girls in my family who can do cursed techniques,” you supply with your eyes on the crumbs on your saucer.

“The Joushou clan is not the only family you have, sprout.”

You peer at him through your unbound hair, trepidation still lingering in your limbs. You can’t even begin to think how Father would react to you dabbling in something only men can do. But then again, Mother has a cursed technique, some of the Hanamo women have cursed techniques, Hell, even the kinder old ladies you passed by earlier in the extensive gardens have cursed techniques (they made some of the flowers extra flourishing as a welcome to the Hanamo compound). All your life, you never wanted anything. Maybe this can be it — the one thing that will carve out who you are. Learning a cursed technique will give you the identity that has long since been stripped from you. The Joushou clan is not the only family that you bear the blood of. You’re a Hanamo as well — the known shepherds of the forests and blossoms of Japan.

With a deep breath, you lift your head and say, “What do I have to do?”

Uncle Hatsugu has that blinding smile again. You can smell the amalgam of floral scents in the air wafting from outside the engawa. “Come here!” He pats on the zabuton beside him.

You stand up and plop yourself next to him, making your hair bounce before framing your face. You look up at Uncle Hatsugu, who sits carefully to face you.

“Now, hold your hands together like you I did.” You do so and await his next instructions. “I want you to close your eyes,” you close them, “and think of what makes you happiest—it doesn’t matter when, whether it will be in the future or stuck in the past; it’s up to you.”

You think of making your own garden, with flowers that you have planted and cultivated yourself. You think of Mother healthy again, skin glowing like she did so many years ago. You think of the baby brother you once wanted, running around the cut grass on his stubby feet. Lastly, you don’t think of Father and his family. Yet nothing happens. You open your eyes and blankly look at your uncle in disappointment.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

You huff. “But it didn’t work.”

Uncle Hatsugu pushes on your forehead with his forefinger, making you cover it up with a glare. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

“Then what am I supposed to think about?”

“I don’t know,” he admonishes. “Happiness is subjective to every person.”

“What makes you happy? What do you think about while making that white fire?”

His eyes glazed over as if he were watching a scene only he could see. A smile painting an arrangement of periwinkles and forget-me-nots creates itself on his lips, blues and purples shifting around each other and creating a sentimental mess. It takes him a moment to reign himself back to the present, with you patiently trailing your eyes over his face. “It’s always about simpler times. Like Mom cutting watermelon slices on summer days, growing my first flower for the first time, or,” he trails off, “wishing for a memory that is impossible to happen because you are here, the proof that it did happen.” His face contorts into a rueful smile, reaching out to pat the crown of your head. “I always imagine my sister never getting married, staying right here in our estate, and not having children — she is—”

“The happiest you’ve seen her,” you finish for him and he pales. “I know.” You look down at the kimono you have, a miniature copy of Mother’s. “I sometimes wonder what it would be like if Mother is not the mother I’ve grown to adore. Maybe I could be a different child.”

“Hey, I apologise for putting that thought in your head—”

“It’s alright, I’ve grown quite used to them.”

“What do you—”

You quickly lift your head. “Can you help me now?”

“U-Uh, sure,” Uncle Hatsugu stutters. “Try another memory. If you don’t mind me asking, what was the first one you used?”

You pout. “Mother being healthy again and my baby brother being alive.”

He nods in understanding. “How about this? Can you think of a place where you feel like you can breathe more easily?”

“I can try.”

“You will,” he fixes you with a playfully stern look, “and I won’t take no for an answer.”

You nod in determination. “Okay.”

“Okay! Now, do it all over again.”

You close your eyes and this time, you’re calm. Suddenly, you feel a gentle breeze covering your hands. The sensation urges you to open your eyes. On the palms of your hands is almost like that heart-fire demon in a movie you once watched. You expect the fire to burn your skin off but you’re thrown back to the memory of Mother healing your wound — that ticklish thing travelling through the lines of your skin. You did it.

“Oh, gods, you did it,” Uncle Hatsugu breathes. “You did it, sprout! What did you think of this time?”

Still mesmerised at the white fire, you say, “A forest. An evergreen forest that seems to know both everything and nothing. It’s like that forest I’ve seen in a movie with cute spirits, filled with life and a possibility of a blight inside.”

Again, you never want another sibling.

The Joushou clan is in an uproar.

Another boy went to the depths of the earth. Fingers pointing at the useless Hanamo clan whose only worth comes in getting bred by strong sorcerers. Your uncle nearly grows poisonous vines at the baseless accusation. Father stoically faces the storm. The Zen’in clan, especially a man with a bottle of sake for an accessory, laughs at Father for bearing the irony of possessing The Glorified Womb yet never having a son—an heir.

Yet one thing remains in your mind.

An image of Mother crumbling to her knees with a pool of blood for a moat surrounding her.

You’re ten when Mother finally departs from the world in a flurry of red spider lilies, leaving behind a younger sister instead of a brother. Both disappointments and blows to your father’s family. Everybody is clad, once again, in mourning black but you feel as if you’re the only one who genuinely grieves for Mother. Her family is not even present at the funeral services, purposefully banned from ever entering the Joushou clan’s gates for sullying their name by introducing their failure of a daughter to their head. You can feel the tension in the wooden panels of the house, the harsh whispers of the elders, and the animosity behind closed doors.

All of the flowers in the estate withered with her, you notice. It is only when you step out to the lifeless gardens that with each barefoot step you make the colours bleed through. You stop in front of the carnations that once made you bleed. They were the flowers you’ve seen Mother plant without using her cursed technique. She talks to them, you once saw, whispering sweet nothings as if they were her children just as much as you are. You realise that you have your younger siblings all along but the role of the protector fell on them.

“Watch over my little petal, alright? She may be reckless but she is kind and understanding, worthy of being the flower who will tend to this garden once I pass.”

You blankly stare at them now while lowering yourself to the ground, sitting like you were once on the engawa watching the butterflies jump from flower to flower, never realising that tear tracks start to form on your cheeks like the trails of fallen stars. With each tear that drops on the soil, a sprout pierces through the soil, growing and growing until a solitary carnation comes from a carefully tucked bud and brushes the tears on your left cheek away. That only makes you cry even harder.

You don’t know how long you’ve been there while the services are still ongoing in the estate but you startle when the carnation squeaks at you to look behind you.

Heartbeat lodged in your throat, butterflies making your stomach queasy, and time standing still, you find yourself staring at a black-haired boy at the entrance of this part of the gardens — his eyes wide, chest too still to indicate any breathing, and scar a sharp contrast to his pale skin. He’s dressed in black and only one colour is standing among the dreary coldness of the once vibrant foliage.

A pair of evergreen forests for eyes.

additional notes:

Joushou — Reader's last name; Mainly from the term shoujou since reader is almost like a protagonist of a shoujou manga (born to be in a shoujou, forced to be in shounen rip). Kanji: 浄聖; 浄 (clean, pure, beautify, unsullied) + 聖 (holy, sacred, imperial); Prides themselves for possessing a CT named Nullification, which stems from their constant renewal and flow of reverse cursed technique, even going as far as creating a barrier that can render any cursed energy attack useless or to break a domain expansion, hence, getting the moniker of the House of Purity.

Hanamo — The maiden name of Reader's mother; Kanji: 花茂; 花 (of the flowers) + 茂 (lush, abundant, thriving, outstanding, diligent); The women in this clan are most known to be Heir Makers since the Golden Age of Sorcery, having possessed the Glorified Womb after being blessed by the goddess of creation.

Floral Anima — comes from the Greek term anima, which means the soul or the irrational part of it. Its principle comes from the belief that all life possess a soul, even plants. By having this CT, those in the Hanamo clan can manipulate the anima or souls of the flora to their liking, with them only influenced if there is a constant output of reverse cursed technique (positive). This allows the sorcerer to grow plants in varying degrees, make them burst forth from spots of cursed energy, and create safety spots or prisons when absolutely necessary. They can also make use of the type of plant they have around them to create a multitude of attacks than can be gentle but highly offensive as well.

taglist (send an ask or a reply if you want to be added !! )

@booblikerlhc @sugutoad

#— rory's passages 🌼#toji x reader #toji x you #toji x y/n #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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vangundysdiamonds · 10 months

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blingschlingers-blog · 7 months

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heliads · 17 days

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Newt x reader Bridgerton AU. Reader, the diamond of the season, is the Duchess of Hastings. She wants to marry someone who likes her as a person and isn’t after her money. Newt, son of a widowed viscountess, needs to marry to save his family’s reputation because his sister Sonya was seen alone with her fiancé Lord Aris before they were engaged. The anonymous writer Lady Whistledown is Ava, a widowed modiste who has her nose in everyone’s business, and Aris is the only one who knows.

'foxes and hounds' - newt

masterlist

The start of a new social season, although intended, supposedly, to be a cause for joy, feels rather more like a fierce uprising of dread, not celebration. Across the ton, young maidens find themselves new entrees– or, entrants– to the marriage mart. This game of rings and dances, men with ambition and women with more, will end in blissful happiness or deepest discontent. And all will be witnessed by every worthy family from one corner of the country to the next.

If all goes according to plan, an eligible would-be bride will find herself engaged to a man she loves, a man in possession of a handsome fortune and a sterling reputation. If luck slips past her, she’ll settle for someone decent, or someone without any income at all. If nothing goes in her favor, her first year in society will not be her last as a single woman. She will have to repeat her attempt the next year, this time without the glimmering aura of a new arrival, and hope that something within her has changed enough to attract a proposal. Otherwise, she will sink to the bottom of the pile of dance cards, ignored, abandoned, and grown up into a spinster. All that hard work gone to waste.

You’ve heard many young women discuss the marriage mart with nothing short of absolute terror in their voices. A good opening season can seal a girl’s fate forever. Attracting the eye of a worthy man is an impossible task for all but the best of the rosebuds, or so it seems. Most of us will settle for something halfway decent– a tidy sum per annum but nothing extravagant, a man with casual disinterest but nothing harsh. Something that can be shaped into something good, or at least ignored in favor of not being alone. Such is the romance of a married life.

You, however, hope to extract a little more out of the whole affair. As the Duchess of Hastings, you have no need for money. A marriage would be nice, the final touch on the portrait of a successful lady, but you do not require the financial stability of a husband. You have plenty of money and plenty of friends. You will inherit your estate. If you look for a husband, you will look only for love.

One would think, then, that entering your first season among the eligible women of the ton would be bereft of the panic permeating through most of your friends in search of husbands. However, when you line up with the rest of the young women to be presented to the Queen at the start of the season, you find that it couldn’t be less true.

Your stomach is in knots, even as you sweep confidently through the corridor to wait outside the door. The white feather in your hair stands tall and proud. Your dress is crisp and finely stitched, the highest of fashion yet never gaudy. You attract stares wherever you go– from the other girls, envious and jealous and heartsick, from the men, longing and cutthroat and mercenary– but pretend they don’t phase you in the slightest. As duchess, you’ve had plenty of time to grow accustomed to onlookers. You won’t allow them to interfere with you on this all important day.

At last, your name is called, and you enter the throne room, your mother behind you. You keep your steps small but light, and seem to float towards your queen. When the time is right, you sink into an elegant curtsy. The moment seems to last forever, your knees bent, your hands shaking slightly, but when the queen calls you to stand, you look up to find her smiling benevolently at you.

“I believe I have found my diamond of the season,” she announces.

The room erupts in polite applause, and you do your best to smother a smile that’s entirely too giddy to be proper. As you retreat from the room, you gaze at the faces surrounding you, trying to remember which ones look genuinely happy for you and which seem to be identifying a prize pig for the slaughter. When the town gossips all gather later to share their thoughts on today’s proceedings, you’re certain that some of them will attempt to discredit you, saying that of course the queen would choose the duchess as her diamond, but you know just as well as all of them that you deserve the honor today. You were the best of everyone here, and it’s plain to see.

Among all of them, your gaze catches on a singular man, almost lost in the crowd from all the bodies packed together but no less entrancing. What strikes you the most is that his face seems kind, and his eyes sparkle with pride as they watch you go. Pride for you, for your accomplishments. As if he couldn’t be more delighted that you of all people were named the season’s diamond.

Then you’re gone from the room, and the kind man is no longer before you. Still, you puzzle over the encounter long after your carriage takes you home. You don’t believe you recognize him, but that doesn’t mean anything to sway you towards any decision. An image of the young man swims in your mind– short, dirty blond hair, an upturned mouth, dark eyes, his face almost spritely. Clever, for sure.

You know better than to mess with clever men. Clever men are the type to try and twist your mind, convince you that they only love you then attempt to make off with your money. You know full well what marriage to you will offer any would-be suitor. This season, you may be looking for affection, but every man in the room will be after your fortune. The task of finding someone who truly cares for you will be a difficult one indeed.

So, clever men or not, you’ll have to keep your heart under close guard. When the first ball of the season comes to be, you don one of your finest dresses, and firmly admonish yourself to be careful. The game of hearts is not one that you lose. Either you win, or you destroy yourself.

You time your arrival carefully, so as to make the best entrance, and your efforts are rewarded. From the moment you’re announced, all eyes turn to you. Were it not for your extensive experience with being scrutinized in the grand magnifying lens that is the ton, you’d be nervous to have that many people looking at you. Even still, you can’t pretend you don’t feel a small flutter in your stomach.

It gets easier once you sweep further into the room, once people start smiling at you again, when the conversation picks up and you’re asked for your first dance of the evening, which you accept. Your partner is a charming man named Minho– dark hair, witty eyes, an excellent sense of humor. He’s athletic and a decent dancer, and by the time the music stops, you’re back to your usual self again. You can’t stop yourself from mentally sizing up your dance partner. He seems nice, and you wouldn’t be bored around him, at least. His family owns land. Although he’s not of your precise social standing, few are, and he’s close enough to you that it would be a respectable match.

Still– still, you think to yourself, as you move away from the center of the floor once more to consider your dance card, it’s not quite enough. You want love, you want a spark, and you didn’t quite get that with Minho. There are plenty of eligible suitors here, though, and many more balls to come. You’ll have other opportunities to select a match.

A few dances later, though, your feet are beginning to feel heavy and you’re still no closer to finding someone of interest than you were at the start. A good lady of extensive training such as yourself should have no problem dancing the entire night through with a pleasant smile on her face, but you’re still human, still tired, and your charming demeanor is beginning to pinch at the seams before long.

The music for the latest dance ends, and you curtsy to your partner, praying silently that no one else will be looking to fill your dance card for the next rotation. However, when you turn around, you’re greeted with the sight of many anxious faces. Something inside you wilts, perhaps your endurance.

Before the mobs can descend upon you, however, a figure appears in front of you. You sigh in relief to see one of your closest friends, Miss Teresa Agnes. “Teresa! And here I thought I wouldn’t have a single good friend all evening.”

Teresa laughs, her dark hair shining. “I would never abandon you. Certainly not when our diamond is sparkling so spectacularly tonight.”

You smile at her. “I’m not the only one who’s sparkling, Teresa. You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” Teresa says sincerely. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to introduce someone to you. This is Viscount Newt, a good friend of mine. I met him through Thomas.”

You smile to yourself as Teresa turns to beckon someone towards you. Teresa has been harboring a not-so-secret admiration for Thomas since you were all small. This is her first season in the social circles, too, and if she doesn’t come out of it with a proposal from Thomas, you’ll think the sky has fallen. Even now, he’s watching her fondly from across the room, trying to pretend as if he isn’t pining madly while Minho teases him for it.

“Here he is at last,” Teresa says, and all of a sudden you can’t think about Thomas’ case of lovesickness for a second longer, because Teresa has brought her friend before you, and you know him. It’s the stranger from your presentation to the queen. The nice one, the clever one. The one that caught your eye, and then your imagination.

You curtsy automatically, and Newt bows. Once the two of you straighten up, you’re able to observe him more closely. You’d only gotten a fleeting glimpse earlier, but now you can drink in the sight of him, and you do. His eyes are dark, but catch the lights like stars. His mouth has a habit of twitching up at the sides, as if he’s always thinking of a joke but just barely managing to keep it at bay. When he looks at you, he really looks at you. You’ve been stared at all night by would-be suitors, but their gazes never went farther than surface level. Right now, it’s as if Newt can see through to your very soul, and most intimately of all, appreciates it.

Teresa gives you a confused look, and you realize you’ve been standing in silence for longer than is probably courteous. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say.

“I must return the sentiment,” Newt returns. “Teresa has talked about you many times. I’ve been quite eager to meet you.”

“I hope I’m worthy of what she’s told you,” you say.

Newt smiles again. “I believe you’re even better than that,” he tells you.

Teresa is looking at you with an odd smile. “I believe I’d better let the two of you get to know each other, then,” she says, and sweeps away before you can stop her.

Newt laughs. “She’s been wanting to set us up for ages. For a friendship, I mean,” he breaks in hastily. “Apparently, she thinks we have a similar sense of humor.”

“I look forward to finding that out myself,” you smile.

Newt’s eyes flash with mirth again, delighting you. Behind you, the music picks up again. Newt extends a hand towards you. “Would you mind if I shared a dance with you? Unless, of course, you’d rather sit for a while.”

“I’d love to dance,” you say quickly, and it’s true. All of a sudden, the pain in your feet is gone, as if it had never existed at all.

Newt smiles and takes your hand to lead you to the dance floor. The orchestra begins its melody, and you start your dance. You make a mental note to ask Teresa a little more about Newt later; he dances like an aristocrat, but he speaks so freely to you. It’s nothing like you’ve ever experienced in a suitor before.

Newt arches a brow as he steps through the dance. “Sizing me up, are you? It may be improper of me to ask, but I do hope I’m meeting your requirements.”

Your cheeks heat up. “I’m simply appreciating your mastery of this dance. Nothing more.”

Newt laughs easily. “Of course not. It’s not as if everyone else here is doing the same thing right now. Every dance partner is a strategy meeting. In just a matter of minutes, you’ll walk away knowing if I am a worthy wager, and I will do the same. This ball is full of hounds and foxes, my lady. We all know our parts.”

You glance at him, feeling a curious grin tugging at your lips. “And which am I? Fox or hound?”

Newt returns your proud gaze. “I suppose we’ll find out at the end of the season, won’t we?”

You laugh, feeling oddly triumphant. Newt has this way about him that you find enchanting. It’s almost breaching impropriety with how candid he is around you, but it only makes you trust him more. The dance ends far sooner than you’d like. Newt relinquishes you to the storm of suitors outside, hopefully with just as much reluctance as you.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. Newt is truly the only one that stands out to you. You don’t have a chance to dance with him again, but you keep making eye contact as you dance with other partners. You can practically hear his clever words in your head, catching you in the act of evaluating the suitors in front of you. Fox or hound?

When the ball ends and you return to your carriage for the ride home, you’re blissful, practically dreamy. You’ve had enough time with Newt to dream about it until the next ball, where you’ll likely repeat the same cycle over and over again until the season ends.

However, your golden mood is shattered when your chaperone sits down across from you. Her face, by contrast, is twisted with disappointment. “Do you have any idea what sort of trouble you’re getting yourself into?” She asks once the carriage pulls away.

Still caught up in the heady dream of a merry boy who smiled the brightest when he danced with you, you don’t realize the trap descending around you until it’s too late. “What trouble?”

Your chaperone’s lips purse. “You’re meant to be dancing only with eligible gentlemen, my lady. I should hope that you’d be able to recognize the suitable candidates from the unseemly by now.”

The veil is pierced, and you’re beginning to be brought back to earth. “What are you talking about? I thought I made perfectly reasonable choices with my dance partners.”

Your chaperone shakes her head, a quick, sharp gesture. “All but one. Goodness, haven’t you heard about the trouble with that one family? I can’t believe Miss Agnes had the nerve to introduce him to you, but perhaps the fact that she’s so besotted with Lord Thomas is upsetting her mind.”

Your heart freezes in your chest. “You can’t mean to say that the Viscount is not a suitable bachelor? What else could he be?”

The other woman sighs. “You don’t know, do you? My lady, I would not interfere if I did not feel the need, but I can assure you, his motives with you are purely mercenary. That man is desperate for something to cover up the follies of his family, and you, my dear, are the perfect gilded shield.”

You feel cold. “What follies?”

“His sister, Miss Sonya, was seen alone with her fiance,” your chaperone murmurs at last. “Lord Aris. I would think you would have heard his name, although perhaps not connected it with Viscount Newt. Miss Sonya and Lord Aris were happily engaged, and by all accounts it was a fine union, but they were seen together without a chaperone past dark. Quite the scandal. The Viscount knows it and is eager to get the ton talking about anything but his sister’s misdeeds. Entering into a courtship with you would do just the trick.”

She’s right, and you know it, and you hate it. “He seemed so genuine,” you whisper, and instantly know how foolish it sounds.

Your chaperone, to her credit, is kind enough to take pity on you. “He did,” she tells you, “and you looked happy together. You would be less happy, however, when you found out the truth. I would rather you know now and stay away. Men like that are nothing but trouble.”

You nod solemnly, turning your head to watch the dark landscapes rumbling past. The sun is already beginning to rise, a hallmark of a late night out. It had been a beautiful night up until this, and now the entire evening is ruined in your mind.

“I feel for Miss Sonya,” you whisper. “She was already engaged. They were just talking.”

“She knows the rules of society, and so do you,” your chaperone reminds you. “We all have our roles to play.”

And the consequence of setting a foot outside your role is instant public mortification. Yes. What a forgiving world. You immediately plant your exhausted body in your bed when you return, hardly sparing the time to wash and dress, but the only things to bloom from your rest are troubled dreams of the boy that could have been yours. Now that you know the truth– that Newt was only trying to use you for a better reputation– every interaction with him is tainted.

You’d meant what you said in the carriage, though. You did think Newt was genuine. Hadn’t he laughed more than usual when he was with you? Hadn’t he regarded you with that fierce pride of his, as if he’d finally found a mind that was an equal to his? Hadn’t he watched you with something akin to jealousy when you danced with the other men that weren’t him?

Hadn’t you wished he would only dance with you? And don’t you wish that you could truly do what you promised yourself and marry only for love, never mind the rest? It is a simple dream to think that love is easy. Marriage is not simple, not in the ton, not in your lifetime. Every one of your days will be shaped by the whims of society, even when they take Newt away from you.

When it comes time for the next ball, you do your best to strengthen your spirits before you go. You intentionally avoid him, making sure to always have your dance card full whenever the music ends. It’s easy enough to find a crowd large enough to hide you from him, and yet you still catch glimpses of Newt from across the hall, several partners down, in a carriage many behind yours. You successfully go two balls, then three, without seeing him, but it aches like a knife in your ribs when you think about what could have been.

As it turns out, you’re not the only one wishing you were with him. At the fifth ball of the season, your attempts to distance yourself from the viscount are foiled at last. Newt tracks you down, signing his name on your dance card before you can stop him before leading you out to the dance floor.

“That’s a rather abrupt way of asking a lady to dance, don’t you think?” You ask as you curtsy.

Newt bows. “I felt it was the only way of guaranteeing that you would dance with me.”

“A lady never declines a gentleman in need of a dance,” you remind him.

The music picks up, and the two of you begin your paces. “A lady also never avoids a gentleman as thoroughly as you have at the last few balls,” Newt says. “Were it not for the fact that I know you to be as perfectly agreeable a duchess as there could ever be, I would say that it was personal.”

You can’t look him in the eyes, even with his hands on you, guiding you through the steps. “It’s not meant to work out, my lord. Us, I mean. We cannot forget the rules.”

When Newt speaks again, his voice sounds hurt. “Why not? Forgive me, my lady, but I remember what it was like that first night. You were happy. We were happy, and happy together. What changed?”

At last, you risk a glance towards him, and instantly regret it. Newt’s eyes are filled with genuine hurt. Are you wrong? Did he actually want you as more than a cover-up? “I heard about your sister,” you say as delicately as you can.

Still, Newt flinches as if you’ve hit him. “You don’t know the full story,” Newt says raggedly.

“Then tell me,” you beg him. “I would choose you if I could, but everyone seems to think that you are only interested in me to advance your station. Give me a reason to believe in you, not them.”

“I can’t say it here,” Newt whispers.

“I can’t go somewhere with you alone,” you tell him quietly. “Especially not after what happened to your sister. You must tell me now, or we will never have another chance.”

“Alright,” he says at last. “But you mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

Once you agree, Newt begins to speak in a hushed whisper hardly audible to you, let alone the other couples around you. “Sonya is deeply in love with Lord Aris, and he is in love with her. So much so to the point that he has been battling a deep rage ever since that awful gossip rag, Lady Whistledown, slightly disparaged her last season. He took it upon himself to find out Lady Whistledown’s identity, and somehow, he did. The only problem is, Lady Whistledown is not someone Sonya would consider a friend. He wanted to warn her about the dangers of being anything less than perfect around that insidious writer, and he didn’t want to waste a moment. He called on her to meet with him as soon as possible. He didn’t think they would be seen, but they were, and of course Lady Whistledown ran with it to discredit them in case they would reveal her.”

You suck in a harsh breath. “It was never anything wrong, then. He merely wanted to protect her.”

Newt nods. “Lord Aris is a good man. He never would have done something like this if he realized how it would backfire. He regrets it daily, even though all he wanted to do was keep my sister safe. The ton knows their characters, too. Neither of them would do anything unseemly. The rumors diminish by the day, and soon, it will all be over. They will be happily married.”

He sighs and looks at you again. “I tell you this to explain myself, and to clear my name. I have nothing to hide from the situation with my sister and her future husband. In fact, it is only because they directly asked me not to spread this information that I haven’t gone public with the identity of Lady Whistledown herself to spare their reputations. I have nothing to fear, my lady. Certainly nothing that would make me risk the happiness of my marriage on a good rumor. I would court you because I have never met anyone like you before, nor do I think I ever will. You are utterly entrancing in every possible way. If you do not wish to be with me in that fashion, I would understand.”

You shake your head quickly. “I do want that, my lord. I want you.”

A careful smile slips across Newt’s face. “Do you mean that?”

“I do,” you tell him. “I have wanted you since the moment I saw you at my presentation. I would have found you no matter what lies they spread.”

Newt grins. “I believe I have decided something important, my lady. About your inner nature.”

You arch a brow as he spins you. “And what is that?”

“You’re a hound,” he informs you matter-of-factly. “Sharp and bright. Brave, too. But, then again, I am a hound as well. We make quite the pair, I think.”

“I think so too,” you tell him. In the days to come, rumors will abound about the viscount and the duchess. At first, there will be surprise across the ton, but then, even the most tenacious of gossips will realize that this makes perfect sense. The most clever of men and the most ambitious of women, bound together in holy matrimony. Even the best of poets couldn’t concoct a story that beautiful.

requested by @thornyrose463, i hope you enjoy!

the maze runner tag list: @blondsauduun, @ellobruv, @retvenkos, @neewtmas, @mayfieldss, @hiya-itsamber, @gods-fools-heroes, @hope92100, @23victoria, @w1shes43, @imwaysthelastchoice, @fadedver, @il0vebeingdelulu

all tags list: @wordsarelife

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itbmojojoejo · 9 months

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Indelicate Tenderness | Sihtric x Reader

Pairing: Sihtric x Ealdorman's Wife!Reader

Summary: Your marriage to a much older Ealdorman was a political move and the inability to produce an heir in the traditional manner leads to your husband suggesting you look to another man for assistance. The rules? He must be the right sort, keep emotions out of it, and no one can learn of the affair so that he can claim the child as his own.

Wordcount: 5.7k | Other works.

Warnings: MDNI18+ Content. No use of y/n. Talks of having a child, Infidelity, Unprotected PinV(I will not write about medieval contraception methods.) If I have missed anything please let me know!

Authors Note: A certain book/film has given me brain rot and I've decided to make it everyone's problem by spinning it into this mess. Enjoy. HUGE THANK YOU TO @arcielee FOR BETA READING THIS AND OFFERING HER WISDOM AND FIXING MY AWFUL PUNCTUATION XO

Straightening the muscles in his back, Sihtric effortlessly instructed his horse to ease from a trot to a slow walk as he, Finan, and the band of men they had been ordered to bring to a struggling estate owned by the ageing Lord Eadwold approached the large oak gates on the edge of the walled property.

Dismounting in the courtyard, he took in the mixture of stone and wooden buildings while guiding his steed to the stables as directed by a household guard and the group were met by Eadwold. The Lord’s hair was starting to grey and thin in places, with almost translucent papery thin skin that was beginning to sag under his light eyes. Sihtric imagined he was the type of man who had not shied away from battle in his younger years, but now a strong gust of wind could be all it took to knock him off his feet.

“How were the roads, gentlemen?” The old man greeted them croakily.

“Very quiet, lord.” Finan offered with a polite smile.

“Ah, I doubt a ruckus would bother you fellows too much.”

Sihtric willed his face to remain as neutral as he could listening to the old man ramble on about the raids ravishing the borders of his lands and how the men of his guard and fyrds could do with some decent training, but as he removed his packs from the horse he felt eyes on him.

What was supposed to be a quick glance, expecting only to find a curious servant sneaking a peek at the strangers in their home, he found you. Lingering on the edge of the stables with curious eyes, the sun glowing in your hair and glinting off the ornate pendants hanging from different chains around your neck and rings adorning your delicate fingers.

“Ah! There you are, my dear. Look at what the Lord Uhtred has sent our way, as promised by the king!” Eadwold’s smile met his crinkling eyes.

With the sentiment of dear spoken Sihtric thought you may have been a daughter, or another relative due to the blatant difference in age. You were one of the prettiest women he had seen in these lands, he thought it a crime that you would be kept inside the walls of a distant estate far away from anyone to admire your beauty.

“This is my lady wife,” Eadwold gestured for you to come closer with his proud-like introduction and Finan shot a quick side glance to Sihtric, they had heard that the Lord’s wife was younger but they were still surprised, “Off on another one of your walks?”

All the mens eyes darted to the muddied leather boots just visible at the elegantly embroidered hem of your dress, belted at the waist with a sheathed dagger, its hilt intricately decorated. A fine little weapon for a fine woman, Sihtric mused.

“Yes, I think I need the air.” You laughed lightly, but Sihtric caught the way your smile fell from your lips all too quickly to be genuine.

“Perhaps you could show the men down to the lodgings in the woods?” Just as you opened your mouth to respond to your husband, he cut you off, turning back to look at Finan, “Wonderful stonework left behind by those clever Romans, I think it will suit your needs.”

Your hand reached out and gently touched Eadwold’s arm covered by rich blue robes to divert his attention back to you. “My Lord, perhaps the men would like to be fed? Given some ale too, possibly? I imagine they have had a long journey.”

“That would be delightful, lady.” Finan enthused, the promise of ale was always enough to make him forget a sore arse from travelling.

“I shall have Osgar show you the way after you are rested, then.” Eadwold nodded to the two men then looked expectantly at his young wife,

“Lord, gentlemen.” You half bowed and took your leave.

Where is your escort? Does he really let something as lovely as you wander freely? Sihtric’s inner thoughts spun as he watched your graceful steps carrying you off, but then you glanced back and he was unable to look away.

The reason for your walk that afternoon wasn’t just for physical air, but an attempt at clearing the tangled thoughts in your head. You had been cooped up inside that hall for such a long time now it felt as though you were being slowly suffocated with a strange sense of loneliness, surrounded by people yet feeling the most alone you ever had.

It’s not that your husband was cruel, although it certainly felt that way sometimes with his dismissive comments and not allowing you to take leave so you may visit with your family. He had his rule of you always having to stay close and watch over him playing Lord of his lands, but in reality you were merely a decorative possession.

A pretty young woman gifted to him by another ealdorman to bolster the wealth his lands needed as well as a son so that he might have an heir, but therein laid the issue, as your husband was an older man who had some difficulties when it came to marital duties.

Your husband had his fears and worries, he knew that it would not be a traditional marriage with his ailment, as he referred to it, but for all appearances people must believe it to be so. With the pair of you coming to terms with what your marriage was, a sort of trust was built where you could share your thoughts openly with one another, an attempt at companionship and a life lived together.

A discussion that Eadwold had begun over a game of Tafl had taken you aback,

“Perhaps there is another way you can give me a son.” He rasped, twisting one of the Muscovites between his fingers.

“Another way?”

“Yes, I am certain a man would not say no if you were to...” Eadwold said, gesturing his hand towards your body with a sway to his shoulders.

“Offer myself up like a piece of meat?” You laughed at his audacious suggestion.

“Aren’t we all just sacks of meat?” He questioned, probably imagining himself to be wise, “We wouldn’t be the first to raise a bastard.”

Even with freedoms most Lady’s were not given and permission to have an affair for the sake of a son you had an air of sadness around you, one that would linger in your wake for others to see but your husband remained blind to it. By ignorance or choice you did not know, and as the days turned into weeks you came to the conclusion that motherhood would at least give you a sense of purpose, something to pour your unspent love into.

You still had a sense of unease at the entire suggestion, the shame that would befall you if it were ever discovered how you came to be with a child. There must have been rumours about you or your husband whispered in corners due to the lack of a shared bedroom and a child, you had been married for long enough that you should have at least had one by now.

And so as you walked out the large doors of the opulently decorated house you were beginning to despise, into the afternoon sun for a moment's escape, the sound of your husband's raspy droning accompanied by the voice of an Irishman caught your attention near the stables.

Who your eyes landed on did not belong to the bearded man of Irland, but the quiet man looking as bored as you felt during most conversations with Eadwold, who was removing packs from his horse. He had dark curls shorn to the scalp on one side, with bronze arm bands glimmering against the dark blue short sleeved tunic covering his biceps, and to your surprise a pagan pendant hanging from his neck.

He had not spoken a single word as you suggested the men be allowed to rest before being escorted to their lodgings, which only fuelled your curiosity of who you were to play host to until the lands were able to defend their own borders without the assistance of the other Ealdormen.

After taking your leave to continue with the walk and risking a peek over your shoulder, you found the unknown pagan still watching, the sun glistening in his hazel eyes, causing you to quickly avert your gaze with a warmth blooming in your cheeks. It felt girlish to have a reaction like that to a stranger, and a heathen at that, but you couldn’t deny that he was handsome.

Later that evening at supper you asked your husband why he had put the men all the way out in the woods and not allowed them to remain within the walls, there was plenty of space available for them to use in the barracks after all. He admitted he was not trusting of them,

“Some of them are Danes themselves, I find it hard to believe that they actually fight against their own… but who am I to speak on the simple mind of a heathen, they go where the silver takes them I imagine,” Eadwold mused, swilling his ale tankard.

“They are here to keep your land safe, you could show a little gratitude.”

“Those are fine lodgings they’ve been given, as well as food and ale! I would say that’s enough gratitude shown,” he croaked, and you simply picked at the meat on your plate with a sigh.

Over the next few days you found yourself watching over the training yard from the high walls surrounding the perimeter of the estate. The name of the Dane your eyes always landed on was still unknown to you, and no matter how hard you tried to take in the other people down below practising their sword work, it was him who always held your attention as he guided footwork and techniques.

Every so often his gaze would flicker up and meet your own, and at first you thought yourself to be imagining the slight quirk of his mouth, yet the next time his eyes wandered up he wet his plump bottom lip as a smile grew causing the warmth to hit your cheeks once more.

In the late afternoon you were found by your husband lacing up the leather boots you kept solely for walking, the luxurious silk slippers you wore for general use discarded to the side.

“Another walk? All this sun will be doing you no good.”

“The sun has passed its highest point, and I shall keep to the shade.” You huffed pulling the laces tight.

“In the wood?”

“Yes.” You clipped.

“Oh, well if you must. Uhtred’s men are going to squash a band of raiders, if you pass that way be sure to offer them a prayer.”

“Of course,” you stood, checking if your dagger was secure. “Did you need something before I go?” Eadwold stepped closer and spoke in a hushed tone to you,

“No, but I do wonder if you had thought on a particular issue?”

“I have, lord, but I do have some concerns.”

“Speak freely, my dear.”

“Are you certain that this is what you would want? I am your wife after all.”

“Well I would not want you to yield yourself to another man completely, and if you were to govern your emotions accordingly this can remain uncomplicated.”

“Uncomplicated.” You scoffed, nothing about any of this was uncomplicated. “And you would not mind which man’s child I bore?”

“He has to be the right sort, but I do trust your judgement with that, I highly doubt you would let just any man touch you. There is a matter of discretion of course, these lands depend on it.”

These lands, but what of my wellbeing? What if I wish to just spend my days here until you pass on so I may turn myself into the Order? Is what you wanted to say, instead you continued attempting to give him the responses he wanted.

“Would... would you expect me to tell you who the man was?”

“Best that I do not know.” And he took your warm hand in his bonier, cold grasp.

“Does an heir really mean this much to you, my lord?”

“It means everything. I know you can do this for us, for our legacy as leaders of lands. You do understand the importance of this, do you not?”

Trying your best to soften the almost pained expression gracing your face and managing a weak smile, your hand slipped from your husbands and youturned on your heel, taking a few deep inhales as you stepped over the threshold out into the warming sun, leaving the outlandish conversation behind you.

As the birds chirped overhead, skipping along full branches in their song, you toiled over the emotions rolling around inside the depths of a caged heart letting your feet blindly carry you further and further through the trees. Walking through the undergrowth with muted steps, you stumbled upon the stone outbuildings; all was quiet, except the wildlife and nearby stream lightly bubbling over its rocky bed.

Walking a little further past the group of small houses used by different attendants of the estate, you came to one that stood alone on the edge of willow trees, and beneath your feet myriads of bright wildflowers blanketed the ground. Unsheathing the dagger at your side you crouched and delicately began to cut them away so that you may take them home to decorate your room.

The sound of someone clearing their throat caused you to flinch and snap your head towards the noise.

“Sorry my lady, I did not mean to startle you.” The unnamed Pagan held up his hands with a soft smile, instantly putting you at ease.

“It’s quite alright, I should be paying more attention to my surroundings,” You responded, awkwardly carrying on with your cutting.

“Are you... Does your lord husband know you wander this far from the house all alone?”

“He does, actually.” You huffed at the mention of Eadwold, but you regretted the tone you had used, as it was a simple question from a person who does not know you, “I, uh, hear you are off to deal with some raiders?”

“We are, lady, I was just going to the stables to meet the others now.”

“Then I will pray you all return safely.” You stood, eyes flickering over the hammer pendant hanging from his neck and internally cursed, “if that does not offend you, of course.”

His tongue quickly flicked out wetting his lips before pursing them to crush the small smile playing on his mouth.

“You can pray as you wish. I can escort you back?”

There was a distance between the pair of you as you strolled back through the woods, taking in the scent of moss and fauna, occasionally looking over to the man whose eyes always seemed to be averting yours with every glance.

“I have just realised you are helping my house yet I do not know your name?” You asked, fiddling with the flowers you grasped.

“I am Sihtric, lady.” He revealed in a smoky tone that had your brows flit up briefly.

“And the loud Irishman?”

He chuckled at your comment, stepping over a fallen tree you chose to walk around.

“Mm, Finan.”

Two days later, upon the return of the men, Lord Eadwold had agreed to the idea of letting the men feast in the hall with the two of you, as a thank you for all that they were doing. Sat beside him at the top of the table, you phased in and out the conversations around you; there wasn’t anything you could offer to the talks of war and swordsmanship.

It was as Eadwold was enthusiastically retelling the story of him fighting Britons to Finan, occasionally spilling ale from his tankard as he waved his arms around, that your eyes skirted over to Sihtric. He was smiling at Osgar who sat to his side locked into his own discussion, and you focused on the dark inking that decorated the side of his neck disappearing into his hair.

Eyes wandering further, you spotted the line work on each of his fingers that held his own ale tankard, what those hands could do you thought, and quickly sipped at your drink, willing your mind silent. Even so, your eyes drifted back to meet his, he gave a simple nod and smile returning to his conversation.

The following day, you decided to venture back to where you had found the wildflowers, collecting thin twigs of hazel and willow as you went. Making a sizable pile of flowers you settled against the trunk of the willow tree close to the little Roman lodge you had thought remained empty, only to be pulled from the therapeutic process of weaving your flowers by its door opening.

Having been gifted a couple of days rest by the Lord Eadwold, Sihtric decided he would take some time away from his group to sharpen his sword and seax in the confines of the humble one storey house he had claimed for himself. He liked the little crumbling mosaic pictures that adorned the walls and floor tiles, and he thought it a peaceful place.

As he slid the whetstone down the edge of his blades, the sun was temporarily blotted out by someone passing the window and caught his attention; he paused his movements to focus in on any sounds that might indicate who it was, but none came.

Carefully placing his sword on the table and sheathing his seax, he made the short distance to the window, sneaking a look with his head tilting to the side, and there you were again. The long branches of willow with their full leaves cascading from the sky around you, casting just enough shade to keep the sun from warming your soft skin too much.

Three times Sihtric told himself to move away and leave you be, but the first time he made the attempt, your brow had furrowed together in concentration and he felt the urge in his finger tips to smooth the crease away. The second time you had wet your pretty lips and leant closer to your hands, making the chains around your neck swing drawing his attention to the round cut of your dress just exposed your collar bones.

It was his third attempt that gave him pause for a different reason other than to secretly admire you, wondering if he should interrupt the very clear thought process you were having. Holding out the half completed wreath your fingers nimbly worked on, you held different flowers near it, trying to choose a pattern you didn’t seem entirely happy with.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling with a low grumble, Sihtric approached the door, making sure to open it with enough force to create sound so as not to startle you by silently appearing at your feet. Rounding the corner he met your gaze, your eyes sparkling and lips parted greeting him with a silvery tone,

“Sihtric.”

“Lady, I hope I’m not disturbing you?” He stepped closer as you shook your head at his question.

“No, I was just, busy hands mean a quiet mind.” You fiddled with the twisted twigs of the wreath in your hands.

“It looks pretty.”

“Hmm, I only wished I had some different flowers.”

This is why you came out here, tell her. He urged himself.

“There is more on the other side of the stream.” Sihtric gestured to bubbling water that could be heard through the willows.

“In the tall grasses?”

“I can show you, if you’d like?”

Keeping an arms distance between the two of you, Sihtric took you a little further through the willow’s to the edge of the stream where the water flowed slowly and after explaining that the brook wasn’t deep, he took a step down from the bank, only to realise he was wrong.

The cool waters soaked through his trousers in an instant to just below his knee, slowly turning with his brows raised and lips pressed together to prepare himself for a refusal and telling off that he would even suggest such a thing he was relieved to see you stifling laughter at his misjudgement.

“Uh, it is shallower near the other houses, lady.” He laughed.

“This is fine, just give me a moment.” You smiled.

Watching how you unlaced your boots to reveal bare feet felt like an oddly intimate thing for Sihtric to witness, and he struggled to avert his gaze as you gathered up your dress, holding the fabric up to your now exposed, luscious thighs.

He swallowed the lump growing in his throat and offered up his hand as you stepped closer to the edge of the bank, your skin felt warm against his and the squeal you let out at the cool water rushing up your legs followed by a hearty laugh that was music to his ears.

The smile on your face he could tell to be genuine compared to the others he had seen you so bravely try to wear around your husband, and as he hoisted you up into the tall grasses on the other side of the stream you placed a hand on his chest to steady yourself, making you pause and look from your hand to his eyes, followed by your quiet voice,

“Thank you, Sihtric.”

Lightly clearing his throat, he stepped aside allowing you to walk into the green grasses littered with an array of purple and yellow flowers, watching your fingers lazily dance atop the greenery under the warm sky.

It was amongst nature that you sat quietly for a while, gathering up violet tulips and he was close by, leaning back propped up on an elbow watching little beetles clamber over the ground on their unknown journeys, occasionally stealing a look at you.

“May I ask you a question, lady?” He risked breaking your peace, his curiosity winning.

“You just did.” You smiled at him from under your lashes. “Ask it.”

“Why do you come all this way? Are you not needed at the house?”

“That was two.” You had criticised, eyes falling back to your lap, carrying on trimming stems with your dagger.

He quietly sighed and plucked a blade of grass thinking that he would not get a response from you, until you spoke up again with a slight frown and not looking at him.

“I am given the freedom to speak my mind, but my voice is not truly heard. I have no say in how that house or these lands are run, my presence is only missed when Eadwold wants advice on a matter he has already decided how to settle.”

A decoration to talk at, Sihtric thought, then his mind drifted to the thought of you having to survive the old man seeing and touching your nakedness. A painful existence, someone as pretty, no, beautiful as you having to let a wretch paw at you.

When you were ready to leave the peaceful meadow, he carried your bundle of flowers and clutched your hand helping you back through the stream; he watched your mood change as you readied to make the journey home, like someone had walked through a house blowing out candles as they went. The light has disappeared from her eyes.

The rare happiness that had swelled in your chest littered with fleeting thoughts of Sihtric had kept you moving through the next few days with ease, only dimming at the dinner table when your replies fell on deaf ears; Eadwold was carrying on his droning as if you had said nothing at all, or changing the topic when you were mid sentence.

Normally you could swallow it, but this evening as you sat at the table with him and his brother, Eadwig, it came to be too much.

“Perhaps you should have some of the younger lads trained with swords and shields now, pull in the servants' children too as a backup should you need it.” Eadwig’s equally raspy voice carried over the table.

“They are just boys, Eadwold,” you commented, not liking the idea one bit.

“They started much younger than they do now, you should have seen it! What were we? Not even 10 years of age when handed a real sword in place of the wooden things they use now,” Eadwig added.

You argued further. “The mothers will have a fright, you cannot.”

“Here comes the dramatics of a woman,” Eadwold griped.

“Caused by the ridiculous ideals of days long past.” You now fumed.

Abruptly leaving the table, you hurried through the corridors with no real sense of direction; it wasn’t until you were slipping out of a forgotten gate at the back of the estate with a cloak fastened around you that you realised you had not bothered to change your silk slippers for boots.

Looping around the perimeter close to the wall so as not to be spotted at this hour, as the deep golden sun hung low above the treetops, your feet carried you to the only peaceful place it could think of, the willow trees.

Walking with your eyes to the ground, you finally looked up at seeing the familiar wildflowers surrounding you, stopping in your tracks and a breath hitching in your throat.

“Lady.” Sihtric greeted with his look of surprise matching yours, chips of wood all around him and an axe in hand.

“What...” You fell silent taking in the sight before you. Three chopped trunks now sat in the stream, creating a dry pathway from one side to the other.

“I didn’t want you trying to cross it alone so I...” Sihtric started but your furrowed brows and parted lips made him stop, “Have I offended you, Lady?”

“No, this is wonderful.” Your voice came much quieter than you had liked.

Gingerly stepping to the edge of the bank, you toed the lump of wood and it didn’t budge; a smile crept onto your face as you stepped onto it, following the others to the opposite side and skimming your hands over the top of the long grass as you walked further into it. You had not noticed Sihtric silently trailing behind until he spoke up,

“The tree had already fallen, I thought it would have better use here than the forest floor.”

This act of care and a kindness shown hit your chest heavily, your mind ran wild with all the different emotions freely flowing in your veins for the first time in what felt like years. Before thinking it through you spun, throwing your arms around Sihtric’s neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.

He remained still with his arms held at his side, only bringing them around your waist when he felt you sob and whisper a small thank you to him.There was a gentle warmth emanating from his body and into your own; your grip dug into his shoulders, not wanting to let him go. It was only in this moment that you realised how desperately you ached for the touch of another person.

“My lady?”

“I’m sorry I just...” You reluctantly pulled back, wiping away tears that had fallen with the back of your fingers, avoiding his concerned gaze.

“I’ll give you a moment...”

“No,” you protested grabbing at his arm, and as you met his hazel eyes brought his hand up to your face. “Stay?” Your voice trembled against his knuckles as you ghosted your lips over his skin. You knew you shouldn’t be asking what you were, or in this manner, but you needed to be touched.

You watched the way a conflicted frown appeared before quickly disappearing; he cupped your cheek with the calloused hand you held and with a sigh you leaned into his touch, pressing a light kiss to the base of his palm. He shifted closer towards you letting his other hand brush along your jaw, his thumb gently skimming over your lips.

Standing head to head, noses barely nudging each other, you guided his hand down your neck to your chest, silently asking for more of his touch and he gave it freely. You pressed into him as he palmed at your breasts with a whine, lips grazing one another but never locking in a kiss.

With a desperate and sinful heat blooming between your legs, you pulled at the laces of Sihtric’s trousers and he didn’t stop you, allowing you to stroke at his hardening cock with your eyes squeezed shut. He nipped at your cheekbone and ear lobe with his hot breath fanning across your skin, gracing you with the sound of a low moan as your hand gripped his shaft. Guiding you to move to the grassy floor of the meadow, you braved meeting his lust blown eyes full of want mirroring your own.

You quickly hiked your dress up to your hips, exposing your wet core to the cooling air of a summer evening as he freed himself and settled between your thighs; you hesitated with your mouth on the side of his and nodded for him to give you what you so badly needed to feel.

You held your breath in anticipation feeling the head of his cock nudging at the entrance of your cunt, a short sharp exhale escaping you with the first shallow thrust, his grunt meeting your high pitched whimper as he then fully sheathed deep in your tight walls.

Gripping tightly at his shoulder and tugging harshly at Sihtric’s hair, he fucked you into the warm ground with a merciless rhythm, feeding the wanton hunger that coursed through your body and filling the air with lewd sounds of skin slapping skin.

The gravity of your actions were forgotten underneath his body, losing yourself completely to a desire being sated and leaving you feeling near drunk with utter bliss washing over you.

Chasing a release you madly wanted, you tilted your pelvis enabling Sihtric’s thrusts to stroke against your sensitive clit just right, and he understood exactly what you needed by changing his movements to a deep rolling that had your eyes fall back and the tell tale tremor to start in your thighs.

The open sky was full of the sweet broken cries tumbling from your lips into Sihtric’s ear as you fell apart beneath him and he spilled his hot seed into your pulsing walls with a pained groan. As he collapsed onto your chest, both panting erratically, you untangled your fingers from his hair and loosened your grip on his shoulders.

The loss of Sihtric’s hand on your hip and him pulling away from between your legs brought you back to reality, his top lip curled up with a flicker of a frown on his face as he laced his trousers and turned away. Your mouth moved in an attempt to say something, anything, but no words could find you and so you stood, readjusting your dress in silence.

“I’ll escort you back.”

Unlike the last time he walked you back towards the estate the silence was not full of a curious tension being in the company of a stranger, but one that felt awkward as you tried to have a coherent thought about what had just taken place. Even though Sihtric’s eyes were on you the whole time as he trailed a little behind you he didn’t say a word.

“It’s best I go on from here alone.” You stated, glancing quickly at Sihtric over your shoulder as the walls came into view through the treeline.

“Goodnight, lady.”

“Goodnight.”

Eadwold had not even noticed you’d ventured out for a walk, he was deep in his ramblings with his brother beside the hearth of the main hall and hadn’t even bothered to speak to you as you headed up the stairs to your room.

As you laid in bed staring up at the rafters your thumb ran over your lips in a poor imitation of how Sihtric had, the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin with a satisfied ache between your thighs. If only I had kissed him, you thought; falling asleep with your mind full of the Pagan you let have your body in the meadow.

Sleep struggled to find Sihtric that night, the sweet scent of you had been burned into his senses along with the feel of your soft skin on his hands. It shouldn’t have happened, I have lowered her, and other such thoughts swam through his mind until he drifted off.

Throughout the next morning he was distracted and let Finan take control of the training as he walked around the border of the yard, hoping to catch sight of you, but you never appeared. Not in any of the windows, nor up on the walls watching over them as you usually would, and you weren’t lingering in any open doorways either.

Sihtric’s mind drifted to you again as he trundled over the moss covered ground with birds flitting through the trees above him, and a hope filled his chest as rounded the corner of the old stones wanting to find you beneath the willow trees but you weren’t there.

Sighing as he approached the door he paused, he had not left it open before leaving this morning so why was it now ajar? Placing his hand on the hilt of his sword he shoved it open, not expecting to see you sat on the edge of his small fur covered bed.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Your silvery tone greeted, he took his hand away from his sword and his tone was sharper than he wanted it to be with his response,

“Is that wise? Will people not become suspicious if you keep walking off into the woods when they know us men are down here?”

“Are you afraid?” You asked, your eyes searching his.

“Yes, but not for me lady, for you.”

He watched you wet your lips with an incredulous smile on your face and you quickly pushed off the bed walking towards him and cupped his cheeks, crushing your lips to his taking him aback.

You sighed against him as he began to kiss you back slowly, letting his hands roam your waist.

#im just gonna leave this here #the last kingdom fanfic #sihtric x reader #tlk fanfic #sihtric fanfic #sihtric tlk #tlk

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separatist-apologist · 3 months

Text

Something In The Orange

Summary: Someone is trying to murder Eris Vanserra's soon-to-be wife.

And no one can rule him out as a suspect

Note: Big thanks to @octobers-veryown for the mood board and the unknown anon for the song inspiration.

For @sjmromanceweek

Read On AO3

For the entirety of Arina’s life, she’d been destined to be the wife of a Vanserra. Lucien Vanserra to be specific. The ink on her marriage contract was dried before she herself was, likely still squalling in a midwife’s aching arms as her father lamented his poor fortune. Sons brought glory, daughters cost money.

Arina might have been angry about her circumstances in a different life. In this one, though, Arina considered herself luckier than most other women she knew. Lucien was merely a year older than her—a seventh son, too, which meant he’d be sent off to some country estate, lord of the territory his father gave him. She would have no responsibility toward a vulnerable population nor would Arina ever be in danger of becoming queen.

After years of watching her father rule, a minor lord on the outskirts of the massive kingdom the Vanserra’s ruled, Arina thought that was a blessing. There was never enough gold to go around and what little money that could be scraped together, her father took in taxes. Arina felt shame every time she was paraded through the small city they lived in, dressed in finery while the people stared up, faces dirty, clothes threadbear.

Beron Vanserra sent a chest of gold meant for Arina every year on her birthday. It was for her education and other frippery according to the notes—though in truth, Arina suspected it was a reminder that her father owed Beron. There was no backing out, no offering Arina up for better prospects.

There were no better prospects, to be fair. No one wanted the poor daughter of minor nobility nor did they want to inherit her fathers poor kingdom. Beron intended to subsume it into his own, allowing her family the rights to the land so long as they kissed the Vanserra ring. That was her fathers problem—not hers. Arina intended to waste her time drinking and dancing and whatever else the wives of Vanserras did.

Beron put the marriage off for a total three years past their original agreement. She should have married Lucien when she was eighteen—and yet Arina wasn’t officially called to the palace until the eve of her twenty-first birthday. Arina was instructed to come without a retinue. Only her father accompanied her, silent in the carriage as they rode. He didn’t need to speak to her in order for his will to be clear—if she did anything to mess this up, the consequences would be severe.

Deadly, even.

After all, Arina’s mother had not survived long enough to bring another child into her fathers world. No sons would save their family, leaving Arina to marry well and without complaint. She’d written to Lucien over the years and he’d written back. It was hardly some great love match but he seemed nice enough. Funny, when he wanted to be, and polite when he didn’t. Arina had decided long before now that she was satisfied with this man.

Unlike her own home which seemed to be in a constant state of disrepair, the Vanserra palace was massive. Made of glittering gold and wild, old oak, the sprawling castle dripped with wealth. The city that surrounded it was just as opulent, though there was an aura of despair hanging in the air that tasted sickly sweet in Arina’s mouth.

There was a clear and obvious divide between those with power and influence and those who did not. Arina had expected to see wealth equally which was perhaps naive. Beron had always seemed generous to her, sending gifts of gold and jewels on a whim. Why would his people fare any differently?

That wasn’t her problem, she reminded herself. All Arina needed to do was fulfill her end of the contract, marry Lucien, and get on with things. Arina could simply turn her face from the fingerprint stained window and study the palace. It truly was beautiful, illuminated by warm shafts of spring light and framed just beyond by newly awakened trees crammed so tightly together it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.

The palace itself was walled off, using both a gate that had to be opened for their carriage to pass through, and a bridge that caused the vehicle to lurch back and forth sickeningly. Beyond, Arina saw a white, ivory garden wall encircling at least the front of the palace, monitored by guards walking the length with sharp swords and a quiver of arrows against their backs.

That didn’t keep people out—it merely kept them aware of the fate that would befall them should anyone decide to step out of line. As Arina disembarked, smoothing the wrinkles out of her rose pink skirts, her father was patted down for weapons. No one but the guards were allowed to be armed in the presence of the king, and Arina wondered if her father would get his sword back.

No one bothered to check her, which was lucky. They’d have found a small hunting knife tucked into her boot.

Arina didn’t expect to need it—but it never hurt to be prepared. This was a new court with new men, and the ones back home were just handsy enough that Arina felt better with a knife. An old servant had taught her to use it—in exchange for a kiss she’d been all too happy to oblige him with—before her father sent him away.

Arina was surprised by how busy the palace seemed to be. People moved around the drive, some making their way toward the front doors, open wide as butlers checked lists before allowing them through. Others, carrying heavy baskets covered in thin, white blankets, quickly walked around the palace toward some side door servants who were expected to enter and exit. There was an obvious and clear divide—neither groups looked at the other nor did they interact. It was as if neither was there.

A game of play-pretend, Arina supposed as she fell in step behind her father. Bowing her head ever so slightly, Arina clasped her hands in front of her body and began her own game of play-pretend. In this game, she was the obedient, demure daughter of her father and would become the obedient, demure wife of Lucien, too.

“This way, my lord,” a butler dressed in black with silver buttons, beckoned for her father to follow. What would her mother think of all this? Would she have been allowed to come, too? Arina barely remembered anything about the woman who had given her life—her mother had been sick more often than not, leaving Arina in the care of nurses and governesses.

This was how her mother had been married, though. Back then their home had been worth something and her fathers name carried weight. He’d had the pick of the available ladies and had chosen her mother.

Arina had dared to ask him why, once. She was the most beautiful of the lot.

He’d said it so dismissively, like it ought to have been obvious to Arina. She knew she was too romantic—a dozen tutors had accused her of no less over the years. She knew her marriage was about practicality and not romance and still, over the years, she’d clung to those letters from Lucien and hoped that maybe there could be something between them. He seemed friendly enough. Nice, too, though of course she might have read too much into his careful, polite words.

Arina had been holding that hope for years, though. All of it was about to come to fruition as they stepped into a small study where Beron was waiting behind a glossy top wooden desk. Huge windows, framed with maroon, velvet curtains, allowed light to stream into the room.

Arina and her father bowed, though Arina found herself looking at the man leaned up against a bookcase with a sour expression on his face.

This wasn’t Lucien—she’d seen him a few times in her youth and what she remembered painted Lucien as a man with far darker skin similar to the shade of her own skin. His hair had always been long, his features softer. This man was fair skinned and tall, muscular like it was intentional versus the accidental effects of laborious work. His auburn hair was cut short, his eyes a cool, amber brown, his features sharp as though he’d been recently carved from marble. He was beautiful and cold in equal measure and Arina was grateful he wasn’t looking at her.

“This is your daughter?” Beron asked, rising from his chair with gleaming brown eyes. There was no mistaking him and his son—they were so painfully related even if the other man’s features came from his mother, their expressions, their posture—that was all the same.

Cold men holding court. Arina took a small step backward without meaning to, instinctively looking for the door. This caught the younger man’s attention. His gaze flicked to her face, mouth sloping into a deep set frown. Why was he here?

There was no escape. Arina’s father caught her wrist and thrust her forward like she was little more than a prized cow at auction. Beron looked her over dispassionately.

“She looks just like her mother.”

Arina felt frozen right then, heart pounding in her chest. This wasn’t what she’d imagined. She’d pictured Lucien greeting her and spending the next month getting to know him outside the watchful eyes of their parents. Maybe she’d see the king once or twice as he arranged their little marriage and then sent them off.

Not this.

“Your letter said you wanted to discuss the terms of our original agreement?” her father said, taking the hand that had once been wrapped around her wrist to place it on her shoulder. At this, the younger man looked away again, his face unable to conceal his disgust.

Beron sighed, turning his head toward the window for a moment. “My youngest son has been accused of compromising another lady of court.”

Oh no.

Beside Arina, her father became notably interested. His expression brightened, his posture just a little more rigid. This was good news, though for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why. Beron noticed it, too, if his own darkened gaze was any indication. Something in the original contract had stipulated for this and whatever it was, it clearly benefited her father.

“When we put the original agreement together, we accounted for this,” Beron began smoothly, picking up a neatly folded document to hand to her father.

“We did,” her father agreed, taking that document without reading it. “I assume you’ve come to make an offer.”

“My eldest son,” Beron replied easily, gesturing to the man still leaning against the bookcase. “Eris and I have spoken and he’s agreed to fulfill his brothers place.”

Her fathers shoulders slumped ever so slightly as Eris finally righted himself, looking not at Arina but directly at her father. “It would be my pleasure,” he said in a voice that betrayed how little of a pleasure it truly was.

It wasn’t what her father wanted, though whatever it was he’d been hoping to gain, Arina wasn’t going to find out. Beron, aware he had her father boxed in a corner, offered a slick smile.

“Why don’t we go over the terms together? I think you’ll find I’ve been more than generous.”

“You always have been good to our family,” her father gritted out through a syrupy smile.

“Eris, show Arina her accommodations while her father and I talk,” Beron said, waving them both out of the room as though they didn’t matter. Eris had clearly been told of this ahead of time and Arina wished someone would have warned her. Nodding, Eris stepped from the room without looking at her, his shoulders tight beneath the brown of his jacket. She had no choice but to follow after him, fingers curled to fists.

Eris slammed the door behind them loud enough to rattle a nearby picture in its frame. So he was angry, too. She doubted he felt any solidarity with her—she could imagine he saw her as the enemy which was just fine, because he fared no better in her estimation, either.

“You,” Eris barked at a passing servant, beckoning them closer. “Show the lady her room.”

“Your father said—”

“I heard what my father said,” Eris snapped, interrupting Arina before she could get the rest of her indignant words out. “Unless you think my staff can’t be trusted?”

Oh, fuck him, she thought. “Charming,” she replied, holding his gaze. Eris stared back, waiting for her to back down. Arina ought to have. If he’d been anyone else she might have looked away, but this was about to be her future husband and she’d be damned if she let him think she was scared.

Though, she was. Arina was terrified of him.

Eris took a step back when it was clear Arina was prepared to face off with him, inclining his head to the side for a moment as though to study her. “You won’t survive a week in this engagement.”

And with that, he turned on his polished boots and left her to the nervous, near trembling servant. She wasn’t going to chase him down, nor was she going to beg him. He could be mad at her all he liked. It wasn’t until she was being shown a rather large apartment that Arina considered what it meant to marry Eris Vanserra.

Gone were her hopes of an easy, simple life. Suddenly Arina felt the weight of expectation, of a life she’d never been prepared for. She’d be the wife of a king, with all the stipulations that came with that. No matter how cruel Eris was to her, Arina would have to put on a brave face and manage it. She had to have children with that man. Arina tried to picture what it would be like before she forced the image from her mind entirely. Perhaps he’d be quick—she’d heard men were more often than not. She could grit her teeth and get through it and perhaps, if she gave him a son, he’d find himself a mistress and leave her be.

Exile her to a country estate, even, where she could run her own household and have her own life outside of him. It wasn’t the great love she’d been hoping for but it was better than nothing. Better than seven sons, like his own mother had given Beron Vanserra. Two seemed like enough. What Arina needed was a plan.

Staring at the sitting room of the apartment she’d been given, Arina decided right then and there she would make the best of things. It wasn’t what she’d wanted, but it was still an escape from the misery of life with just her father. No more emboldened courtiers pawing at her, no more of her fathers advisors leering and touching when they thought he wasn’t looking. No more being screamed at—at least, by her father. Who knew what kind of tactics Eris might employ?

Separate bedchambers.

Separate lives.

She’d smile and placate him, lulling him into a false sense of security and maybe he’d drop his attitude in favor of apathy. Starting with the dinner she was expected to attend. She’d show him right then and there he didn’t need to concern himself with her at all. Then she could try and make a friend at court who could show her around and help her acclimate herself.

Arina was practically vibrating when she was summoned. She’d changed from pink to a robins egg blue that was entirely modest, from the high neckline to the long sleeves and she’d pinned her thick, long hair up off her face with little pearl pins that matched the ones dangling from her ears.

She looked pretty and she knew it, just like Arina knew that men valued that above all else. When their own children asked Eris why he’d married her, he could tell them she’d been the prettiest woman he’d ever seen and it would be true enough. Maybe her children wouldn’t mind as much.

Eris was waiting in the small dining room when Arina was shown in and to his credit, he rose from his chair the way a gentleman ought to.

“Here,” he said, pushing out her chair with his foot. Arina forced herself to smile at him, smoothing her skirts beneath her as she sat. It was only once she was seated that Eris joined her, angled away as he fiddled with his glass of wine. Was he drunk? His cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes bright but otherwise he had that same arrogant sneer on his face.

“You look nice,” Arina lied. He looked fine in the same jacket he’d been wearing when they met.

Eris scoffed before downing the remnants of his cup.

“There’s no need to lie, lady.”

“Fine. You look miserable without the manners to even try and conceal it,” she heard herself saying, her good plan crumbling before her eyes. With raised brows, Eris looked over at her.

“Would you like to try that one again, my lady?”

“I was told I’d be marrying your brother,” she hissed, aware there were servants in the room and that gossip spread quickly.

“A fate I’ve so graciously spared you from. Where is your gratitude?” Eris replied dryly.

“Your brother seemed kind–”

“You would have been bored by the end of the month,” Eris snapped, clearly tired. “I thought all women dreamed of being princesses?”

Arina didn’t know what to say to that so she picked at the little beads on her dress if only to have something to do with her hands.

“Well. Your father is certainly pleased,” Eris added seconds before the door opened. His goblet was refilled as her father, Beron, and a retinue of men she didn’t know or recognize strolled in. Their chatter was enough to drown out any remaining conversation between Eris and Arina which could only be a good thing. It was clearly too early to hope they might get along, and Arina needed to figure out a way to leash her temper before it got the better of her.

Again.

Arina was used to being treated as decoration. And as her father sat without acknowledging her—as Beron pulled Eris into a conversation with some of the other courtiers—Arina was left to sit there silently and eat politely. They were all covertly watching her, judging every movement, every whispered sigh, every scrape of her utensils. What would happen if they found her wanting?

She didn’t want to learn the answer to that question so Arina kept a pleasant smile pasted to her face just like she’d learned to do back home. With each new course, Arina made a delicate show of eating only a third of whatever was served to her which clearly pleased some of the older men at the table. She passed on wine in favor of water and whenever a compliment was paid to her, she made a show of dropping her gaze and thanking them demurely.

Eris seemed to recognize her theatrics for what they were, smirking into his goblet each time she did it like there was nothing funnier to him. Arina had half a mind to kick him—and she might have, too—had something warm not begun crawling up her throat.

She looked down at the bowl of potato soup in front of her, strangely fascinated as it warped from one porcelain bowl into two, to three, and back to a singular entity. The heat intensified, causing Arina to gasp for air. She didn’t know what possessed her, but she reached for Eris’s leg, digging her nails into the fabric of his trousers as she tried to get a grip on reality.

Something was wrong.

She couldn’t breathe.

Arina blinked, intending to take a slow, controlled breath of air and then excuse herself. When she opened her eyes, however, she found herself laying on the floor staring upward into a pair of disinterested amber eyes. The commotion around her seemed to suggest someone was concerned—her father, maybe?

But right then, all Arina could see was the icy, bored expression of her soon-to-be husband.

And she was certain this was all his fault.

ERIS:

“What do you expect me to do about this?” Eris demanded furiously, staring at his father. He needed to get his temper in check before Beron punished him and yet Eris couldn’t help his aggrieved feelings. “If she’s so desperate to escape this marriage, let her.”

“And pay her bastard father to run his kingdom into the ground for another fifty years?”

“Why would you ever add that to a marriage contract?” Eris heard himself asking, furious that Lucien’s little dalliance with one of the Archeron’s had led him to this position. Arina was probably perfectly nice—she was certainly beautiful—and he didn’t want her. Didn’t want any wife his father picked out for him and had done a good job running them off.

“I had seven worthless sons by then—all of whom would need wives. If not Lucien, someone else.”

“Then let Tanwen—”

“I’ll not hear another complaint from you,” Beron barked out, eyes flashing a warning. Eris forced himself to swallow his anger, to take a breath and let it go for the moment. It was clear his father wanted this to happen and his fathers will was an extension of his own.

“She’s alive,” Beron continued, as if Eris cared about that. It was cruel, but when Eris had seen her convulsing on the ground all he’d felt was relief. She’d die and he’d be free of her, along with the entire marriage he didn’t want. “I want to know who's responsible for this and I want them punished. Quietly.”

“Consider it done.”

“Check in on your mother. She’d distraught,” Beron added by way of dismissal.

Of course she would be. The mere words were enough to force some sympathy into Eris’s otherwise emotionless chest. Arina was merely a casualty in his fathers obsession with expansion. It should have been Lucien who arranged this deal, leaving Eris to ally with a princess who had, if nothing else, been born with the correct expectations. He’d been set on Nesta Archeron before Lucien went and mucked the whole thing up with the middle sister. Who knew Elain was her father’s favorite and he’d take it personally if a foreign born princess undressed his precious daughter?

Lucien had sworn he’d done nothing inappropriate but what was done was done. Lucien was getting a second born princess but nothing more—there would be no exchange of territory and a very loose agreement that constituted an alliance.

And Eris was getting some rural, minor lords daughter that someone hated enough to want dead. Find out who it was, it could have been anyone. The arrangement was not popular at court and Eris considered it could be any number of lords who felt their daughters had been snubbed for Arina.

Would his father execute one of his favored courtiers? All for one woman they’d made a bad deal with? Her father must be delighted, Eris thought, to realize what had once been a decent marriage would now elevate him into the father-in-law to a king. He’d be given titles and wealth far beyond what he currently already possessed.

Eris felt his feelings harden toward Arina again.

He found his mother in her private apartment, wringing her hands with tear stained cheeks. “Oh, Eris,” she breathed, wrongly assuming he must be upset over what he witnessed. Eris opened his arms to her all the same, pulling his crying mother against his chest. She cared, which made her far better than him in every measure that mattered. Too good for the Vanserra’s in general, though no one would dare say so.

“Is she alright?”

“I assume so,” Eris replied, earning himself a swat. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt nor was it malicious. His mother looked up at him with disappointment as Eris walled himself up to keep himself from internalizing her words.

“You haven’t gone to check?”

“I met her this afternoon and it didn’t go well,” he replied, following his mother to a little two seater couch facing the fireplace. “I think I can wait until tomorrow to offer my sympathies.”

“She seems like a nice girl,” his mother sniffed, dabbing her eyes on a handkerchief Eris had produced from his jacket pocket.

Nice wasn’t how he’d describe Arina. He had the sense she was more than the doe-eyed thing he’d witnessed at dinner, if her little snappish comments were anything to go on.

“Did you know father would have to subsidize her fathers territory if she didn’t marry into our family?” Eris asked, already knowing the answer. Of course she didn’t—Beron didn’t tell his wife anything.

“I know you’re upset about losing Nesta,” his mother began, misunderstanding what bothered Eris so much. Everyone kept assuming it was a love match between them rather than a practical understanding of the power they might wield together. Nesta had understood it, had even agreed right up until Lucien was caught with Elain. “But would it be so terrible to readjust your expectations, Eris?”

Yes, it would be. Without Nesta, Eris was still trapped under his fathers thumb and now responsible with keeping Arina from becoming trapped as well. There would be no money, no army, no powerful woman with a kingdom of her own to stand behind him should he fail. Just another powerless girl shoved at him and unlike the last one, Eris couldn’t send her back.

“Your projecting,” Eris replied. “You are nothing like her.”

“I remember how I felt when I was brought here. My own father was pretty quick to leave just as soon as our marriage license dried and I was on my own. You know how…busy…your father is. You could try to make her feel welcome.”

“You managed just fine,” Eris said, though as the words left his mouth he felt instant regret. His father was brutally cruel to his mother when the mood struck him, swinging between open devotion and clandestine violence seemingly on a whim. His mother had managed in spite of his father and he knew he’d just inadvertently told his mother none of it was a big deal. “I’ll talk to her.”

It was a compromise to wipe the look of hurt from his mothers face. She was the only woman Eris had ever loved and as far as he was concerned, the only woman he’d ever love. He wasn’t interested in caring for someone the way his father cared about his mother. It made him obsessive, controlling, and at times, violent. Eris didn’t want to lose himself that way and was terrified that it was in his nature to love someone that way. Not that he’d ever admit it—but it was useful information to know about himself.

Eris didn’t visit Arina until the next morning, busying himself at night with his favorite distraction: too much whiskey and Lady [whoever]. He wasn’t married yet, and Eris had never promised Arina anything, least of all his fidelity. Eris found her sitting in a window, knees hidden beneath a pale yellow dress.

Eris had seen a lot of women in his life. More women than most men if he was being honest with himself. Since he’d come of age, women had thrown themselves at him and he’d allowed it, delighting in the attention and the ease with which he could get someone into his bed. And in the course of his dallying, he’d seen countless noble women with their hair unbound.

And yet something happened when Arina turned her wan face to look at him. Her hair was long and thick, draped nearly to her waist as it fell in soft, brushed out waves. He might not have given it a second thought had she not turned her head just in that moment, allowing a rather bright beam of light illuminate the golden strands and warm her otherwise wan face.

Gods, but Arina was the most beautiful woman currently at court. Maybe in the world—Eris couldn’t remember seeing anyone more lovely even when they were as sad as she currently was. Eris found himself at a loss for words which Arina chose to interpret as mocking.

“Do you need something, prince?”

“I…”

She turned her head away from him, rolling her eyes as she did. That was enough to remind Eris that she was merely a woman and not one he particularly cared about. Sexual attraction would help, if nothing else. “You’re well?” he asked, grateful to hear the sneer had returned to his words.

“No thanks to you.”

Eris pushed off the door frame he’d been leaned again, stepping into the airy, soft room she’d been given. It was fit for a princess and he wondered how it compared to her rooms back home. He’d heard stories that the estate was dilapidated, its staffing sparse. What it had was a good defensive position given its rocky landscape and the river that choked off other invasion points, forcing any army coming over land to take one specific path forward which made it easily picked off.

Or, so his father said. Eris had never seen it, had never had any desire to. He’d been offered, but back then Arina was Lucien’s fiance and Eris had opted not to join in favor of remaining at home. What a waste given his current circumstances. Eris would have liked to have known exactly how to lord his wealth and power over his new wife, if only to keep her from snapping at him.

“Did you imagine me a physician?” Eris asked with some amusement.

“I imagined you as someone with manners,” Arina shot back, drawing her knees closer to her chest. “Not the sort of coward who would delight in watching his betrothed die before his very eyes.”

“What did you say?” he asked, more taken aback than angry. No one had ever spoken to him that way.

She didn’t even look at him. “I said you’re a coward and you were hoping I’d die. And I didn’t say this next part, but I don’t want to be married to you, either. I’ve heard stories about you.”

Eris’s heart thudded in his chest. “What kind of stories?”

“How you left a woman to die in your forest rather than marry her. That you’re capable of that kind of cruelty.”

Ah, Morrigan. How he’d never live that accusation down. Eris hadn’t bothered to try and had no intention of explaining the circumstances to Arina given what she was covertly accusing him of. She thought he’d tried to kill her?

Eris wanted to put that accusation to rest. “If I wanted you dead, princess, you’d be dead.”

He watched her press her lips together, saw how those mossy green eyes hardened with hatred. His mother was going to kill him the moment she got Arina alone and learned about this.

“Then you should know if I wanted you dead, you would be dead.”

She shrugged her slim shoulders. “It sounds to me like you aren’t particularly skilled in that arena.”

“Are you daring me?” Eris asked incredulously.

“Merely making an observation,” she replied, turning to look at him again. Eris found he preferred when she didn’t given how beautiful her face was and how stupid it made him. If she’d just pull her hair up, Eris could treat her like every other entitled noblewoman—just like he had yesterday.

Though, had he really looked at her? Eris had been drunk for most of the day. Maybe he simply hadn’t noticed what was now staring back at him. His wife was beautiful and the part of him that coveted such things liked that.

Not wife. Almost wife.

“I came to see how you were doing,” Eris snapped, irritated with her and himself.

“Your father came last night,” Arina replied, some of the spark leaving her eyes.

“My father?” he asked, eyes scanning her form quickly.

“To offer a sincere apology for the attack,” she said, hands twisting nervously in her lap. “And assure me you’d get to the bottom of it.”

“And I will,” Eris lied. For all he knew she’d merely had an allergic reaction to some new ingredient or the poison had been meant for him and not her. Eris very much doubted someone would be foolish enough to try again.

“Yet here you are,” she dismissed, turning back to the window. Eris curled his fingers into fists to resist the urge to throttle her into obedience. His father had assured him Arina was the model of female piety, not the sharp-tongued creature he was currently looking at.

“People clamor for my company at court, you know,” Eris said, unsure why he was bothering.

She smothered a smile. “Go bother them, then.”

“Maybe I will,” he bit back, annoyed.

“Good.”

“Fine.”

Arina merely waved him off, leaving Eris outraged as he stomped out of her room. He had half a mind to go complain to her father, if only to bring Arina into line. And then what, he wondered? Would she like him more or would it make her hate him more than she already did? Eris considered if he cared for just a moment.

And decided that he did care.

And he’d take her as she was.

#eris vanserra #the smut doesnt happen until chapter 4 #i am showing so much restraint

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