While I am an avid supporter of the LGBTQ+ community, (I'm bisexual myself so duh) I really don't know how to write male readers or gay smut so I'm sorry about that in advance. I'll do any except AUs. That's pretty much it.
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(The tale of a woeful God is still retold in the shades of the great tree of wisdom, yet the wayfaring figure smiles at the face of impermanence. [Eventual Smut in later chapters])
Prologue
The streets of Sumeru City had always been dreadfully hot in summer, the kind of oppressive, clinging heat that seemed to seep into one's very bones. After all, some say Sumerian summers in the rainforest are far worse than even the nation of Pyro; at least there the heat was dry, scorching but honest, without the suffocating humidity that turned the air itself into a thick, breathable soup. Not that it mattered to a certain puppet. There were certain blessings to being born without certain human weaknesses, no sweat beading at the temples, no parched throat crying out for water, no exhaustion weighing down limbs that never truly tired.
There wasn't much that was good about Sumerian summers. The relentless heat never managed to stop the bustle of the city; if anything, it seemed to make the crowds more irritable, the merchants more desperate, the scholars more sluggish in their endless debates beneath the Akademiya's grand arches. But there was one saving grace, one small mercy that made the oppressive season almost bearable: the flower shop would most certainly have the freshest kalpalata lotuses. Their delicate petals would be at their peak, luminescent and perfect, untouched by the wilting fingers of the heat that claimed so many lesser blooms. For someone who could walk through the inferno without discomfort, such small pleasures became all the more precious.
Today that was the goal after all, buying a bunch of flowers that would inevitably wilt within a day, their vibrant colors fading to brown, their petals curling inward in defeat. Y/N had always liked such unnecessary things, finding beauty in their very impermanence. Humans are odd after all, clinging to things that are fleeting, treasuring them precisely because they won't last. But who was he to judge, given he was spending his hard-earned mora to buy said flowers for a human nonetheless? That would make him a hypocrite, and he'd had quite enough hypocrisy in his existence already.
Either way, the destination was Avidya Forest. Yes, he lived in Sumeru City, the commute to the Akademiya was considerably easier that way, since he now taught at the Vahumana darshan. He lectured on the failings of the political landscape of Inazuma, dissecting centuries of policy and cultural stagnation with the particular venom that only someone who had lived through it could muster. Really, who knew that instead of achieving Godhood, he would end up legally committing blasphemy against the Electro Archon, as in his not-so-dear mother? The irony wasn't lost on him. Though he must admit, he was made for this role. Perhaps the deep-seated hatred towards Inazuma in general helped fuel his lectures with an authenticity that the scholars found captivating. After all, he had been essentially abandoned by their archon, cast aside like a failed prototype. What better credentials could one have for teaching about systematic failure?
But Y/N had insisted on staying in Avidya Forest, stubbornly refusing the convenience of the city. Far enough that it would make him put in the effort to visit, yet not so far that he couldn't, or wouldn't, visit every day. She did like testing him in these odd ways, these little experiments in devotion that never failed to both irritate and intrigue him. After all these years, he had grown used to it, and truth be told, he wouldn't have her any other way. This was what he fell in love with, this stubbornness, this quiet defiance, this insistence on carving out her own space in the world. This was what he married, what he had chosen when he made vows he'd never imagined himself capable of making. This was what he signed up for, so now she gets her flowers, delivered daily without fail, and he gets to have some peace and quiet in the middle of Avidya Forest, away from the suffocating bustle of the city and his godforsaken students who question far too much and yet somehow have the writing ability of a teaspoon.
The forest route had become ritual by now, his feet knew every root, every turn in the path. Sometimes he wondered if he'd worn a groove into the earth itself with his daily pilgrimage. Avidya Forest was certainly the type of place Y/N had always loved. It had trees, ancient ones with sprawling canopies that filtered the harsh sunlight into dancing patterns of gold and green. It had plants of every variety, creeping vines and luminescent mushrooms and ferns that unfurled like secrets being told. And far too many flowers, blooming in wild profusion, as if nature itself was showing off.Â
Y/N had always loved flowers after all. She knew their names, their meanings, the precise conditions each one needed to thrive. She would spend hours simply sitting among them, and heâhe would spend hours simply watching her, marveling at how someone could find such joy in things so temporary.
[Record Log 2156
I have completed our experiment, my love. I have created a God. Yet, the conclusion proves that Gods are not invulnerable. Hence I shall become more, so that the world would never forget you. For you, I shall be the perfect being.
(The fanfic will be in different timelines, from Dottore's POV in the present/closer to present and Zandik's POV in the past, before he became a harbinger)(Eventual Smut on later chapters)]
Chapter 1: Prologue
Record Log 2460 (Fatui Recording Device)
This is Prime, conducting record log 2460. The other segments have been pestering me about starting some sort of memoir project. Apparently, being back in Sumeru has made them all sentimental, which is fascinating, really, considering they're artificial constructs. Still, I suppose it's not entirely without merit. It's been nearly 500 years since I last set foot on this soil, and with my current research into creating a God, perhaps revisiting my origins might actually prove useful for once.
The old recordings should help, though I'll admit I've been rather negligent about maintaining these logs over the past few centuries. A shame, really. I probably shouldn't have delegated such tasks to the segments in the first place, my younger selves have always been disappointingly unreliable in these matters. Though I suppose that's what I get for expecting competence from... well, myself.
[Sound of papers rustling]
Where to begin, then?
The Akademiya had proved to be far less exciting than Zandik had anticipated, a revelation that tasted about as bitter as week-old coffee and twice as disappointing. Just a few months prior, he had been that bright-eyed student from some forgotten corner of Sumeru, practically vibrating with excitement as he stepped onto the pristine marble grounds of the prestigious institution. Finally, finally, he would become a scholar worthy of the name in this so-called land of wisdom. The Akademiya values knowledge above all else, they proclaimed. The pursuit of understanding was the greatest virtue a Sumerian could possess, they declared with such conviction that even the statues seemed to nod in agreement. And yet...
Here he sat, nursing his fifth consecutive project rejection, each one stamped with increasingly creative variations of "too ambitious" and "perhaps a touch too willing to, ah, bend certain established protocols," as one particularly nervous professor had delicately put it while avoiding eye contact. No project partner in sight, naturally, since apparently being intellectually curious had somehow branded him a social pariah. Who knew that suggesting they dissect a few Ruin Guards to understand their inner workings would be considered "alarming" and "a cause for concern"?
Needless to say, his illustrious academic career was proceeding about as smoothly as a Hilichurl attempting poetry recitation. Yes, this would certainly be a prime time to start a memoir, if Zandik ever felt inclined toward such frivolous pursuits. Though really, his life before the Akademiya had been rather... inconsequential. Tragically so, one might say. Picture this: a self-proclaimed genius born in some forgettable village, surrounded by people whose intellectual capabilities could generously be compared to particularly dim Slimes. Anyone with half a brain could guess how that charming tale unfolded. There wasn't much worth documenting about those early years, and he certainly wasn't one to waste precious time wallowing in childhood sentimentalities, especially when said childhood possessed all the fascination of watching paint dry on a Dendro Slime.
The village elders, bless their superstitious little hearts, had taken one look at the red-eyed infant whose very birth had claimed his mother's life and declared him a walking omen of misfortune. His own father, in a stroke of either brutal honesty or cosmic irony, had christened him with a name that literally meant heretic. Because apparently, even as a newborn, Zandik had been destined for a life of breaking rules and making people uncomfortable. Such was the way of backward villages, see something different, immediately assume it's cursed. The child with the bottomless pit of curiosity and eyes like garnets? Obviously trouble. How wonderfully predictable.
Anyway, circling back to his original predicament regarding that blasted research project, something that seems laughably trivial now after five centuries of what could generously be called a "particularly extensive" scientific career, back then, Zandik had been grappling with that most dreaded specter haunting every Akademiya student: expulsion. The threat was delightfully straightforward, really. Fail to submit a research project on time? Out you go, don't let the door hit you on your way back to whatever intellectual wasteland you crawled out of. The Akademiya, it seemed, was just as selective about which students it kept as it was about which knowledge it deemed "appropriate" to teach. Charming institution, truly.
Now, one might reasonably ask, if academic anxiety was such a universal experience among Akademiya students, why begin this memoir at such an unremarkable moment? Why not start with something more... dramatic? More befitting a future Harbinger? Well, the answer is simple: this particular day of academic dread happened to be when Zandik encountered someone who would fundamentally alter the trajectory of his existence. Someone who managed to solidify his obsession with knowledge to such an absurd degree that he's spent the last five centuries pursuing it with religious fervor, and is now, apparently, recording this ridiculous tale because his segments reached some sort of democratic consensus that this story needed telling. Democracy among artificial constructs of oneself. Truly, his life had taken some unexpected turns.
That individual in question was Y/N. How does one even begin to speak about her? Well, perhaps introductions are the logical starting point, though calling it an "introduction" feels woefully inadequate, like trying to describe a thunderstorm as "a bit of weather." She was quite the personality, after all. No, scratch that, calling Y/N "quite a personality" is the sort of criminal understatement that should be punishable by academic probation. Y/N was... how to put this without sounding like a complete fool? She was the reason Zandik truly fell in love with knowledge itself. Not just the pursuit of it, not just the acquisition or application, but the pure, unadulterated joy of learning. She embodied everything beautiful about the act of discovery, everything wonderful about that moment when understanding clicks into place like the final piece of an impossibly complex puzzle.
This is something all the segments would unanimously agree upon, naturally, a rare occurrence of consensus among his various selves. And yet, even their collective agreement feels insufficient to capture what she truly was. Perhaps she deserves her own memoir entirely. Though knowing her, she'd probably laugh herself breathless at the very notion, wave it off as "unnecessary dramatics," and suggest he focus on something more "practical." So her story will have to live within his own, woven through every moment she touched, which, admittedly, turned out to be far more moments than either of them initially anticipated.
Y/N was one of his classmates, though "classmate" felt like an inadequate term for someone who had managed to make herself a household name among the student body within mere weeks of arrival. Nearly everyone knew her, and for good reason: she had this absolutely maddening tendency to hijack half the lecture time with questions that were approximately three academic levels above what they were supposed to be learning. During the first week, Zandik had found her insufferably irritating. She would casually pull concepts from Rtawahist or Amurta to explain engineering principles in Kshahrewar, as if the darshans were merely suggestions rather than carefully established academic boundaries. It was unconventional, borderline heretical, and it challenged his rather... structured views on how proper engineering should be approached. The audacity of it all had made his eye twitch on more than one occasion.
However, after spending the last few months practically living in the House of Daena like some sort of academic hermit, desperately searching for research inspiration, her questions had begun to sound less like academic showing-off and more like... well, genuinely interesting inquiries. Not that it particularly mattered to him, of course. That was the extent of his knowledge about Y/N up to this point: the overconfident girl who asked fascinating questions and somehow made professors simultaneously excited and terrified. A stark contrast to Zandik, who much preferred lurking quietly in the sidelines, observing and plotting his own academic machinations in peace. Or so he told himself.
Y/N, unlike him, was remarkably popular among their classmates, though "popular" might be stretching it. It wasn't that they particularly liked her know-it-all tendencies or her habit of correcting professors mid-lecture. Rather, she was simply the type of person who made herself impossible to ignore, striking up conversations about class materials and beyond with anyone within a five-meter radius. She had this peculiar talent for making herself known, whether people wanted to know her or not. By this point, Zandik had overheard no fewer than a dozen rumors about her exploits, including the rather outlandish claim that she'd secured her Akademiya scholarship by somehow activating the massive Ruin Guard at Aradavi Valley, using it to construct a bridge across the ravine, then calmly deactivating it again, all during the annual scholarship competition. (This turned out to be completely true, as he would later discover, because of course it was.)
So naturally, the absolute last thing he expected was to discover that someone as socially connected as Y/N would also be lacking a research partner. How did he stumble upon this revelation? Well, she approached him that very day as he sat wallowing in the aftermath of his fifth consecutive project rejection, strode up to his corner table in the House of Daena like she'd known him for decades, and casually asked, "So, want to be research partners?" Just like that. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Honestly, looking back on it five centuries later, the sheer casualness of that moment seems almost absurd, considering how thoroughly she was about to upend his entire existence. But then again, with Y/N, such understated world-shifting was simply par for the course. Perhaps it's rather anticlimactic, this humble beginning. One might even feel disappointed by the complete lack of dramatic flair, no thunderclaps, no prophetic visions, no cosmic signs pointing toward a partnership that would span half a millennium. But this is, at the end of the day, a memoir, not some overwrought romance novel. Reality, as it turns out, has a frustrating tendency toward mundane origins.
Most things in life begin this way, really. Even the grandest of experiments typically start with the most unremarkable hypothesis scrawled on a piece of parchment. That is, regrettably, simply how the world works, the extraordinary emerging from the utterly ordinary, like a Nilotpala Lotus blooming in a forgotten pond. Fortunately, that casual beginning was the only bland element of this particular story. Everything that followed... well, both life and proper experimentation derive their true value not from flashy conclusions, but from the sheer enjoyment found in the process of discovery itself. And oh, what a process it would turn out to be.
Right, perhaps one should abandon the philosophical meandering and return to the actual events at hand. Zandik had, quite naturally, stared at Y/N with the expression of someone who'd just witnessed a Hilichurl recite poetry when she casually asked if he'd like a project partner, as if they'd been lifelong companions rather than virtual strangers who'd shared nothing more than classroom air. "What?" he managed eloquently.
"Project partners," she repeated with the patience of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow Fungi. "Oh, do you already have someone? I do apologize, I heard through the grapevine that you were flying solo, so I wondered if you'd like to tackle something together. My third project proposal just got spectacularly rejected, and Professor Kazemi suggested I should 'probably collaborate with someone who might temper my more... ambitious tendencies.'" She offered a sheepish smile that somehow managed to be both apologetic and entirely unapologetic at the same time. "Sorry for making assumptions..."
Zandik continued staring, his brain desperately trying to process why in the name of all Seven Archons she was acting as though approaching a complete stranger and proposing academic collaboration was as normal as commenting on the weather. Did she perhaps mistake him for someone else? Had she suffered some sort of head injury? Was this some elaborate prank orchestrated by his classmates? The mystery deepened by the second.
"Are you... absolutely certain you're speaking to the right person?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Perhaps she'd been collaborating with someone through the Akasha terminal who happened to share a similar name? Maybe she'd mistaken him for this hypothetical person she'd never actually met face-to-face? It wouldn't be the first time the Akasha had caused such confusion. The midterm project was serious business, after all. One didn't simply waltz up to a random classmate and propose partnership, especially not the antisocial corner-dweller with a perfect record of five consecutive project rejections.
"You're Zandik, right?" she asked, tilting her head with genuine curiosity. "The one who wrote that essay about chaos core dissection for the entrance exams? The theoretical paper that got published because it was supposedly one of the most innovative submissions this year?" She was definitely not mistaken. More importantly, and far more bewildering, she had apparently read his work. That did explain her approach somewhat, though it didn't make the situation any less mortifying. The uncomfortable truth was that Zandik was, at the end of the day, a socially awkward nineteen-year-old who had precisely zero experience conversing with women his own age.
(If Zeta happens to be reading this particular log, any retaliation attempts are utterly futile. Truth cannot be denied through the petty act of hurling important research papers into waste receptacles. This humiliating reality should have been anticipated when the consensus for creating this memoir was established. Consider it a learning experience.)
Unfortunately, all memories regarding Y/N remain as crystalline as pristine lake water in each segment's consciousness, such is the particular curse of possessing photographic memory. This includes the rather mortifying recollection of Zandik staring at her like a deer caught in Electro Hypostasis lightning while his brain frantically scrambled for an appropriate response. What he eventually managed to produce was: "I see, so... how can I help you?"
As if she hadn't literally just explained her intentions not thirty seconds prior. Like someone who had suddenly lost all cognitive function. Y/N, who would prove to be perhaps the only person he'd continue to genuinely respect five centuries later, largely due to her remarkably underwhelming capacity for patience with social disasters, simply repeated herself without so much as a hint of exasperation. As if he weren't being completely dense.
"Oh, I was wondering if we could work together on the project," she said with the same pleasant tone one might use to discuss the weather. "You clearly know what you're talking about based on that chaos core paper, and I've been considering incorporating chaos core research into this project. I figured I could use some better theoretical perspective."
Perhaps he should have thanked her then and there for displaying such extraordinary understanding toward his spectacular social incompetence. He didn't, naturally. Because apparently, being brilliant in theoretical applications doesn't automatically grant one basic conversational skills. Thankfully, that particular social deficiency had been remedied over time, thanks largely to Y/N's seemingly infinite patience with his conversational disasters and, later, the rather brutal crash course in diplomacy that came with joining the Fatui. He certainly owed Y/N a considerable debt of gratitude for her role in his development, though he'd be damned if he'd thank the Fatui for anything beyond providing him with unlimited research funding and conveniently fewer ethical committees breathing down his neck. But that was neither here nor there.
At the moment, faced with what appeared to be his inevitable academic doom, given his impressive streak of project rejections, Zandik found himself considering the practical benefits of her proposal. Perhaps convincing the notoriously picky professors to approve a project might prove significantly easier with two minds instead of one. Y/N was undoubtedly more skilled at the whole "talking to people without making them uncomfortable" aspect of academia, a talent he clearly lacked in spectacular fashion.
From a purely logical standpoint, this collaboration could only yield positive results. She had the social competence, he had the theoretical foundation, and together they might actually produce something the Akademiya wouldn't immediately toss into the academic equivalent of a trash bin. It was, he reasoned, a mutually beneficial arrangement. Nothing more, nothing less. How naive that assumption would prove to be.
Now that one reflects upon it, Zandik did manage to enjoy what could generously be called a normal youth, as normal as youth tends to be for those destined for greatness, anyway. Though that particular privilege was granted solely through Y/N's influence, much like most meaningful developments in Zandik's existence. Truth be told, despite all the monumental achievements accumulated over the past five centuries, the groundbreaking discoveries, the vast repositories of forbidden knowledge, the countless experiments that pushed the very boundaries of possibility, those days at the Akademiya still evoke a peculiar sense of nostalgia. Some segments might even grudgingly admit that those months of academic collaboration represented some of the happiest periods in their collective existence. Which sounds absolutely ridiculous when stated so plainly.
Come to think of it, this memoir appears to be transforming into more of a testament to Y/N than any proper documentation of his own journey. Though perhaps that's inevitable, she always did have this insufferable tendency to steal the spotlight, even when she wasn't actively trying to do so. Even now, five centuries later, attempting to chronicle his own story inevitably circles back to her influence, her presence, her remarkable ability to make everything more... significant. Some things, it seems, never change, no matter how many iterations of oneself exist to observe the phenomenon.
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("How I met your mother, you ask? Well, son, have you ever heard of the term 'Ponzi Scheme'? Ah ofcourse, you are only 8... Forgive me. A Ponzi Scheme is-"
[Trigger Warning: This fanfic will have some very triggering content, including past child abuse and sexual abuse on a minor. I do not condone such things, and I am writing those from my own experience with these things. I found that writing about trauma has been a good way for me to process things, and while I write these fanfics for them to be enjoyed by readers, I also write them because this is therapeutic for me. I will note down the chapters where this will be discussed and please feel free to skip those parts if it triggers you. As for anyone reading this who had similar experiences, I hope you are safe, and I hope the perpetrator has gotten the necessary punishment.])
Prologue
A cerulean dossier lay sprawled atop an ever-growing mountain of parchment and scrolls, its open pages exposed to the frigid, almost caustic chill lingering perpetually within the opulence of the Regrator's office. Y/N L/N. Age: 25. No formal affiliations. A modest criminal record marred only by petty frauds and minor solicitationsâon paper, a trifling offender; insignificant, forgettable, laughable even. Certainly not someone whose name should be etched onto parchment of such importance, nestled between files of Harbinger-level interest upon Pantaloneâs meticulously curated desk. And yet, inexplicably, here it was. Gloved fingers, elegant and ruthless in equal measure, drummed a steady rhythm against polished ebony woodâa deceptively innocuous gesture, yet for the trembling assistant standing silent nearby, it was akin to the relentless toll of a funeral bell. The Regrator's expression remained as impeccably serene as always; that porcelain smile affixed to his lips betrayed nothing, yet concealed everything beneath its careful, artful facade. But the air around him betrayed the hidden tempest brewing withinâbitterly cold, sharp, and heavy, like the first biting gust heralding a fierce Snezhnayan blizzard. The assistant dared not breathe a word.
This past week had plunged the hallowed halls of the Northland Bank into unprecedented chaos. A singular Ponzi scheme had unraveled, thread by thread, the intricate tapestry of economic influence that Pantalone himself had painstakingly woven deep into the marrow of Snezhnaya's prosperity. The scandal had spread like wildfire, burning unchecked through the veins of commerce, infecting trust and confidence with doubtâand most insidiously, corroding the pristine sheen of the Regrator's hard-earned reputation. And the greatest insult of all? He had personally invested in it. Twenty million moraâvanished. Swindled by an operation whose crude, amateurish methods should never have breached even the remotest outskirts of his notice, much less the sanctity of his own personal accounts. It was humiliating. Worse yetâit was deeply, unforgivably personal.
âSir, we found her,â the assistant stammered, voice trembling just above a whisper. âSheâs been seated in interrogation for the past hour. She... she hasnât uttered a single word.â
Pantaloneâs fingers halted mid-rhythm, hovering ominously above lacquered ebony. For a fleeting moment, silence reignedâcold, oppressive silence, dense as the perpetual snows blanketing the outskirts of Zapolyarny Palace. He did not look up at first. But when he did, the glint behind his spectacles sharpened to something glacial, merciless as the frost-rimed shores of the Pale Lake.
âNot a word?â His voice was silken, each syllable polished and poised, yet beneath their velvet softness lurked a venomous undercurrent. âI was under the distinct impression that the Fatui boasted Teyvatâs most formidable military divisionâfeared in every throne room, whispered of in every shadowed alleyway.â His lips curled upward into a smile that carried equal measures of grace and biting derision. âAnd yet you fail to extract even a single syllable from a trivial street swindler? How remarkably disappointing.â
His words cleaved through the air like a razor through silk, leaving a heavy, lingering silence in their wake. Beneath that immaculate façade, irritation simmered, far deeper and colder than any of his subordinates could possibly fathom. Truthfully, he had expectedâperhaps even secretly hopedâfor something more substantial. This womanâs little scheme, intentionally or not, had torn apart foundations so painstakingly constructed, rivaling even the very machination that had catapulted him from anonymity into notoriety. That scheme⌠just how long ago had it been? Fifteen years, perhaps. Yet the memories remained starkly vivid. Barely twenty years old then, a nameless con artist driven by ambitions that stretched far beyond the reach of his meager station. His plot had been audacious, almost recklessâsiphoning billions of mora from the coffers of Snezhnayaâs elite, unraveling the fabric of national prosperity in a catastrophic cascade of ruin. Yet from those smoldering ruins had sprung opportunity. Dottore had found him in the ashes, perceiving the brilliance beneath the ruthless chaos, and extended a handâneither punitive nor vengeful, but curiously benevolent. Recruitment, not retribution. His words still echoed clearly across the chasm of years:
"Rebuild it," the Doctor had urged, lips curled into a wicked smile. "Stronger. Smarter. Colder."
And so Pantalone had done precisely that. Now, standing once more amidst ruinâonly this time, his own ruinâwith another schemer seated silently in the starkness of his interrogation chamber, irony clung bitterly to his tongue. History, it appeared, bore a perverse sense of humor. To deceive himâto turn the very scheme that had once forged the foundation of his empire back upon its masterâwas an act of audacity so brazen, so utterly inconceivable, that he had anticipated someone far more substantial. A cunning rival, perhaps, draped in velvet and sharpened by venom; a mastermind worthy of the ruin wrought. Not the unassuming, nameless swindler whose humble existence was scrawled dismissively across a file.
HeâPantaloneâhad once lived within shadows, a creature borne of swift ambitions and quicker deceptions. A life woven meticulously from lies, manipulation, and a tireless pursuit of moraânever mind how stained with sin each coin might be. His schemes had been legion, their count lost amid the smoke-filled alleys and whispered backrooms of Snezhnayaâs underbelly. Tea houses that concealed illicit parlors beneath fragile porcelain smiles; gambling dens glittering falsely beneath lantern lights, each roll of the dice another hollow promise; rare narcotics passing discreetly through hands manicured in secrets, drifting among the nobility like whispered sins. If a vice offered profit, he had seized upon it. Mora had never asked for purity; it demanded only cunning.
But that was another lifetime. Now wealth arrived draped in tailored suits, spoken through silver-tongued contracts and portfolios swollen thick with interest, monopolies masked cunningly as national necessities. The filth and grime of his past had long since been washed away, replaced by the pristine sheen of calculated power. Legitimacy was no longer an obstacleânow, it was his personal signature, his brand, cultivated patiently like a rare vintage aging deep within the frost-rimed cellars of statecraft. Gone was the gutter-born hustler, clawing desperately at coins just beyond reach. Now, he was the Regratorâthe Merchant Prince of Snezhnaya itself. The economy did not merely tolerate him; it yielded obediently beneath his gloved fingertips. And yet, despite all this⌠he had been deceived. Swindled, humiliatedâlike some witless aristocrat with more vanity than sense.
The steel sector had once been his crowning jewelâan intricate masterpiece crafted by patient hands, a subtle yet ambitious venture. A meticulous campaign engineered to wean Snezhnaya from its dependence on foreign arms, transforming it slowly, inexorably, into a self-sustaining titan. Indigenous weapon manufacturing: discreet, efficient, and destined one day to rival even Fontaineâs renowned mechanical ingenuity. Years of strategic investment, whispered manipulation, and precisely applied political leverage had shaped this initiative from mere aspiration into reality. To the world, it was little more than a humble industrial enterprise; to the Fatui, it was the lifeblood of their future war machine. And thenâyou appeared.
Your enterprise had slipped into the market quietly, elegantly, like the lengthening shadows at twilight. Modest. Unassuming. A ripple so subtle he might never have noticed had it not grown too large to ignore. Your share prices were convincing, your business model meticulously conservative. Even your backers appeared genuinely mundane, their names blending effortlessly into the monotonous murmur of bureaucratic paperwork. You had mirrored the structure of Fatui-backed firms so preciselyâborrowing just enough familiarity to conceal deception beneath layers of authenticity. Every seal. Every ledger. Every signature. Flawless. Then, suddenly, the paper trail simply vanishedânot in flames or dramatic ruin, but gently, quietly, like snow dissolving silently into frost-hardened earth. Poetic, almost beautiful in its subtlety.
Indeed, you might never have been discovered at all. It was not carelessness, but cruel chanceâsome twisted cosmic jest of bureaucratic absurdityâthat exposed you. Someone on his team, gifted (or perhaps cursed) with an aggravatingly sharp memory, remembered a mediocre detailâa handwriting peculiarity hidden deep within files that should not have existed. Curiosity became suspicion, suspicion became investigation, and soon the entire charade unraveled. They traced the forged signature back to a lowly clerk who had lost a folder weeks priorâtoo terrified of punishment to report the error. From there, the threads were painstakingly unraveled. Ledger after ledger. Stamp by stamp. Rabbit hole after exhausting rabbit hole, until all roads converged inevitably upon you. And now, even as you sat within his interrogation chamber, expression unreadable, your silence impenetrable, as though none of this truly matteredâas though he did not matterâPantalone found himself trapped between emotions he rarely indulged: FuryâŚand fascination.
âWell, she was not completely silentâŚâ the assistant murmured hesitantly, voice faltering as though the words themselves might invoke punishment. âBut her answers are far too⌠unbelievable, my lord.â
Pantalone exhaled slowly, elegantly, the sigh escaping from between parted lips with an understated disappointment rather than outright anger. Of course. Either his subordinates lacked the necessary imagination to discern a cleverly veiled lie, orâfar worseâthey were being expertly played, led around like children by an entertainer's strings. Judging from appearances, it was almost certainly the latter. With calculated grace, he pushed his chair back, its polished wood scraping softly against pristine marble. Rising fluidly to his feet, each movement precise and purposeful, he adjusted the immaculate cuffs of his coat, fingertips gliding smoothly along silk and velvet.
âCancel everything for the next two hours,â he commanded quietly, voice carrying a smooth authority underscored by a subtle note of exasperation. âIt appears Iâll have to handle this personally.â
His tone remained deceptively composed, yet beneath lay the unmistakable thrum of irritationâcold, measured, a frostbite rather than flame. Time was perhaps the only currency Pantalone could not summon at will, and this enigmatic woman had already extracted from him far more than mere mora. Still⌠if the complexity of her plot matched even a fraction of his suspicionsâif she had truly danced perilously close to his crown jewel and emerged unscathedâthen perhaps, indeed, his time would be wisely spent. Drawing in one last measured breathâhalf irritation, half intrigued curiosityâhe stepped decisively toward the interrogation wing. The quiet precision of his footfalls echoed silently, each step whispering a promise far more chilling and dangerous than raised voices or open threats ever could.
Snezhnayan prisons possessed a reputationâand it was far from enviable. Dreary, decrepit, suffused with a cold that clung stubbornly to the marrow rather than merely chilling the skin. The stench of mildew and stale, stagnant air permeated every surface, sinking deeply into stone and steel alikeâa corruption impossible to cleanse or conceal. Pantalone had visited these facilities before; briefly, reluctantly, and always with distaste. They were an unfortunate necessity within the grand machinery of empire, but hardly a component he cared to indulge. Fortunately, todayâs excursion did not demand his descent into the most wretched depths. He would not be forced to pass rust-riddled iron bars nor meet the hollow, haunted gazes of those desperate souls who had nothing left to lose. Instead, his destination was the interrogation wingâa more dignified sector, elevated both literally and figuratively above the true squalor below. Yet even here, âcleanerâ was a generously relative term.
He cast his gaze downward in subtle disdain, eyeing the immaculate shoes adorning his feetâhand-stitched Fontaine leather, custom-made to perfectly match the midnight hues of his tailored coat. Shoes decidedly unsuited for these grim corridors. In truth, this entire prison wing was beneath himâbeneath his rank, beneath his wealth, beneath even the soles of those very shoes. Still, appearances mattered. The upper echelons of the facility had at least made an attempt at respectability. High-ranking officers and visiting dignitaries frequented these corridors often enough to justify the illusion of civility: a superficial coat of fresh paint here, reinforced lighting fixtures there. Minor touches designed only to mask the underlying rot, never to remove it. After all, who truly cared about society's lowest, forgotten remnants? They were not meant to be comfortable. They were not meant to be remembered. Yet here you satâensconced within these forsaken walls, forcing the Fatuiâs esteemed Regrator himself to descend, however slightly, toward your humble station. Pantalone allowed himself a faint smile. The irony, bitter though it might be, was becoming increasingly amusing.
He was no stranger to the awkward, fumbling salutes of officers unprepared for a Harbingerâs presenceâespecially in a place as inconsequential as this. The startled widening of their eyes, the sudden stiffening of posture, that frantic desperation to appear usefulâit was all too predictable. And increasingly irritating. Certainly, Pantalone appreciated respect. Who in his position would not? But respect, like fashion, required a certain finesseâan inherent sense of taste and decorum. Deference was meant to be silent, seamless, elegant; not barked out clumsily, like a frightened schoolboyâs pledge of allegiance. Why these minor functionaries expected acknowledgment from him at all was beyond his comprehension. These miserable creatures, these small, interchangeable cogsâif they possessed any real worth, they would hardly find themselves consigned to prison duty. Still, he smiledâcold, composed, meticulously crafted, though it never reached his eyes. A perfected mask, giving nothing away and offering even less.
Upon reaching the designated door, he paused briefly before pressing it open, only to be met by an unpleasantly sticky resistance against his glove. His eyes narrowed subtly, a flicker of displeasure briefly disturbing his otherwise flawlessly placid countenance. Blood. Dried, yet recent enough to offend. How charming. He immediately made a mental noteâFontaine leather demanded specialized solventsâto send the gloves for thorough cleaning, and another note still: to discover precisely which incompetent fool had neglected something as simple as sanitizing a doorknob prior to a Harbingerâs arrival. Yet another reason to detest places such as this.
As the door clicked softly shut behind him, Pantaloneâs gaze finally settled upon you. Utterly ordinary. You sat there, wrists shackled securely to the metal desk, posture slouchedânot in defiance, but in sheer exhaustion. Your nose had clearly been broken, a crude souvenir bestowed by less sophisticated hands among Fatui interrogators, dried blood still crusting around your nostrils, half-heartedly wiped but never truly cleaned. Your hair hung tangled, wild strands matted together with sweat and blood, a stark contrast to the meticulous order he cultivated around himself. Your expression carried a strange blend of boredom, pain, and faint irritationâas though you were enduring a tedious appointment rather than facing charges of economic treason against the Tsaritsaâs own empire. Then, slowly, you lifted your eyes to meet his, and from your cracked lips came a peculiar soundâa fractured half-laugh, somewhere between bitter amusement and a strangled sob. Absurdity clung to the air like the lingering smoke of extinguished candles. Pantalone blinked once, deliberately. There was no elegance here, no mystique or practiced aura of menaceâjust an ordinary citizen, bruised by state violence, chained and bloodied, yet possessing the tired audacity to appear entirely unimpressed. And perhaps⌠that was precisely the point.
The broken nose had evidently landed as it would on any common soul dragged from the streets. You hadnât been trained to withstand pain, hadn't been hardened for interrogationâyet here you sat, having single-handedly toppled the economic foundations of an entire nation with little more than an easy smile and deftly forged signatures. He exhaled slowly through his nose, almost amused by the stark simplicity of it. Surrounded as he was by Harbingers, agents sculpted by steel, visions, and ruthless discipline, he'd nearly forgotten how ordinary people wore their suffering. Still, he refrained from judgment. After all, his own strength was not forged through battle or brutalityâit had been shaped from numbers, contracts, and the quiet, ruthless manipulation of power. He'd never needed fists or violence when words alone could inflict wounds far deeper and more enduring. To mock you now would be hypocrisy. Instead, he moved forward silently, deliberately, approaching this encounter as though it were merely another business negotiation rather than a long-overdue reckoning.
âCanât believe the Regrator himself came to see me.â Your voice was rough, distorted slightly by swelling, lending your words a faintly comical, nasal qualityâbut the biting sarcasm remained unmistakable. âNow thatâs an achievement and a half.â
Pantalone didnât respond immediately. Instead, he regarded you quietly, his expression unreadable behind thin-rimmed glasses, eyes glinting faintly in the harsh interrogation lights. His hands, still encased in those finely tailored gloves stained with anotherâs dried blood, rested casually upon the back of the empty chair opposite you.
âIf imprisonment in a state cell constitutes an achievement,â he remarked softly, voice smooth and dangerously polite, âthen yes, indeedâyou've accomplished a great deal.â
His words hung in the air, deceptively gentle yet weighted with icy menace. He took his time pulling out the chair and settling gracefully into it, each movement precise, calculated, as deliberate as the stroke of a pen signing a contract. He didn't lean forward; he didn't have to.
âNow,â he continued, voice remaining calm, velvet-edged yet steely beneath, âI hear youâve been feeding my subordinates and interrogators⌠lies.â He smiled slowly thenâa thin, deliberate curve of his lips devoid of warmth, chilling the room further with its subtle cruelty. âIf you possess even a shred of self-preservation, I suggest you speak the truth from this point onward. Waste my time again, and your death will not only be inevitableâit will be excruciatingly slow.â
He paused, allowing the threat to settle like frost upon your skin. âBelieve me. I have my ways.â
That frozen smile remained, a polished veneer thinly disguising the violence simmering beneath. You blinked at him, strangely unfazed. Then, slowly, you shrugged your shouldersâa movement hindered by the cuffs yet utterly defiant in its casual indifference.
âI didnât lie about a thing,â you rasped. Your voice cracked slightly at the endânot out of fear, but simply from damage inflicted by rough handling earlier. Yet the audacity remained undimmed, luminous and compelling in its quiet confidence.
âBut sure,â you added, leaning back in your chair as far as restraints allowed, the chains clinking softly in the oppressive silence. âGo on. Ask your questions.â
It wasnât defiance, exactly; it was quieter, deeper. More dangerous. A calmness he had not anticipatedâand now, whether you knew it or not, you commanded the Regratorâs full, undivided attention.
His subordinates had not been entirely misguided. The tales you spun were, by any rational measure, absurd. Implausible. A narrative so tenuously woven that it bordered on the fantastical. How had you managed such a feat? How had a solitary figure orchestrated such an elaborate scheme right under the vigilant gaze of the Fatuiâunder his watchful eye? He had inquired, of course, in his typically frosty, methodical manner.
âWho are your connections?â he had pressed, expecting to unravel a network of co-conspirators.
Yet, your response was infuriatingly simplistic, "I donât have any. Not ones who knew who they were working with, anyway.â That assertion alone ought to have sounded alarms. Individuals like you did not typically operate solo, not on such a grand scale, not with such surgical precision.
But as he meticulously pieced together the breadcrumb trail leading to your capture, the situation began to coalesce into a grimly coherent picture. His team had not apprehended you through sheer analytical prowess. They had not meticulously traced your financial transactions nor decrypted your coded communications. Rather, they had blundered into your shadow, propelled by a series of fortuitous mishaps. It had started with a thiefâa desperate, petty soul who had pilfered a stack of misplaced documents from the wrong desk at the most inopportune moment. An eagle-eyed analyst under Pantaloneâs employ had remembered a discrepancy in an old ledger, recognized the handwriting, and posed the crucial question. The clerk in question was interrogated, and he revealed the information on the stolen documents, and a thief was found guilty of the crime by investigating the location. Under duress, the thief pointed them toward an underground guild known for fencing such stolen items. From this seedy nexus, another name surfacedâa middleman who had been compensated, to submit requests on behalf of an anonymous client. This intermediary knew nothing substantial, save for the punctuality of his payments and the explicit nature of his instructions.
The connection to you was made only because this middleman had once been observed conversing with you in a dimly lit tavern. A loquacious barkeep, emboldened by drink, had offhandedly mentioned your name. That was the fragile filament that led to your downfall, as your name was, unfortunately, in the fatui's criminal records for petty crimes. It wasnât due to incompetence or negligence on your part. Merely⌠ill fortune. This realization gnawed at Pantalone. You were no novice flailing in the dark, hoping to strike a mark. You were methodical, calculated, designed to be a phantom. Your strategies were so thoroughly insulated, so exquisitely compartmentalized, that even now, as you sat directly before him, he found himself unable to fully discern the true extent of the monstrosity lurking behind your unassuming facade. Pantaloneâs gaze lingered on you a fraction longerâcareful, assessing, dissecting every detail of your battered visage and your unsettlingly calm demeanor. The dismissiveness in your voice, the ease with which you bore your injuries, and that intolerable, casual insolenceâit grated sharply against the meticulously ordered structure of his world.
"If you truly had no connections," he began softly, fingers steepling with deliberate precision, "then explain to me: how exactly did you convince nearly every socialite in Snezhnaya to pour mora into this farce?"
Your lips curled upward into a slow smile, tinted by blood and an unmistakable pride. "I did three things." Leaning forward just slightly, you allowed the interrogation lampâs shadowy glow to carve out the hollows of your bruised cheekbone. "First, I took a part-time job at a laundromat frequented by nobility. Silks, furs, imported velvetsânames youâd recognize instantly, if I said them aloud."
"Second, I picked up a few shifts at a jewelry boutique in the business quarter. Exclusive, discreet. The sort of establishment patronized by wives while their husbands squandered mora over drinks and state contracts."
"And then⌠I borrowed." A spark ignited in your gazeâmischievous, bordering on dangerous. "I borrowed gowns. I borrowed jewels. And I paid a prostitute to infiltrate their extravagant little gatheringsâsome held within noble estates, others nestled comfortably in the very outer wings of Zapolyarny Palace itself."
You paused brieflyânot from hesitation, but for effect. The Regratorâs eyes narrowed fractionally, signaling his silent acknowledgment.
"I taught her the language of investments," you continued, voice calm, steady, meticulously chosen words dripping like honeyed poison. "Just enough to make her convincing. And as for the rest?" You chuckled dryly, wincing slightly from the ache in your broken nose. "A courtesan requires no instruction on stroking a manâs ego. Such talents come naturally."
Pantalone remained silent, expression carefully neutralâyet you could sense the subtle shift in his bearing, the almost imperceptible stillness in his hands. You were intriguing him.
"I wrote her notes," you went on, pressing your advantage calmly. "Detailed. Believable. Multiple investment opportunitiesâsome genuine, others exaggerated. And of course, hidden neatly among them was mine. Lucrative, familiar⌠boring enough to feel utterly safe."
"And the invitations?" Pantalone inquired quietly now, voice measured, tone deceptively gentle.
Your smile widenedâsharp, predatory. "I paid servants in noble households to slip a mild concoction into their masterâs meals. Nothing deadlyâmerely potent enough to confine them briefly to bed. A different estate each time, of course."
"And then?"
"And then," you concluded smoothly, "I had the servants retrieve the discarded invitations. Nobles prize exclusivityâbut once attendance becomes impossible, their precious invitations become meaningless. Mere trash."
You leaned back, the cuffs rattling softly in the tense silence, savoring the pause before delivering your final words:
"Isnât it amusing, Lord Harbinger, what can be accomplished with merely a few hundred mora?"
Silence stretched tautly between youâsharp, resonant, suspended like the last note of a stringed instrument played softly in an empty hall.
"And why the steel industry?" Pantalone asked finally, the tone subtly shifting from clinical inquiry toward genuine curiosity. It wasnât a trap or a challenge. It was an authentic questionâan admission that you had achieved something remarkable enough to demand explanation.
You tilted your head thoughtfully, then shrugged gently, as though the answer shouldâve been glaringly obvious.
"One must read the Articles of Association for publicly registered Snezhnayan businesses," you began evenly. Despite your battered visage, your voice remained steady, precise, elegantly controlled. "Among the clauses regarding shareholder rights, there lies a small, subtle detailâeasily missed."
Your smile was faint, but your gaze now sharpenedâa glint of cold calculation dancing within your eyes.
"Businesses receiving Fatui investment gain preferential consideration for government contractsâthis much is common knowledge. But hidden deeper, in the dense, tedious fine print, is a small auxiliary clause: Fatui-backed enterprises are subject to internal audits, not external."
You paused deliberately, allowing that fact to settle into the quiet tension between you. Pantalone remained silent, the glint behind his spectacles sharpening perceptibly.
"And while, on paper, these internal audits are exhaustive," you continued smoothly, your bruised lips curled into a confident half-smile, "in reality, enforcement is... lax, reserved only for unusual spikes in profit or growth."
Another pause, measured and deliberate.
"I did my research. Public records are easily accessible at any respectable Snezhnayan archive. A few afternoons spent buried in documents was all it took. I isolated sectors receiving Fatui backingâthose least scrutinized, most structurally vulnerable."
You inclined your head slightly, eyes bright with restrained triumph. "Steel⌠was perfect."
"Modest. Unassuming. Necessary enough to warrant state subsidies, yet never glamorous enough to draw undue attention. With weapon production steadily rising, the steel sector practically begged for new ventures eager to absorb state-backed funding."
Your voice dropped subtly, leaning forward just enough to draw him into your whispered revelation. "Besidesâwho would suspect a scam hidden right inside your own house?"
The ensuing silence stretched tautly, heavy and suffocatingâlike deep snow blanketing fields already laden with secrets.
Pantalone remained perfectly still, not out of shock or disbelief, but careful contemplation. He had meticulously built a system designed to serve him unquestioningly, to follow his every silent command. And yet, here you satâan intruder who had casually walked in wearing borrowed finery, clutching falsified signatures, and reflecting his own designs back at him. Not a flaw in the system. A mirror. Slowly, for the first time since entering the room, his carefully maintained smile faded into quiet, thoughtful neutrality.
"Hmm." His fingertips tapped softly against the tableâmethodical, rhythmic, like a meticulously wound clock ticking toward inevitability. His gaze settled fully upon you, colder now, edged like honed steel.
"And how," he finally asked, voice measured, softly dangerous, "did you manage to list your fabricated business in official records? Produce audits so pristine they passed even my meticulous scrutiny?"
No anger colored his toneâonly a profound, clinical curiosity, precisely sharpened like a surgeonâs scalpel. "I never invest in anything short of flawless authenticity," he added coolly, almost quietly. "So explain preciselyâhow did you fabricate something that even I believed was real?"
You answered him with a crooked, blood-tinged grin, eyes glittering in bruised defiance.
"Simple," you said softly, a single word mocking the entirety of the empire heâd built. "I hired a man with a Dendro Visionâsomeone who specialized in perception manipulation, capable of creating finely controlled hallucinations."
You delivered this information casually, plainlyâlike speaking about mundane weather rather than admitting high treason.
"I found him operating within the narcotic underworld. Not difficult, if you know which suppliers to trail. Vision holders might be rare, but desperation makes them accessible. He claimed his illusions were refined enough to fool even trained minds, impossible to distinguish from reality."
"And you trusted such a boast?" Pantalone queried evenly, eyebrow subtly arching.
Your smile widened faintlyâpride rather than arrogance, quiet certainty rather than bravado.
"I tested him personally," you admitted without hesitation. "I paid him to craft a comprehensive illusionâa fully operational facility, complete with machinery, laborers, documentation. Heat, sound, even scent. Everything the senses expected from an active industrial site."
You leaned forward, voice lowered conspiratorially, gaze unwaveringly locked onto his. "Your auditors arrived, walked through, saw everything, documented everything, and departed satisfied. And yetâŚ" your words slowed, savoring each syllable, "in reality, there was nothing."
Silence now fell differentlyâdenser, charged, the strained calm between drawn blades awaiting the inevitable first strike. Pantalone didn't blink. Of course, he knew about Dendro-based narcotics; he himself had invested heavily in controlling the shadowed markets that whispered of such rare delights. But to wield such a substance not as indulgent vice, but as a precise corporate weapon? This was boldness bordering on madness. Audacious. Unprecedented. And unsettlingly effective.
"As for the public records," you continued casually, as if discussing nothing more significant than afternoon tea, "I simply forged the signature of one of your own office clerks."
Pantaloneâs eyes narrowed fractionally, a barely perceptible movementâbut enough to convey his sharpened focus. Yet he offered no interruption, only listened, patient as a serpent awaiting the perfect moment to strike.
"I had someoneâseveral someones, in factâsteal documents directly from his desk. Letters, memos, old requisition forms. Enough handwriting samples to mimic his style with meticulous accuracy." You waved a cuffed hand lazily, chains clinking faintly at your wrists, the motion casual, indifferent. "But of course, you already knew this. That minor slipâthat single misplaced folderâis what unraveled the entire illusion."
You smiled againânot in shame, not even in guilt, but with quiet, weary irony. "It wasnât even my thief who ruined everything. It was your own subordinateâs error. He misplaced the paperwork, grew frightened, and kept silent. And from there, the dominoes fell, one by painstaking one."
Your gaze flickered toward him, measuring his reaction. "Unfortunate." You savored the word carefully, allowing it to linger, heavy with implication.
"But the actual execution?" you continued, voice smoothly calm. "That was simplicity itself. I delivered those forged documents exactly as your clerk would have. Straight to your assistantâs personal residence, slipped seamlessly among the dayâs routine paperwork."
You gestured lightly toward some unseen figureâa faceless pawn within Pantaloneâs vast, sprawling bureaucracy. "They saw nothing amiss. Signed off without question. Stamped, registered, neatly filed away as entirely legitimate."
You leaned forward just slightly, your bloodied smile persisting stubbornly, quietly victorious. "That," you whispered softly, "was all it took."
For a moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the faint, persistent hum of the overhead lamp and the subtle creak of expensive leather as Pantalone reclined, absorbing the weight of your revelation. You hadnât breached the fortress of Snezhnayaâs most powerful financial institution with force, nor armies, nor even a Vision. Youâd simply used a stolen pen and precisely the right envelope.
"And how," Pantalone finally asked, voice once more dangerously calm, fingertips steepled in careful contemplation, "did those meticulously filed documents vanish overnight⌠precisely after you disappeared with the mora?"
His tone had cooled furtherânot in anger, but something infinitely more dangerous. Absolute, razor-sharp focus.
You tilted your head slightly, the faintest of smirks playing at the corner of your cracked, blood-stained lips. "Ah. That part was easy." Your words fell plainly, devoid of guilt or bravadoâmerely clear-eyed honesty. "I sent a letter."
You paused deliberately, letting the weight of that confession settle into the charged silence. "An anonymous letter. Polite. Nicely worded. More a warning than a threat, really."
Shifting subtly in your seat, you winced slightly as the cuffs bit against your skin, the chains pulling taut. "I addressed it to the clerk whose signature I forged. I wrote: âItâs your name on those documents. Next week, I intend to scam billions of mora from very powerful individuals. If those files remain⌠well, I imagine your employer wonât be pleased.'"
Your gaze locked firmly with his, your smile unmoving, defiant in its calm certainty. "Fear handled the rest."
Another beat of silence, heavier now, more dangerous.
"Burning evidence," you added softly, conversationally, "is practically a reflex in a place like yours. Those near the bottom donât wait for orders. They panic. They scramble to clean the mess, hoping desperately that no one important will ever notice."
Your lips twisted faintly upward. "And it almost worked."
You leaned back, savoring the word that hung bitterly between you both. Almost. Pantalone remained motionless. Unblinking. Yet beneath that carefully sculpted mask of composure, something shifted, a quiet realization unfurling like smoke: You had manipulated more than just his systems. More than just his funding streams or bureaucratic machinery. You had manipulated his people. He had reviewed your dossier a dozen times before ever setting foot into this bleak interrogation chamber. Every detail had been meticulously examinedâevery seemingly trivial line, every minor offense, every incongruity that hinted at brilliance hidden beneath years of petty crimes and forgettable misdemeanors. Small scams. Street cons. Solicitation charges. Your record painted the picture of a wasted intellect, scattered across desperate gambits and fleeting, hollow victories. But this? This was no act of desperationâit was a carefully executed design. And that disturbed him more profoundly than he wished to admit. Why now? Why wait until this precise moment?
When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, quietâdangerously soft. "And why," he asked, gaze piercing through your veneer of calm, "did you choose this moment, of all times, to make your move?"
You didnât answer immediately. Instead, you offered him a slow, flat smileâjoyless, disconnected. One that never reached your eyes. A smile he recognized intimately, having worn it himself countless times across different rooms, in different lifetimes.
"Itâs personal business," you replied quietly, tone firm, closed like an iron lock rusted shut by years of silence. "Nothing important."
A casual shrug followed, careless but deliberate. "I simply didnât feel like doing it until now."
That was all. No elaborate justification. No tragic backstory or ambitious manifesto. Merely⌠a choice. And somehow, the sheer simplicity of it interested him more deeply than anything else youâd revealed thus far. Pantalone leaned back fractionally in his chair, a flicker of realization threading through his thoughtsâthin, sharp, like silk through a needle. He had cleared two precious hours from his schedule for this interrogation. He despised interruptions. Loathed inefficiency. Yet this was neither wasted time nor meaningless distraction. You were something else entirely. Not a waste. Far from it. You were rare. Cold. Pragmatic. Flexible. Dangerous. And perhaps, above all else⌠Profitable.
"I have two options for you," he stated, words slicing through the stagnant air with surgical precisionâquiet, polished, and utterly final.
Pantalone folded his hands neatly atop the table, thin-rimmed lenses reflecting the dim glow of the interrogation lamp. "Now that I have access to the mora you stole," he paused briefly, his polite smile sharpening just a fraction colder, "âthough I must commend your foresight. Concealing your funds in an overseas Fontaine account rather than entrusting them to the Northland Bank⌠Clever, but ofcourse, that much is obvious to any decent scammer."
He inclined his head slightly, the gesture slow, deceptively thoughtful. "An admirable precaution. Particularly given your ignorance of just how deeply the Fatuiâs influence penetrates Fontaineâs financial sectors."
Another pause. A quiet breathâweighted deliberately.
"But cleverness alone was not enough."
He allowed that stark truth to linger, an icy echo between you, before continuing calmly, relentlessly.
"And thus, the first option," he went on, tone unwavering, deadly calm. "Life imprisonment. I sign the decree, leave this room, and never think of you again. You rot quietly within these wallsâforgotten, nameless. Merely another lost soul buried deep within the frozen machinery of Snezhnayaâs justice. A file left to gather dust."
His smile was too gentle to be genuine, too composed to be compassionate.
"Just like every other worthless fool this nation discards."
He leaned back incrementally, eyes never leaving yours, allowing the silence to stretch tautly between youâwatching intently for the slightest flinch, the faintest crack in your calm, any sign that the reality of his words had cut deeper than the pain already etched upon your face. But he wasnât finished. Not yet. You would have gotten away with laundering the mora, tooâhad your opponent been anyone but him. Pantalone was no fool. He had studied your movements the way one might observe a chessboardâmethodically, patiently, examining each subtle maneuver until the grand strategy revealed itself. The moment your name had surfaced, he had asked himself the simplest, most dangerous question: If it had been me, where would I hide the mora?
The answer had come instantly, obvious in its poetic ironyâFontaine, the Nation of Justice. With its countless banks, obsessive regulations, and pristine, immaculate façades masking something much simpler beneath: greed. Fontaine, like any nation, was merely a gilded vaultâa hundred hidden keys tucked behind a polished veneer of order. Only a select handful of banks could manage such substantial transactions quietly, discreetly enough to avoid undue scrutiny, securely enough to prevent prying eyes from noticing. It had taken him little time. Merely a touch of classic Fatui persuasionâquiet conversations held in elegant drawing rooms, porcelain shattered on polished floors, courteous smiles splattered with blood upon costly imported rugs.
Of course, the bank owners cracked. They always did. And once they did, they willingly surrendered everything: account numbers, transaction trails, and undeniable proof. Fascinating, truly. Your choices had aligned so precisely with his own instincts that he couldnât help but feel a grudging admiration. The logic, discretion, and elegance of your actions were remarkable. You had moved like a phantom through corridors he himself had once navigated with effortless mastery. It was a testament to the brilliance of your mindâa mirror held up to his own past cunning. A pity, he thought distantly, that such intellect had remained hidden so long.
"That," Pantalone continued, voice smooth, silken as ever, "orâ" He leaned forward slightly, polite smile unwavering, "you may choose to work for me. As my personal assistant."
He phrased it as an offer, but both of you understood it was notâit was a command, wrapped delicately in decorative silk.
"Considering your intellect, your... initiative," he remarked softly, voice faintly amused, almost appreciative, "there is significant potential here. Brilliance like yours deserves refinementâsharpened, honed, shaped into something far more... useful."
A pause, deliberate and cruel.
"Unpaid, naturally," he added pleasantly, his cold smile unflinching. "You did, after all, abscond with quite a substantial sum from my coffers. Actions, as we know, always have consequences. Forgiveness, my dear, is never free."
He rose slowly, fluidly, smoothing invisible creases from his impeccable coat, each movement calculated, meticulous. "You will be provided Fatui-sanctioned accommodations. Under strict surveillance, naturallyâconsidering your newfound notoriety."
He turned back to you, his gaze unreadable now, veiled behind the mask of a composed Harbinger, every emotion replaced with ruthless calculation. "And as for your recordâthe fraud, the scams, the petty misdemeanorsâI shall erase them entirely."
He placed a gloved hand upon the door handle, pausing briefly before stepping into the corridor. His voice dropped to a soft murmur, carrying clearly through the silence.
"Your freedom, your past, your very futureâall wiped clean, traded simply in exchange for unwavering loyalty."
A beat passed, tense and suffocating.
"Your choice."
Then that same cold, elegant smile returned, precise as a blade drawn from its sheath.
"As always, I would advise you to choose wisely."
You simply stared at him for a heartbeat, then snorted softly, wincing sharply from the pain as a quiet, broken laugh slipped through your bruised lips.
"I see my elevator pitch worked perfectly," you remarked dryly, your tone so confident, so casually self-assured, it was as though you had planned this outcome from the very start. "I'm almost surprised."
Pantalone silently considered the strange creature before him, a fleeting curiosity threading through his otherwise perfectly ordered thoughts. Perhaps there truly was something wrong with youâa crack somewhere in the porcelain of your sanity. Then again, he reflected coolly, intellect seldom came without its fair share of madness.
(You were an enigma. Disciplined yet bloodthirsty. Rule-following yet somehow chaotic. Surrounded by more rumors than trees in a Snezhnayan forestâyet your official record cleaner than a Fatui uniform on laundry day. Absolutely insufferable, utterly infuriating, and the number-one pain in Tartagliaâs ass. If anyone asked, he couldnât stand youâwould even write them a five-page essay detailing exactly why you were the worst thing to happen to him since his dad threatened military school. Yet, if anyone else dared breathe a word against you, a few bruises would be considered merciful. Clearly, denial isn't just a river in Sumeruâand Ajax is sailing down it at record-breaking speed.
(Heâs whipped. Completely, hopelessly whipped. But donât tell him thatâhe still thinks no oneâs noticed.)
[Alright people, we are doing enemies to childhood friends to lovers this time. The story starts when both you and Tartaglia still are 14 year old recruits. This will be a slow burn fanfic. Also, NO SMUT TILL THEY ARE ADULTS! Aka, smut will start at around chapter 17.])
Prologue
There are no problems in this world that cannot be solved by a sword. Or at least, that was Ajaxâs personal philosophyâone he wholeheartedly endorsed, usually at the business end of said sword. Steel clashed with the melodious charm of a badly-tuned harp, and the sharp ringing of blades reverberated through the snow-drenched alleys of Snezhnaya. Blood splattered cheerfully like crimson confetti onto pristine white snowâfestive, really, if you asked Ajax. Standing amid this picturesque carnage was the fourteen-year-old himself, breathing heavily, his breath puffing out in rhythmic clouds as though heâd just sprinted a mile in a blizzardâwhich, considering the hulking figure currently sprawled at his feet, wasnât far from the truth.
He glanced down at the groaning lump of brute muscle that used to call itself his opponent. Twice his size and twice as stupid, the man had charged like an enraged boar and fallen with similar grace. Ajax couldn't suppress the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. Pathetic. Honestly, a bit insulting.
âReally?â Ajax muttered, nudging the unconscious man with his foot as if checking produce at a market stall. âYou didnât even last through the warm-up.â
Survival of the fittestâwasn't that the unspoken law of the land? Ajax believed this wholeheartedly, carving it into his bones with every bruised knuckle and scuffed knee he earned from endless street brawls. But just as he began mentally preparing a victory speech (something short, humble, and definitely containing the words 'you're welcome'), the frigid, familiar bark of his father echoed through the narrow alley, colder than a Snezhnayan winter.
âYou foolish boy! Iâm sending you off to the Fatui. Let them beat some discipline into you!â
Ah, parental love at its finest. Ajax's hand twitched instinctively toward the knife on his belt, then thought better of it. Stabbing one's fatherâhe imaginedâwas generally frowned upon, even here in Snezhnaya, though admittedly only slightly. Family dinners would certainly become awkward afterward. So he bit back his retort and swallowed his pride, tasting bitter humility in place of the usual coppery tang of victory. Ajax adored his familyâperhaps even enough to endure the upcoming lecture without making sarcastic remarks (well, maybe one or two wouldn't hurt). He sighed dramatically, offering a murmured apology that felt more rehearsed than sincere.
âSorry,â he mumbled half-heartedly, ânext time Iâll let the brute win.â
His father, predictably, didn't laughâdidn't even seem to hear. Ajax considered briefly if his old man had finally gone deaf, or if perhaps selective hearing was just another charming family trait. It was official, then: his own father was shipping him off to the Fatui to learn "discipline." Ajax wasnât entirely sure what that entailed, but he hoped it involved less nagging and more stabbing. After all, he'd always been an optimist.
Ajaxâs gaze wandered down to his handsâscarred, calloused, and still bearing faint splashes of crimson like morbid souvenirs. He considered wiping them clean, but honestly, what was the point? It wasn't as if they would remain spotless for long. Besides, deep down, he already knew that at the very next whisper of a fight, he'd eagerly dive headfirst back into chaos. Because even if the Fatui thought they could tame himâmold him like some manageable lump of clayâthere was something feral curled up deep in his chest, snarling and scratching to escape. Ajax doubted even the most relentless drill sergeant could beat that wildness out of him.
Which was exactly why he found himself now sitting painfully straight-backed on a stiff wooden bench at a Fatui training camp, bored out of his ever-loving mind. As it turned out, his father hadn't been bluffingâan impressive first, Ajax thought dryly. The Fatui recruiter had sized him up with the practiced disdain of someone appraising a particularly disappointing catch at the fish market. After a long silence, the recruiter had pronounced his judgment: Ajax âneeded training.â
Training. Ajax nearly scoffed aloud at the idea. As if survival hadnât already been lovingly beaten into him with every brawl, every scraped knee, every hard-earned bruise. Sure, heâd disagreed. Loudly, with passionate eloquence. Unfortunately, he'd kept it all firmly inside his head, settling instead for clenching his jaw and staring defiantly at the distant horizon. Mainly because his fatherâs piercing gaze was locked onto him like a stubborn frostbiteâcold, relentless, and impossible to ignore. Fatui policy, the man had said. They wanted well-behaved, polished recruits, tidily packaged and stamped like high-quality merchandise. Ajax snorted inwardly at the absurdity. If they'd expected polished, they had obviously summoned the wrong boy.
What good were orderly drills, mind-numbing lectures, and flawless formations anyway? Heâd already learned everything worthwhile from harsher teachersâthe Abyss had been especially instructive, not to mention delightfully creative in its methods. What could these trainers possibly teach him that he hadn't already perfected in the bloody alleyways of Morespok? He'd left men twice his size sprawled on icy cobblestones, whimpering apologies into pools of their own bloodâmen who'd tried and failed spectacularly at intimidating fishermen out of their day's wages. Ajax didn't need to be taught survival. Survival practically begged him for pointers at this stage.
Yet here he sat, forced into restless stillness, fingers twitching involuntarily toward the familiar weight of a blade that wasnât there. He longed for the comforting chaos of combat, to proveâyet againâhis methods were superior. But each time his foot shifted impatiently or his shoulders threatened to slump in boredom, the heavy, razor-sharp glare of his father bore into him, pulling him firmly back into his seat like an invisible leash. Ajax ground his molars together in frustration, feeling dangerously close to gnawing straight through his tongue.
Maybe discipline meant something else in Fatui languageâperhaps âsitting perfectly still and pretending you enjoy it.â If so, Ajax concluded dryly, he was definitely not fluent.
No easy excuses this time. No impulsive idiots to conveniently bait into a fight without consequence. Not even a shadowed alleyway nearby to casually slip into afterward. Ajax scowled, shifted impatiently, and satâforced into miserable stillness, boredom crawling under his skin like ants at a picnic. All the while, the restless storm beneath his ribs churned with growing impatience, practically begging for someoneâanyoneâto provide him with a proper outlet.
Then again, it wasnât as if this was his first Fatui training camp experience. In fact, Ajax mused with grim pride, it was number fiveâpractically worthy of an award by now. âMost Transfers Earned by Excessive Violence,â perhaps. Heâd proudly hang that certificate on his wall, if only to annoy his father.
Camp number one had ended spectacularly, with Ajax honestly not intending to nearly kill that arrogant fool whoâd cornered and mocked him. But, when the buffoon had puffed up his chest and sneered down at Ajax as if mocking a child made him some sort of hero, Ajax hadnât hesitated. Heâd insulted him first, naturallyâpointing out the inherent weakness of bullying someone smaller. Predictably, the man hadnât taken the criticism gracefully. People never seemed to handle being confronted with their own stupidity well. By the time the dust settled and blood turned the training yard into modern art, Ajax had lost count of precisely how many bones heâd broken.
The second camp fared no better. Sure, they'd boasted higher expectations and stricter captainsâbut unfortunately for them, Ajax's personal standards were stricter still. Within days, he'd neatly mopped the floor with the squad leader during a sparring match, landing hits faster and sharper than the trainers could bark warnings. Ajax felt he'd made his point clearly: if pummeling their toughest captain senseless didnât scream "none of you are competent enough to train me," he honestly didn't know what did.
The third and fourth camps blurred together in a rather tedious montage of broken bones, exasperated superiors, stern lectures, and increasingly annoyed looks from his father. Different trainers, different facesâbut Ajax barely noticed anymore. They all ended the same way: another transfer, another sour conversation, and another round of painfully predictable disappointment from the old man.
And now here he was, arriving fashionably late at camp number five. But this one⌠this one felt almost like an elaborate joke. As he eyed the recruits around him, Ajax wondered dryly if the Fatui had finally gotten desperate. These "soldiers-in-training" looked youngerâsome exactly his age, others even younger still. Smaller, softer faces blinked curiously back at him, clearly untouched by the kind of brutal survival he'd grown up perfecting. He caught snatches of their whispered conversations drifting in the air like smoke, idle gossip he hadn't asked for and certainly didnât care about. Apparently, these recruits came primarily from somewhere called the House of the Hearth.
An orphanage, Ajax gathered. A Fatui-run charity, supposedly. The name made him wrinkle his nose slightlyâit sounded less like an orphanage and more like a bakery for overpriced pies. A shining beacon of Fatui "generosity," no doubt strategically advertised to the common folk of Snezhnaya. Ajax rolled his eyes internally; leave it to the Fatui to sugarcoat conscription with such annoyingly cheerful branding.
Wonderful. Just wonderful. Heâd gone from thrashing grown men twice his size to being lumped in with a bunch of wide-eyed orphans and charity cases.
If this was the Fatuiâs grand scheme to finally break him, Ajax concluded silently, he might die laughing first.
Ajax wondered bitterly what these recruits truly were beneath the surface. Orphans, sureâbut were they also rejects? Strays gathered conveniently under the Fatuiâs wing, trained like obedient lapdogs to jump at commands and beg for scraps of approval? Had someone purposefully placed him here, hoping to dull his edge by surrounding him with people who wouldnât dare challenge him? Ajaxâs fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, nails pressing angry crescents into his palms. He honestly couldnât decide if he should laugh at their stupidity or simply set a personal record in dismantling yet another Fatui camp.
âOi. Get in line for food distribution. Or do you not want lunch?â
The voice abruptly jerked Ajax from his thoughts, sharp, dismissive, and irritatingly familiar in toneâexactly the sort of voice begging to be punched, really. He glanced upward lazily, locking eyes with a boy maybe a year or two older than himself. Broad-shouldered, wearing that annoyingly bored expression of someone assigned a chore they couldnât be bothered with, arms crossed in a way that practically screamed authorityâmisplaced, undeserved authority, if you asked Ajax.
The older recruit scoffed lightly, a faint puff of irritation, as if Ajaxâs mere existence was somehow offensive, a stain on an otherwise orderly routine. Ajax felt a surge of indignation rise sharply inside him. He didnât appreciate that tone, didnât enjoy being regarded like something small and insignificant, to be brushed aside like an inconvenient speck of dirt.
Ajax leaned back, deliberately languid, draping himself over the bench in exaggerated boredom. But beneath his seemingly casual stance, his eyes sharpened like twin shards of ice, gleaming with barely concealed hostility. âWhat,â Ajax drawled slowly, voice dripping sarcasm, âdoes basic politeness physically pain you, or did no one bother teaching it to you? Ah, waitâright, you're probably an orphan, arenât you?â
Subtlety clearly wasn't Ajax's forte; it never had been. His jab was sharp, cruel, and carefully calculatedâthe kind of insult that typically caused immediate flare-ups, sometimes even punches flying his way. Ajax braced himself eagerly, already anticipating the fight that might finally break this unbearable monotony.
But annoyingly, infuriatingly, the boy didnât even blink.
âRight. Funny,â he muttered flatly, unimpressed. âGet your ass up, or youâre not getting lunch.â
Ajax stared blankly for a second, almost offended at the sheer lack of reaction. The boy didnât sound angry, didnât seem ruffled in the slightest. Instead, his voice held that frustrating, utterly indifferent note, as though Ajaxâs words were nothing more than an irritating buzzâlike he was simply another spoiled kid needing guidance and nothing more. Ajaxâs carefully constructed smirk twitched slightly at the corner, his irritation rising from an annoyed simmer to a dangerously close boil. Heâd handled plenty of arrogance, met plenty of condescension head-on, but this felt different. This was outright dismissal, something Ajax took personallyâand poorly.
He felt his pulse quicken, restlessness clawing at his skin. It had already been two entire days since his last proper fight, two miserable days without that familiar adrenaline-laced thrill racing through his veins. Two days without the electric satisfaction of blade meeting flesh, the rush of watching opponents realize too late theyâd underestimated him. Two whole daysâand Ajax was already nearly crawling out of his skin. If this older recruit thought boredom and dismissive glances would tame him, Ajax decided with cold amusement, he was about to receive an extremely unpleasant education.
Clearly, the Fatuiâs so-called "elite training regimen" was a load of absolute nonsense. Ajax had braced himself for thrilling battlesâimagined harsh training fields echoing with screams, orders barked through storms of arrows, adrenaline pounding in his veins. Instead, here he sat, babysitting. Babysitting literal children, or so they felt to him (the irony was not lost on him, considering he technically fit neatly into that category himself). Yet somehow, these recruits seemed softer, duller, less⌠alive. No spark, no challenge, no excitement. Just endless drills, monotonous routine, and soul-sucking boredomâhe was almost tempted to start trouble just to escape the unending tedium.
Ajaxâs narrowed gaze drifted back to the boy from earlierâthat irritating brat whoâd looked down his nose at him, as if Ajax were merely an inconvenience cluttering his precious, ordered day. That dismissive tone, that bland stare, still scratched at his mind like a rusted blade. Maybe, Ajax thought, lips twitching into a cold smirk, if he gave that arrogant jerk a proper beating, the Fatui would finally realizeâyet againâthat he simply wasnât cut out for this particular babysitting assignment. Perhaps another delightful transfer would follow. Maybe this time they'd send him somewhere interesting. Ajax rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar itch sparking up from his knuckles to his spine. Fine. If no one here had the guts to give him a proper fight, heâd create his own opportunities.
It took barely a half-hearted insult to get things moving. Ajax had the older boy by the collar before he could blink, fist clenched, muscles coiled tight, ready to send him sprawling. Predictably, the kid wasnât much of a fighterâsluggish, slow-footed, practically begging Ajax to send him face-first into the dirt. This was disappointingly easy, almost embarrassingly effortless. Already, Ajax was mentally congratulating himself, imagining the priceless expression on the captainâs face when yet another recruit was found sprawled unconscious. Another transfer incoming in three, twoâ
Suddenly, his vision lurched wildly, the world spinning upside down. A jarring impact knocked the breath clean out of his lungs, and before he knew what was happening, Ajax found himself staring blankly at the gray, freezing sky of Snezhnaya. The ground beneath him was painfully cold, his back aching, his head throbbing dully like heâd been kicked by a horse.
Waitâhad he just blacked out?
Ajax blinked dazedly, squinting upward, trying to piece together exactly how he'd gone from smug predator to pavement decoration in mere seconds. As he struggled to sit up, a shadow fell neatly across him, boots stopping only inches from his face, annoyingly composed.
âOh? You woke up fast enough.â
The voice was entirely unfamiliarâcalm, clipped, almost bored. Ajaxâs head snapped sharply upward, eyes narrowing into an angry glare sharp enough to cut steel. Standing above him wasnât the annoying boy he'd planned to flattenâbut instead, a girl. Roughly his age, posture relaxed, expression unreadable, as though flooring cocky new recruits was simply another tedious daily chore. Ajax bristled immediately, irritation mixing with confusion.
You.
âWhat the hell just happened?â he spat out, voice gritty and tight with a combination of confusion and annoyance, a dull ache thumping rhythmically behind his eyes. Had someone clubbed him over the head with a brick? A frying pan? A rock? How had he completely missed it?
You tilted your head slightly, calm eyes assessing him with detached amusement. âI knocked you out,â you explained casually, tone entirely unconcerned, as though youâd done nothing more significant than sweeping up dirt. âInsubordination,â you added helpfully, as if it was a perfectly normal justification. You shrugged one shoulder elegantly. âNow get up. Go line up for lunch.â
Ajax stared at you blankly, disbelief written across his face. Lunch? Lunch?! He'd just been flattened by some girl he hadn't even noticed moments ago, and she was talking about lunch? Was this a joke? Still, despite the humiliation burning hot in his gut, something else stirredâa flicker of intrigued excitement, a curious new spark amidst all this suffocating dullness. Maybe this camp wasnât going to be quite as boring as he'd thought.
Dinner was⌠interesting.
Ajax hadn't noticed you during lunchâhe'd still been nursing the dull ache throbbing in the back of his skull, his pride limping behind him like a wounded animal. Heâd barely registered anything, too preoccupied replaying the embarrassing scene in his mind, irritation clinging to him like frostbite. Now, at dinner, you were impossible to miss. Sitting casually across the bustling mess hall, you seemed utterly unbothered, surrounded by a cluster of recruits orbiting you like moons around a particularly self-assured planet. Annoyingly, you didnât even look commandingâno barked orders, no rigid posture. Just relaxed confidence, as if authority naturally gravitated to you without effort.
That irritated Ajax more than it probably should have. His glare sharpened over the rim of his tin cup, scowling at the easy laughter bubbling around your table. Who did you think you were? He finally turned, begrudgingly acknowledging the recruit seated beside him. Ajax hadn't bothered learning anyoneâs name yet; frankly, he hadn't cared enough to try. But curiosity gnawed at him, sharp and persistent enough that he swallowed his pride to ask.
âWhoâs she?â he demanded bluntly, jerking his chin in your direction.
The recruit blinked, startled, before breaking into an amused smirk. âYou seriously donât know? Oh rightâyouâre the new guy.â He jabbed a thumb toward you, lowering his voice conspiratorially. âThatâs Y/N. Pretty much royalty around here. Unofficial vice captain of the whole camp.â
Ajax frowned, interest reluctantly piqued. Vice captain? Unofficial? Sure, that explained the air of casual authorityâbut it hardly clarified how someone his age had managed to floor him without breaking a sweat.
The boy next to him extended a hand casually. âI'm Nikolay, by the way.â
Ajax shook his hand briefly, eyes still pinned to your distant figure. âAjax,â he muttered distractedly. âSo why exactly is she vice captain? Is she actually that strong?â
Nikolay snorted softly, chewing thoughtfully on a hunk of stale bread. âCalling her strong would be an understatement of epic proportions.â
He leaned in closer, voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. âRumor has it, she's the only recruit from the House of the Hearth being personally monitored by Arlecchino herself. Most think she's already earmarked for Harbinger potential.â
Ajaxâs eyebrows rose sharply, genuine surprise flickering across his face. Harbinger potential was no casual praise; it was something reserved for prodigies or madmen. Ajax wasnât sure which heâd prefer you to be.
Nikolay glanced around, confirming no eavesdroppers were lingering. âOh, and fair warning: sheâs a massive stickler for rules. Nothing escapes her notice, nothing slides. Some say she's ruthless beneath that casual act she puts onâjust waiting for someone to give her a reason.â
Ajax tapped restless fingers against his tin cup, gaze narrowing thoughtfully as you laughed at something someone said, relaxed and infuriatingly confident. Rule enforcer. Potential Harbinger. Strong enough to knock him flat without so much as breaking stride. For the first time since arriving in this forsaken excuse for a training camp, something sparked beneath Ajaxâs skinâa restless itch that had nothing to do with boredom and everything to do with the thrill of finally meeting someone worth fighting. He decided he needed answers, and he wasn't patient enough to wait for them to find him. Ajax started asking aroundâquietly at first, slipping casual questions into idle conversations, feigning mild curiosity. Then with increasingly less subtlety, cornering anyone who looked remotely informed. He needed clarity, needed to understand how someone his own age had effortlessly knocked him unconscious and had everyone here dancing obediently around her.
The rumors? They were⌠something else. Ajax had anticipated wild exaggerationsâmaybe a few harmless myths tossed around by bored kidsâbut nothing like this.
âYeah, word is she duels with Arlecchino herself. Regularly. Like⌠every single week or something.â
Ajax blinked slowly, attempting to picture the sheer audacity of someone casually challenging the Knave on a weekly basis. That sounded less like a pastime and more like a creative form of suicide.
Another recruit leaned in, face gravely serious. âForget duels. I heard sheâs been personally invited to Harbinger meetings. You know, the super secret ones? No outsiders allowed? They apparently make an exception just for her.â
Ajax scoffed loudly, unable to suppress his skepticism. âYou serious?â
The boy nodded solemnly, like heâd just divulged classified Fatui secrets. âDead serious.â
Someone else shuffled forward eagerly, their voice lowering dramatically to a conspiratorial whisper. âYeah, well, I heard she's already done covert spy missions for the Fatuiâthe type of stuff that officially 'never happened.' Real hush-hush. Super nefarious.â
The recruit shrugged defensively. âI dunno, thatâs just what I heard.â
Then, a smaller boy with wide eyes and a flair for theatrics leaned even closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. âMy cousin swears she killed one of Dottoreâs segments.â
Ajax froze, genuinely caught off guard. âShe⌠what?â
âYeah. Killed him,â the kid whispered dramatically, pausing for effect. âWith a fork.â
Ajax stared at the kid blankly. âA fork,â he repeated, voice flat with disbelief.
The boy nodded rapidly, absolutely earnest. âRight in the eye. Threw it across a whole room. Didnât even get up from her seat.â
Ajax narrowed his eyes suspiciously, wondering if the kid was just outright messing with him. â...Thatâs absurd.â
The boy gave a half-hearted shrug. âHey, I'm just repeating what I heard.â
âOh, and she punched me in the face once,â piped up another voice cheerfully from behind Ajax, causing him to swivel around sharply. A younger recruit stood there, grinning ear-to-ear and proudly rubbing his jaw like heâd received a medal rather than a fist. âHonestly, best moment of my life. I'd ask her to do it again, but I'm kinda worried she'll say yes.â
Ajax stared openly now, trying desperately to sort through the sheer chaos he'd just heard. What exactly had he stumbled into? Each rumor was more insane than the last, painting a picture of you as some mythological Fatui prodigyâsome unstoppable whirlwind of talent and casual violence. Ajax would have laughed outright at the sheer absurdity, except the dull ache on the back of his skull still stubbornly protested otherwise. You had knocked him out cold. Effortlessly. Like swatting a particularly irritating insect. Maybe the rumors werenât entirely fictionâthough he sincerely doubted the fork thing (right?).
He rubbed at his temples with a weary sigh. He couldnât decide whether he was impressed, suspicious, concerned, or some frustrating blend of all three. But there was one thing he was absolutely certain about: he had to know for himself exactly what you were capable of. No more exaggerations, no more gossip and hearsay. Ajax didn't settle for secondhand stories. If you were truly as dangerous and absurdly skilled as the whispers claimed, he intended to find out firsthandâeven if it meant risking another painful, humiliating knockout.
Naturally, Ajaxâs instinct was simple: challenge you to a duel.
It had gnawed at him all nightâthe ridiculous rumors, the infuriating nonchalance with which you shrugged off knocking him out, the absurd whispers about secret Harbinger meetings, Dottoreâs segments, and forks (of all weapons). He needed answers. Ajax had always found clarity at the edge of a blade, and today would be no different. When individual training finally arrived the next day, he wasted no time. You stood calmly across the sparring yard, posture effortlessly relaxed yet sharpâlike a blade casually sheathed, ready to cut at the first hint of trouble. Other recruits hovered at a cautious distance, wary eyes darting toward you as if approaching too close might earn them an immediate dismissal (or possibly a fork to the eye, if that particular rumor held any truth).
Ajax didnât hesitate, crossing the snowy yard with deliberate strides, boots crunching loudly through icy powder. His heart poundedânot from nerves, but from exhilaration, the anticipation crackling like lightning beneath his ribs. You glanced up as he stopped abruptly in front of you, expression shifting into mild, patient curiosity. He didn't bother with pleasantries:
âFight me.â
Blunt. Direct. Zero room for negotiation. You blinked once, head tilting slightly as though heâd just casually asked for the time or directions to the latrine.
âDuel me,â Ajax repeated, voice harder, sharper, a reckless grin twisting at his lips. âProperly, this time. No sucker punches.â
You paused, then sighed softly, disappointingly unimpressed.
âThis about me knocking you out yesterday?â you asked flatly, clearly bored by his bravado.
Ajax shrugged lazily, the arrogant tilt of his grin only growing sharper. âMaybe. Or maybe I just wanna see if those ridiculous rumors actually hold up.â
Something flickered through your eyesâwas that irritation, amusement, or just plain annoyance? Ajax couldnât quite tell. He half-expected you to brush him off, to dismiss him with that infuriating casualness from before. Instead, you stepped back slightly, rolling your shoulders in an unhurried manner, a faint smirk flickering briefly across your lips.
âFine,â you finally said, evenly. âYou want a duel? Youâll get your duel.â
Your gaze sharpened, coldly assessing. âBut donât complain if you end up flat on your back again.â
Ajaxâs grin widened, adrenaline surging through him like a storm about to break. He cracked his knuckles, stance shifting into something eager and fierce.
âWouldnât dream of it.â
Five minutes later, Ajax wasâpredictablyâflat on his back. Again.
He stared up at the bleak, unfeeling sky of Snezhnaya, snow biting into his back, lungs burning with every harsh breath. At this point, lying dazed and humiliated on the cold ground for the second time in as many days, Ajax found himself reconsidering every choice he'd made in his short but reckless existence. Seriously, what the hell? Heâd clawed his way out of the Abyss half-feral, each of Skirkâs ruthless lessons etched into his bones and bloodied knuckles. Heâd dismantled men twice his size, left monsters bleeding and broken, had grown used to fear being something other people felt. And yet here he was, sprawled gracelessly, beaten soundly by some smug, snot-nosed recruit his own age. The irony stung worse than the frigid snow pressed uncomfortably beneath him. You loomed over him, expression bored, dusting the faintest traces of snow from your gloves as though this had been little more than an inconvenient chore.
âCan I go now?â you asked flatly, entirely unimpressed. âYou lost. Duelâs over.â
Ajax sat up slowly, narrowing his eyes at you, disbelief and wounded pride crashing together painfully in his chest. "How the hell did you win? Did you cheat? You didn't even use your Vision." The accusation came out sharper than intended, frustration bleeding clearly through. You looked down at him, calm and detached, your expression unreadable.
"I didn't need to," you replied smoothly, voice cool as freshly fallen snow. Then, almost as an afterthought, you added, "With your techniques, you might hold your own against Abyssal monsters, at best."
Ajax's jaw tightened visibly, teeth grinding together in irritation.
"But humans?" You tilted your head slightly, tone edged with something dangerously close to boredom. "Humans are smarter. Trickier. Your movements are predictable. Sloppy."
You let the words settle heavily between you like frost on stone, meeting his incredulous stare without so much as blinking.
"It doesn't look like you've fought many actual people."
And then, infuriatingly, you turned awayâlike he wasn't even worth another second of your attention. Ajax stared after you, stunned, the cold wind biting at his skin. Yet the bitter sting on his face wasn't from the icy gusts, but from your casual dismissal. Before he could think better of itâ
"Wait! Teach me!"
The words burst from Ajax's lips, ringing sharply through the training yard. His heart slammed against his ribs as he scrambled gracelessly to his feet, snow tumbling from his shoulders. Wide eyes fixed on youânot filled with fury, but something rawer, more genuine. Eagerness. Curiosity. Intrigue. The fierce fire of a challenge he couldn't yet conquer. He looked at you with a mixture of awe and desperation, gaze practically sparkling like an overeager puppy, the intensity in his voice almost embarrassingly earnest. You paused mid-step, glancing slowly back over your shoulder, one eyebrow raised skeptically. For a long, excruciating moment, you simply stared at him. Then your expression twisted, visibly scrunching your nose as though he'd suggested something utterly revoltingâlike licking the bottom of his boot or eating dirt straight from the ground.
"Ew. No."
Flat. Immediate. Brutal.
Ajax froze in place, arms slightly outstretched as if waiting for you to toss him a sword, or maybe just a scrap of mercy. Anything. Instead, you left him hanging, mouth half-open, eyes wide in shock, heart still hammering wildly in his chest. You turned around without another glance, walking away like absolutely nothing had happened. He blinked once. Twice.
Did⌠did you just ew at him?
Ajax sank back down into the snow, utterly bewildered. He stared blankly at the empty spot you'd just occupied, processing this newest humiliation. What the hell was wrong with you? His pride curled defensively inward, and he decided in that very moment, with absolute, burning certaintyâ He did not like you. Not one bit. âŚAlthough, how exactly had you done that clever little maneuver with your foot earlier? And could he convince you to teach it if he asked nicely next time? âŚWait. No. Absolutely not. Ajax groaned quietly, burying his face in his hands. This camp was going to be the death of him, he was certain of it.
That night, Ajax tried to sleep. Tried, being the operative word, because the dorm halls were anything but quiet. Shuffling footsteps echoed down corridors, hushed whispers bounced between walls, punctuated occasionally by a sharp barked command. Ajax scowled into the darkness. Something felt off, a restless current crackling through the airâbut frankly, he didn't care enough to poke around in camp gossip.
Until the next morning. Rumors spread like wildfire, sizzling with urgency and whispered intensity. Something had happened involving your roommate. As usual, nobody had a straight answerâjust vague, increasingly dramatic speculation. One recruit swore you'd killed the girl over something ridiculously petty, like borrowing boots without asking. Another was absolutely certain she'd been caught stealing classified Fatui intel and got tossed out overnight for insubordination. The wildest rumors claimed she'd simply vanished, disappeared completely, the higher-ups covering their tracks with cold efficiency.
Ajax was starting to notice a troubling pattern: wherever your name appeared, chaos was close behind, swirling around you like a blizzard. Rumors clung to you like stubborn frostâconfusing, contradictory, impossible to pin down. Not that Ajax cared, of course. Absolutely not. He reminded himself firmly that you were still a smug asshole, a stick-up-your-ass, arrogant rule follower who'd had the absolute gall to say ew to his face as if he were something you'd scrape off your shoe. He was definitely, absolutely, never letting that go.
Breakfast passed without incident, blessedly quiet. Ajax kept to himself, savoring the solitude and the peace of having no roommate yet. Nobody hovering around him, nobody glaring judgmentally because he was âdifficult.â Untilâ A sharp, commanding knock rattled his door. Ajax scowled, already braced for some pointless order or reprimand. When he swung the door open, irritation burning on his tongue, he blinked in genuine surprise at the sight before him. The captain stood rigidly, expression grim and official. And standing just beside him, looking equally displeased, wasâ You. Ajax's jaw slackened, disbelief flickering plainly across his face.
The captain wasted no time, voice clipped and businesslike. âY/N will be your roommate from now on.â
Silence stretched heavily, thick enough to choke on. Ajax slowly turned to stare at you, catching your gazeâflat, deadpan, and unmistakably mirroring his own horrified expression. And then, perfectly synchronized, the words spilled out simultaneously:
âDoes it have to be them?â
Ajax groaned inwardly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache already forming. Of course. Why had he expected anything else? And yet, despite his mounting dread, something in his chest sparked dangerously to life. Perhaps thisâthis ridiculous arrangementâwas where the real story began.
(Kitsunes fall in love only once. It is said that the legend of the red string of fate was born from this very notionâa bond so absolute that neither time nor destiny could sever it. A tale of destined lovers, woven into the pages of Inazuman light novels, romanticized and reimagined, yet so far removed from human experience that it was dismissed as mere fantasy.
And yet, the frayed red string hanging loosely from your pinky told a very different story.
[The story will take place in two different timelines. First, timeline 1 where Scaramouche was still the 6th harbinger, though it will begin from much before his Kabukimono days and go from there. There would be more of timeline 1 than timeline 2, and a lot of character interactions as the fanfic is more based on the relationship between Y/N and Scaramouche in his Kabukimono era, Kunikuzushi era and ofcourse, Scaramouche era. Second, timeline 2 which is Sumeru during in-game canon era after Wanderer got his memories back and tries to reconcile with the past he had with Y/N. There will be angst. Lots of angst. And a lot of triggering material as mentioned by the tags so be warned. Reader is a kitsune yokai and Yae Miko's half sister.])
Prologue
Godhoodâan illusion, a meaningless ambition that he had once chased with relentless fervor. For centuries, he had believed in its promise, in the idea that divinity would grant him purpose, significance. And yet, in the end, it had amounted to nothing. No throne, no reverence, no grand design had awaited him at the finish line. Just the same cruel, indifferent world that had never once bent to his will.
Even erasing himself from Irminsul had done little to change the course of fate. He had thoughtâperhaps naivelyâthat by vanishing, he could grant a better future to those whose misfortunes had been intertwined with his existence. That by severing himself from history, he could unmake the past, untangle the suffering that had taken root because of him. But the world did not grieve his absence. It did not stumble. It merely shifted, adjusted, rewrote itself to accommodate the void he left behind. And still, the same tragedies unfolded. The same people sufferedânot by his hand this time, but by coincidence, by fate's own cruel design.
So what had he accomplished?
When the Dendro Archon returned his memories, when the Traveler stood before him under the shade of that sunsettia tree and told him that his life was not meaninglessâthat he had been a villain, yes, but a villain desperate for meaningâhe hadn't known whether to laugh or to cry. What a pathetic joke. He had struggled, fought, abandoned, and betrayed, all in pursuit of something that had never existed in the first place. And even when he had given up, even when he had tried to rewrite his own story by erasing himself, the world had simply continued on as if he had never mattered.
Wanderer exhaled sharply, an almost bitter chuckle escaping his lips. Nothing had really changed. Or so he thought.
"Unfortunately, your place was taken by another lost soul."
Nahidaâs words made him pause, his brow arching in faint curiosity. Another lost soul? Who could possibly take his place? Had another puppet been woven into the fabric of this timeline, doomed to walk the same miserable path he had barely escaped?
"Who took my place?" The question left his lips before he had fully processed it, driven less by concern and more by a detached, lingering curiosityâwho else could be unfortunate enough to inherit the burden of his existence?
Nahidaâs gaze was gentle, yet her words carried the weight of inevitability. "She goes by the Harbinger title 'Trouvère.' Though her true name is Y/N. Does the name ring a bell?"
For a moment, the world stood still. Then, the ground beneath him may as well have shattered. Y/N. A name he had buried, a presence he had long since abandoned to the past for the sake of moving forwardâno, for the sake of severing all that made him weak. And yet, here it was again, spoken aloud with the finality of a cruel joke. Fate was merciless. He had sacrificed everything, erased himself from history to grant others a future untouched by his shadow. And in doing so, he had unknowingly condemned the only woman he had ever loved. Condemned her to his existence.
The weight of it settled like iron in his chest. She had inherited his suffering, his mistakes, his path paved with ruin. And he had been blind to it, believing that nothing had changed. But everything had changed. In the worst ways possible. The God of Wisdom had an irritating habit of reading minds.
"Come on," Nahida urged, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Sheâs staying in one of the chambers of the Sanctuary of Surasthana. You could meet herâperhaps talk to herâsince she hasn't exactly been cooperative." She offered a sheepish smile, as if her words werenât about to upend what little composure he had left.
The Wanderer exhaled, still attempting to process the revelation that, in another timeline, his villainy had persisted without him. And now, thisâan echo of the past given form in the present. How difficult could this be? So he followed her.
To see her again. The woman who, despite everything, would have followed him to her death. No matter how many times he pushed her away, no matter how many times he abandoned her, she had remained. Devoted. Unwavering. What would she be like now? He had once heard a sayingâkitsunes love only once. And in that other life, she had given that love to him. Had dedicated herself to him entirely, with a faith so unshakable it bordered on foolishness.
But without him, without the man she had once chased through storm and fire⌠Who had she become? The Sanctuary of Surasthana was as serene as ever, its halls steeped in quiet reverence. The air carried a sense of stillness, undisturbed, as if the world beyond its walls did not exist. Yet, for all its tranquility, peace was the last thing in the Wandererâs heart. Was he even ready to face you? You, who had given up so much. You, whom he had already shattered onceâperhaps beyond repairâonly to somehow find a way to wound you again, even in a world where he no longer existed.
Did he even have the right?
The question settled heavily in his mind, an echo of doubt and guilt. Yet, despite everything, his feet carried him forward. Whether it was curiosity, obligation, or something deeper, he did not know. All he knew was that soon, he would see you again. And he was terrified of what he might find. The Wanderer had crossed many thresholds in his lifetimeâor perhaps, in another lifetime entirely. Doors that led to places he was never meant to enter, boundaries he had shattered, choices that had shaped him into the person he was now. And yet, standing before this one, he hesitated.
Crossing the threshold of your chambers felt different. It was suffocating. A part of him wanted to turn back, to disappear before you could ever realize he was there. But he owed the Dendro Archonâowed her enough to see this through, even if every fiber of his being screamed at him to leave. So he stepped forward. Not for himself, not for you, but to ease a debt. And there you were. Sitting at a desk, your back to him, unawareâor perhaps unwilling to acknowledgeâhis presence. For all his apprehension, for all the ways he had braced himself, he still wasnât prepared for this.
"I have no intention of cooperating, Buer. It doesnât matter which one of your little followers youâve dragged along this time."
Your voice cut through the chamber like a blade, sharp with exhaustion, laced with irritation. You werenât speaking to him. You hadnât even spared him a glance. No, your words were directed at none other than the Dendro Archon herself. Nahida, ever patient, merely sighed. "You may want to speak with him, Y/N," she said, unshaken by your hostility. "He has a rather interesting storyâone that heavily relates to you."
And at that, you finally turned. Your gaze met his. For a fleeting moment, there was nothing. No flicker of recognition, no sign that his presence meant anything at all to you. Your eyes were empty, hollowâdisinterested, as though he were no more than a stranger in passing. Then, in the space of a single breath, something shifted. Your expression flickeredâwidenedânot in recognition, but in something far more visceral.
Your gaze dropped, fixating on his hand. On something unseen to anyone else in the room. And then the air snapped taut with killing intent. The shift was instantaneous. Before he could react, before he could so much as breathe, you moved. A blur of motionâthen impact. The world tilted. His back hit the ground, breath ripped from his lungs as fingers clamped around his throat, pressing just enough to burn. Sharp nails dug into his skin, and your grip was ironclad, unyielding.
Fox ears flattened against your head, your pupils blown wide, wild with something between rage and fear. The unmistakable aggression of a kitsune yokai.
{You knew not your name, nor where you came from. A cage, the blinding light, the confident voice of a man who had cyan hair, red eyes through the countless experimentation, and a sterile lab. That was all you knew. That, and the fact that you were made to be her. Made to replace test subject A.
[Alright, ya'll did not like the ending to Ayatsuri, so here's a sequel. This could also be read as an individual piece. I'm here to torture the readers again lol. Also, for the sake of everyone's mental health, I don't know if this will be a sad ending. I put in the tag just in case, cause Dottore is irredeemable, (they will have their moments but come on, this is toxic as hell) and the ending in my opinion would be the best possible scenario for Y/N but, you never know, people are crazy enough to want to end up with Dottore. The timeline is a bit wonky too, this is happening 400 years after the cataclysm, 100 years before recent game events, but Scaramouche doesn't exist in this timeline since he had erased himself from Irminsul. So, the 6th harbinger rank is currently empty as per canon. Dottore was able to conduct the experiments and succeed with Y/N earlier as he wasn't sent away on missions as per the ending of Ayatsuri.]} Read the rest on Ao3!
Chapter 1 -Prologue
When you woke up, you were in a cage.
"Where am I?" you wished to ask, but no words came. Your voice betrayed you, just like the cold, unfeeling bars that surrounded you.
And then, you woke up againâthe glaring lights of the laboratory bearing down on you, indifferent to your unease. It was just a dream. A memory, perhaps. Inconsequential. Unimportant.
You sighed and pushed yourself upright, the faint hum of machinery in the background serving as your constant companion. The same as always. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you rose to begin yet another day.
The routine was second nature by now: brush your teeth at the labâs sink, the chill of the sterile water waking you up more effectively than the broken remnants of sleep. You made coffeeânot for yourself, but for him. Always for him.
With the mug in hand, you walked down the labyrinthine corridors until you found him, exactly where you knew heâd be.
"Good morning, sir. Hereâs your coffee," you said, a polite smile on your lips.
Dottore didnât look up immediately, engrossed in his work, but the faintest flicker of acknowledgment crossed his face before he turned to you. "Ah, Y/N," he said smoothly, his voice carrying its usual mix of authority and curiosity. "Come. Thereâs an experiment I would like to discuss with you."
One might ask: who were you? Why were you living in the Harbinger's lab? What purpose did you serve there?
Perhaps they would, if you were allowed to speak to anyone other than Dottore and his segments. These were questions that lingered like shadows in your mind, unanswered and unwelcome. You didnât know who you were. All you remembered was a cage, an auction, the experiments, and Dottore.
As for your identity, the answer was never simple. You were his assistant. You were Y/N when Dottore was in a good mood, and Test Subject Z-58517 when he wasnât. You preferred the former, of course.
But in truth, none of it mattered. These questions, these labelsâthey were as meaningless as the countless test subjects who entered this lab and left as lifeless husks. Everything was meaningless.
Everything, except Dottore. And, as he often claimed, you.
You were one of only two successes in a century-long experiment. The only subject to show "promising results." What those results entailed, you didnât dare ask. It wasnât your place to question things, after all. That was the first lesson you learned here.
Still, it wasnât all bad. Or so you told yourself. You were lucky, werenât you? He spoke to you, called you by the name he gave you. He taught you thingsâhuman anatomy, the art of observation. He even allowed you to stand beside him during his experiments, a privilege no one else shared.
It was a monotone existence, yes, but far better than the fate of those who came before you. Better than being the one strapped to the operating table. It wasnât that bad, you reminded yourself. It couldnât be.
You were grateful, truly. After the initial experimentation, you were rarely placed on the lab table. And even when he did conduct the occasional procedure on you, he assured you it was never anything life-threatening. Sometimes it was painful, other times it wasnât. Compared to the agony his other test subjects endured, it was almost... merciful.
You knew better than to question it. The last time you asked, his response was chillingly clear: questions about this matter would have consequences. While he encouraged your curiosity in almost everything else, there were certain topics that were strictly off-limits.
His favoritism, for one, was not to be questioned. The door at the far end of the lab was never to be opened. You were not to ask why you werenât allowed to leave the lab, nor were you to inquire about the experiments he performed on you. He had already told you all you needed to know: that his work had made you immortal.
Why he chose you, out of all people, to be his assistantâthat was another forbidden question.
But the most unthinkable of all was asking about your predecessor. The first success in this long chain of experiments. Test Subject A.
Even without asking, you knew fragments of the story. Enough to piece together that Test Subject A had been the first and only other "promising" result before you. He spoke of them often, though never in detail, always comparing you to them, as if measuring you against a standard you couldnât hope to meet.
You never asked what had happened to them.Â
"The calculations you performed were correct, and theoretically, your method could work," Dottore said, his tone steady, analytical. "But, my dear, in practice, the chances of this potion causing the subject's lungs to fail are quite high."
He always found the flaws. Always. No matter how meticulous you were, he would unravel your work with effortless precision. You knew these werenât true lessons; they were tests. He already had the answers. He was comparing you to her againâyour predecessor, the ghost that haunted every experiment.
"Would you like to see what happens when we put your theory to the test, my dear?" he asked, his lips curling into that familiar smile. The one that never reached his eyes. The one that sent a chill down your spine, not because of malice, but because of what it demanded. There was always a right answer with him. Anything else was failure. Anything else was disappointment.
"Yes, sir," you replied, matching his smile as best you could.
The words came easily now. The hesitation you once felt when faced with human experimentation had faded long ago. These days, you even found it... interesting. The twisted elegance of the human body laid bare, the mechanics of life and death under your handsâit fascinated you in ways you never thought possible.
You no longer dreamed of escape. Why would you? This was your world now, and there was nothing for you beyond these walls. You didnât remember anything beyond the lab, not really. And without a reason to leave, why question your place here?
Yes, you told yourself. This was fine. You were fine.
The scalpel felt natural in your hand, too natural. The writhing of the test subject beneath you stirred nothing withinâno pity, no pain. Only focus. You worked with precision, each cut deliberate, each motion practiced.
He had been right. The lung did fail, just as he predicted. The potion you created had done its job, though not in the way youâd hoped.
You glanced at him, searching his face for a flicker of pride. That rare hint of affection he reserved for moments when you exceeded his expectations.
"You did well, my dear," Dottore said, his voice as clinical as ever. Yet, there was a softness to his tone, almost imperceptible. "Your methods of dissection have improved. No mistakes this time."
His gloved hand came to rest lightly on your head, a brief patâa fleeting reward.
"Thank you, sir," you replied, smiling up at him, your chest tightening with something uncomfortably close to satisfaction.
You enjoyed this. The recognition. The approval. The moments when, if only for an instant, you werenât living in her shadow. When he wasnât comparing you to her.
These moments were rare, but when they came, they were intoxicating.
"You completed this experiment with nearly the same time and efficiency as Test Subject A. This calls for a reward, my dear. What would you like?" Dottore asked, his smile softer this timeâalmost genuine.
The question caught you off guard. "I... I donât know, sir," you admitted, unsure of what he expected.
His expression shifted instantly, the corners of his mouth lowering, his eyes narrowing. "Test Subject A would have known what she wanted," he said, his tone flat and clipped. The weight of his disappointment hung in the air, suffocating.
Your chest tightened, and you scrambled to salvage the moment. "I havenât finished yet, sir," you muttered, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. You couldnât let her take this from youânot again. Test Subject A already haunted your every waking moment, her legacy looming like a shadow you could never escape.
Dottore raised an eyebrow, waiting.
You took a breath, crafting an answer on the spot. "A new notebook would suffice," you began, keeping your voice steady. "Perhaps... alongside some flora and fauna Iâve never seen before."
His frown eased, replaced by a spark of intrigue. "Hmm. That is a unique request," he mused, tapping his gloved fingers against his chin. "Test Subject A would have asked for something more practical... but this is understandable. She had access to the world beyond the lab, after all. Collecting such things was easier for her."
For a moment, his gaze softenedâonly slightly. "For you, however, this will be a challenge."
He smiled again, this time with a hint of approval, and pulled out his notebook to jot something down. "Very well. I will acquire what you want."
You watched as he wrote, noting how he immediately documented the difference between you and her. Even in your victories, she lingered. She always did.
You woke up. Another day, another experiment, another endless string of comparisons. This was your life.
At least, it was the only life you knewâuntil the day everything changed.
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{In the ancient days of Liyue, the land was steeped in strife, where gods clashed and calamities raged without end. Rex Lapis, the stalwart defender of Guili Plains, rose as a god of war fighting for peace. Yet, among his countless adversaries, one stood unmatched: Ipos, the god of massacres, a force of chaos whose name became synonymous with dread. Their battles carved scars into the land, a testament to their enmity. But as the Archon War drew to a close, Ipos vanished without a trace, leaving behind only bloodstained whispers of her fate.
[Ipos is Y/N. The story is told from three different timelines. First, Pre-Archon war and Archon war timeline where Y/N's origins are discussed and Y/N is addressed as Ipos in third person. A lot of the story revolves around that, Y/N had two lovers during the time and that is shown in some chapters. Second, post-cataclysm, where Y/N is retiring to be a wine merchant and Y/N is referred to as "you". This is where the slow burn romance between Rex Lapis and Y/N happens. Third, Modern day Liyue, where Y/N is married to a certain funeral consultant, and is currently telling the story to people (and ruining Iron Tongue Tian's business). Modern Day Liyue will not be mentioned a lot.]}
Chapter 1- Prologue
âAh, gather 'round, my friends! Let me tell you a tale of ancient Liyueâa time when our land quaked beneath the shadows of gods and monsters alike,â Iron Tongue Tian began, his voice rich with gravitas as he gestured to the rapt audience.
âIn those distant days, Liyue was beset by calamity, its skies darkened by the fury of two titans. The first, a serpentine terror known as Ipos, the God of Massacres, was no mere beast but a storm incarnate. With a sweep of her wrath, forests would wither, the air itself turning to venom. Thousands fell to her unrelenting might, their cries swallowed by the chaos she wrought. If Osial was a threat, Ipos was a tempest that consumed the very heart of Liyue, her power so great that even the most revered of gods dared not tread near her stronghold in Chenyu Vale.
"Imagine, if you will, a world where she had triumphed. They say Liyue would have been reduced to a wasteland, naught but ash and ruin. And atop a mountain of corpses, it would be her serpentine form that claimed the divine throne. Such a thought, chilling as it is, was not far from reality."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush, drawing the listeners closer. "But against this living calamity stood a mountain dragon, steadfast and unyielding. Yes, our very own Rex Lapis, the Geo Archon himself! Rallying his adepti, he waged war against the serpent, his every strike a testament to his resolve to protect this land. The battles between themâah, they shook the heavens and carved the earth! It was said that the very mountains trembled under their fury.â
Tian paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. âYet even Rex Lapis, mighty as he was, could not strike her down. No, for Ipos was as cunning as she was cruel. As the war raged on, she was cornered at last, driven to the depths of the Chasm. It is there, they say, that the blood-red trees we see today were born, their roots steeped in the blood she shed in her desperation.
âAnd what became of her? Ah, therein lies the mystery, my friends. Some say she was defeated, others that she fled to heal her wounds in the endless dark of the Chasm, waiting for the day she might rise again. But one thing is certain: her reign of terror ended not by her choice, but by the will of the Geo Archon, the stalwart shield of Liyue.â
With a dramatic sweep of his arms, Iron Tongue Tian concluded, his voice brimming with pride. âSo tonight, as you walk the streets of this blessed harbor, give thanks to Rex Lapis, the mountain dragon who tamed the storm. And should you ever wander near the Chasm, beware the whispers of the serpentâlest her slumber be disturbed.â
The crowd shivered, murmuring among themselves, as Tianâs story settled over them like the mist rolling off the peaks of Jueyun Karst.
The murmuring crowd stilled as the figure's voice sliced through the air, sharp and dripping with disdain. "What utter garbage," you muttered, swirling the golden liquid in your cup before taking a measured sip of osmanthus wine.
Nearby, a group of children turned their curious gazes toward you. One, bolder than the rest, asked, "Garbage? What do you mean, Auntie Y/N?"
You tilted your head slightly, feigning surprise, though the smirk tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. "Hmm? Oh, listen well, children. Adults who spin stories for a living are skilled liars. Lies, after all, make for better tales." You leaned closer, your voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Be like Auntie. Build an empire of wine insteadâfar more profitable and far less dramatic."
The children giggled, though their laughter was quickly interrupted by a familiar exasperated sigh. "Auntie Y/N, youâre driving away my customers again," Iron Tongue Tian groaned, rubbing his temples as he stepped forward. His frustration was palpable, and for good reasonâyou had become the bane of his storytelling ventures as of late.
You turned to him with a casual shrug, clearly unfazed. "Then tell better stories, Tian. If you had a shred of accuracy in your words, perhaps Iâd even recommend you to people." You smirked, taking another sip of your wine, your tone sharp yet somehow playful.
Tianâs eyes narrowed. Everyone knew you were no ordinary critic. Your words carried weight, laced with an unnerving certainty that suggested firsthand knowledge. It didnât help that your husband, the ever-enigmatic funeral consultant, seemed to share the same uncanny knack for historical accuracy. Together, you made for an odd couple, one steeped in mystery, and most had long since learned not to pry too deeply.
"You know, Auntie Y/N," Tian retorted, his voice tight with barely restrained annoyance, "itâs easy to mock from the sidelines. But if youâre so certain my tales are lacking, why donât you tell one yourself?"
You laughed, low and melodic, and fixed him with a challenging look. "Oh, Tian, you wouldnât want that. The truth is rarely as entertaining as your flights of fancy." You waved a dismissive hand, already turning back to the children, who were now looking at you with wide-eyed fascination.
"Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Life lessons. Drink wine, build an empire, and never believe everything you hear," you said, raising your cup in a mock toast.
Tian groaned audibly, while the crowdâhalf intrigued and half bewilderedâcouldnât decide whether to laugh or quietly slink away. Such was the chaos you seemed to bring wherever you went, though you, as always, seemed to revel in it.
You were, by now, everyone's "Auntie," though your youthful visage spoke of a life untouched by time. The people of Liyue chalked it up to good fortuneâor perhaps just good genes. None dared to pry further.
"Very well," you relented, setting your cup down with deliberate ease. A slow grin spread across your face, sharp and knowing, as if you held the keys to secrets long buried. "Youâve convinced me. Let me tell you the true story of the God of Massacres. One that will make even the strongest piss themselves."
The crowd leaned in, breathless, and thus began the tale.
[Humans, they can't be trusted. And Gods filled him with pure loathing. However, she wasn't human, not anymore, and nor was she a Goddess. Perhaps, monsters like them truly belong together in the same cage. Reader is a harbinger and the main ship is Scaramouche x reader. Dottore is only there for the shared trauma cause I hate that man so much but why is he hot?! This is also a slow burn fanfic and the smut won't show up till much later. Also, the character for reader will be a huge red flag.]
Chapter 1: Acquaintance
Solitude had long been his chosen companion, the only luxury Scaramouche truly valued in his fragmented existence. Yet, as a Harbinger, he had long since forfeited such indulgences. Power demanded sacrifices, and among them was enduring the tedium of these infernal meetings. So there he sat, silent and brooding, waiting for Pierro to finally arrive and put an end to this charade. Four centuries had passed since he took up his title, and still, the endless deliberations grated on him like sand caught in delicate gears.
What tiresome mission would Pierro hand down this time? Scaramoucheâs thoughts churned, calculating potential excuses to evade itâunless, of course, the task involved the Gnosis of Inazuma or something equally intriguing. His gaze flitted briefly to Capitano, who wasâpredictablyâreveling in recounting his latest conquests. Scaramouche had lost track of how many times heâd had to repair his mechanical ears this year alone thanks to Capitanoâs incessant boasting. And then there was Dottore. Or more precisely, Dottoreâs assistant.
Why were you here?
It was supposed to be a meeting for Harbingers, not their lackeys. And yet, there you stood, an anomaly in a room meant for monsters wearing masks of power. Scaramoucheâs sharp eyes lingered, sizing you up.
You were a presence he had noticed before, though only in passing. For nearly a century now, youâd been tethered to Dottore like a shadow. He vaguely recalled your first appearanceâjust another mortal plucked from obscurity, or so heâd assumed. But time had proven otherwise. You didnât age. Not in the slightest. Over the years, heâd seen you in Dottoreâs lab more times than he cared to remember, assisting with experiments that twisted the boundaries of creation itself. Each encounter only served to deepen his disdain. To Scaramouche, you were a lifeless puppet, more hollow than he ever was, and that was no small feat.
He harbored no pity for you, of course. You had chosen to align yourself with that wretched Doctor, and that was reason enough to despise you. Yet your presence here, in a place meant for the elite of the Fatui, was perplexing. What purpose could you possibly serve outside Dottoreâs lab? And more importantlyâwhat game was the Doctor playing now?
He leaned back in his chair, the indifference in his gaze masking the flicker of curiosity beneath. Scaramouche was, if nothing else, a patient man. Years of navigating the treacherous waters of the Fatui had taught him that some truths were best unveiled through silence. If this was another of Dottoreâs elaborate schemes, and it likely was. Acting prematurely would only play into the Doctorâs hands. No, better to wait, to observe. The truth always revealed itself to those who endured.
When Pierro finally arrived, late as always, it was with the same air of somber authority that made his tardiness feel more deliberate than accidental. The director of the harbingers wasted no time in beginning.
"The agenda for this meeting," Pierro began, his gravelly voice echoing across the room, "is to introduce our newest recruit to the Harbingers. This is Y/N."
Scaramoucheâs sharp eyes darted toward you, his suspicion sharpening with Pierroâs words. He had expected many thingsâschemes, experiments, manipulationsâbut this?
Pierro continued, unbothered by the rising tension in the room. "She has served the Fatui faithfully for many years as both an operator and as an assistant to Dottore. Through her loyalty and cunning, she has proven her worth to Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa. As of today, she has been appointed as the Twelfth of the Fatui Harbingers. Her title will be Scapina, the Machiavellian. Let us all welcome her to our ranks."
The room fell into a brittle silence, one crackling with thinly veiled hostility. Scaramouche didnât need to look around to sense the disdain radiating from the others. It was palpable, a storm gathering beneath the surface. Only a fool would openly welcome this new addition. After all, the Harbingers were a collection of schemers and opportunists, each jealously guarding their position within the ranks. The idea of an outsiderâespecially one who had served as a shadow to Dottore, no lessâwas fuel enough to ignite animosity.
Your connection to Dottore made your appointment to the Harbingers an immediate threat in Scaramoucheâs eyes. It was a move that would only solidify the Doctorâs influence within their ranks. He already had a firm alliance with Pantalone, and now, with you, a new piece on the board, his power grew. Scaramouche wasnât the only one to notice. The unease in the room was palpable, an unspoken consensus rippling through the assembled Harbingers. Suspicion was their currency, and you had entered the game with a balance already stacked against you.
Scaramoucheâs thoughts churned as his gaze flickered toward you. The Harbingers were ranked by strength, and Tartaglia, a mortal, held a position above you. For all his disdain for the youngest Harbinger, even Scaramouche had to admit the boy had earned his place through sheer skill and brutality. You, however, appeared far weaker. What could possibly justify your appointment? The Tsaritsaâs favor alone? It was an insult to the groupâa blemish on their elite force. He was prepared to voice his protest, but La Signora, as always, was quicker to seize the floor.
With her signature elegance laced with venom, she stepped forward, her crimson gown billowing like flames in the icy air. Her gaze settled on you, sharp and cutting, before turning to Pierro with an arched brow.
"Are we to assume," she began, her voice dripping with condescension, "that this⌠new recruit is a mortal, like Tartaglia?" Her lips curled into a smirk as she gestured toward the Eleventh Harbinger, who remained silent, his expression unreadable. "Given that our ranks are determined by strength, surely there is no place for someone weaker than him among us. Are you quite certain that this decision serves the Tsaritsaâs will?"
Her words hung in the air, heavy and biting, as her sharp eyes flicked back to you, appraising and dismissive all at once. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Pierroâs response. Scaramouche leaned back slightly, watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement. For once, he felt no need to interject. La Signoraâs disdain had articulated his own thoughts well enough, though he suspected she spoke less out of principle and more for the sport of humiliating you.
"Y/N is not a mortal," Pierro said, his voice firm and deliberate, silencing the murmurs that threatened to ripple through the room. "She has demonstrated significant strength and proved her worth on missions that caught the eye of Her Majesty herself. Yes, the Harbinger rankings are determined by strength, but I must remind you allâphysical prowess alone does not dictate power. Y/N commands an intelligence network that extends beyond the reach of the House of the Hearth, a network that has delivered information to the upper ranks and the Tsaritsa that could very well redefine our understanding of this world."
He paused, his icy gaze sweeping the room, daring anyone to object. "From the depths of the Abyss, she has unearthed truths that challenge our assumptions about Celestia and the power they wield over us. Her Majesty values results, and Y/N has delivered them. I trust you will all have faith in Her Majestyâs judgment."
The weight of Pierroâs words settled over the room like a frost-laden gale. It was rare for him to acknowledge the worth of any Harbinger, and rarer still for him to defend one with such conviction. Suspicion bloomed among the gathered Harbingers, their guarded expressions betraying their unease. If Pierro, a figure revered for his unyielding standards, stood so firmly behind you, then there was more to you than they had anticipated.
Scaramouche, for his part, found himself more cautious than ever. The enigma surrounding you only deepened. Your background was a void, obscured even from the prying eyes of the Fatuiâs inner circle. No one, save Dottore, seemed to know where you had come from or what your ultimate agenda might be. Your strengths, your weaknesses, everything about you was an unknown.
And yet, somehow, without uttering a single word, you had commanded the meetingâs attention. Pierro had spoken on your behalf, a feat few could dream of accomplishing. Even the most seasoned Harbingers tread carefully around him, yet you had managed to turn him into your mouthpiece. It was a power that unnerved Scaramouche, a subtle manipulation that spoke to a deeper, more insidious intelligence.
His gaze flicked around the room. The others mirrored his wariness, their eyes sharp with calculation. All except three: Dottore, Pierro, and Columbina. Dottore, of course, was your obvious ally. Pierro was the one who had legitimized your place among them, a shield you could wield for now. And Columbina⌠well, no one ever truly knew what thoughts lurked behind that serene smile.
For Scaramouche, the conclusion was clear: you were dangerous. And danger, in the Fatui, was rarely an accident.
The meeting dragged on far longer than Scaramouche would have liked. He sat with a bored expression etched onto his face, his chin resting lazily on one hand as he occasionally cast sidelong glances at you. You had been an afterthought to him beforeâa shadowy figure trailing after that insufferable Dottore, a face lost in the sea of recruits and subordinates. But now? Now, you had a seat at the same table as him, an equal among the Harbingers. That fact alone forced him to pay attention.
You were difficult to read. Your blank expression betrayed nothing, and those bored, E/C eyes of yours gave no hint of what thoughts might be lurking behind them. A hallmark of a Harbinger, true, but there was something else, a subtle malice that clung to you like a faint, nearly undetectable scent. Unnerving. Scaramouche prided himself on his instincts, on his ability to sense potential threats, yet you had somehow escaped his notice entirely until now. That was what unsettled him most.
As the meeting finally concluded, Scaramouche stood, dusting off his pants and retrieving his hat from the ground where he had placed it earlierâa concession to Pulcinella and Sandrone, whose complaints about the brim poking them had become unbearable. Adjusting the hat atop his head, he cast a disinterested glance around the room, watching the other Harbingers depart one by one. It was in that moment, as the room began to empty, that he heard a voice.
âItâs rude to stare, you know.â
The words carried a smugness that immediately grated on his nerves. His head turned sharply, eyes narrowing as he looked over his shoulder to find you standing there, an almost playful expression on your face.
"Scapina, was it?" he asked, his voice laced with disdain.
"Yes," you replied smoothly, your tone light but your gaze unwavering. "Iâm already well aware of who you are, of course, so thereâs no need for introductions."
The smile you wore might have fooled anyone else, its warmth seemingly genuine. But Scaramouche wasnât just anyone. He had spent centuries perfecting the art of deceit himself and could see it for what it wasâa mask, nothing more. He scoffed, his lips curling into a mocking smirk.
"Indeed. So, youâre Dottoreâs lapdog," he drawled, his tone biting. "What made you think Iâd want to entertain a conversation with the likes of you? Surely, youâre not foolish enough to think Iâd be on friendly terms with anyone who associates with him."
Your smile didnât falter. If anything, it seemed to widen, though the glint in your eyes remained sharp and calculating. "As far as Iâm aware," you said, with a chuckle that felt too casual for the weight of your words, "youâre not on good terms with anyoneâHarbinger or otherwise."
Your remark landed like a bladeâs edge, but you continued before Scaramouche could retort. "In any case, I look forward to our future collaborations. Iâve always found you rather⌠interesting."
With that, you turned on your heel and left, your steps echoing softly against the cold marble floor. Scaramouche stood rooted in place, his scowl deepening as he watched you leave.
"Interesting?"Â he thought, his irritation bubbling beneath the surface. If there was one thing he despised, it was being toyed with. And yet, there you were, smiling and chuckling as though you had already won some unspoken game. It only made him all the more wary of you.
[Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal! And a happy new year! *Cutely shoots you with yet another incomplete fanfic. The rest of the chapters are on AO3.]
Summary: While handing out sentences to criminals, youâre brought in to receive your punishment though King Sukuna has different plans to deal with your crime
Word Count: 3.7k
Warnings: Smut, non-con, slight gore, Sukuna has two ppâs, double penetration, anal, squirting, hella size kink, suicidal thoughts, reader has long hair and is described as small in comparison to Trueform Sukuna
A/N: This is a royalty AU but donât look too closely for any historical accuracies, this was mainly about the smut
âNext,â Sukuna demanded disinterestedly, cheek resting atop his fist as he reclined leisurely on his throne.
The guards were quick to drag in the next criminal.
âKudo Yoshimi,â Uraume announced, just as disinterestedly as their King, âFound drunk and exposing himself to a group of young women.â
Sukuna barked out a laugh, getting a look at the old man that was chained and trembling in front of him, in a deep bow. âThought youâd show them what youâre working with, eh?â Another chuckle bubbled from his throat, âCastrate him. Next.â
The old man lifted his head in a panic, âBut my Kingââ Sukuna waved his hand and the man stopped speaking as his head was cleanly sliced from his neck.Â
âNext.â The King of Curses demanded more firmly, watching his body crumble beneath him.
The guards quickly cleaned up the carnage as the next criminal was brought in.
Uraume spoke your name but little made it past the Kingâs ears as his eyes landed on the delicate creature that was brought in.
A sight for sore eyes, that was for sure.
Sukuna always did wonder why the criminals were rarely women, especially attractive women. It would have made these hearings so much more enjoyable.
He watched the guards force you into a kneel, bending you over and keeping your forehead firmly pressed into the ground.
The corner of Sukunaâs mouth quirked up.Â
Curious.
âStep away from her.â
The guards did as commanded and Sukuna watched in rapt attention as you lifted your head and stared your King straight in his eye.
He hummed knowingly.
You wanted to die.
It came as no surprise to Uraume and the more seasoned guards when Sukuna made no move to kill you. His licentious nature was common knowledge, and here was a young, pretty thing being served up on a platter for the King.
Sukuna eyed you, drinking in every last inch and detail of you.Â
You stood in a tattered, white nightgown caked and stained in aged blood. Hair unbound and cascading freely, much like the prostitutes he regularly found in the brothels. So delicate and fragile looking but with eyes as fierce and sharp as a blade.
You looked like a kitten with her fangs bared.
âAnd what has this little one done?â
âShe murdered both her mother and father.â
âHm.â
A silence thickened in the room as Sukuna mulled over his thoughtsâ so many ways to punish you with a crime like that.
Then there was also your lack of respect which deserved a different sentencing in and of itself.
âWhat do you think I should do to you, little one?â
He watched amusedly as your jaw ticked.Â
âWhat you would do to any other peasant who committed the same crime.â You spat with such vitriol that the King was forced to admit:
He was impressed.
Grown men have trembled and cried in his presence before. Heâs had nobles piss themselves from the fear he struck within their hearts.
âDo you crave death?â
âI have earned it.â
âAnd what if I were to tell you,â Sukuna shifted in his seat, giving you his complete undivided attention as he leaned forward in interest, âI had a different punishment in mind.â
Ah, there it was.
A slight furrow to your brow, eyes flashing with unease.Â
Only for it to disappear.
âStrip her,â he commanded the guards, âI would like to see this beauty unclothed.âÂ
Your gaze had hardened further, mouth pursing into a little pout as two guards flanked you, hauling you back up to your feet.
Sukuna grinned mockingly at you, reveling in the fact you refused to break his gaze as you stood firmly on your feet all the while the guards stripped you of your nightgown and undergarments.Â
The King had been the first one to break, tearing his eyes away from yours in favor of gazing upon your nude figure.
You really were a sight for sore eyes. He eyed your curves, dipped and rounded in all the right places. Particularly liking the plush of your thighs. Nipples stood stiff, pebbled in the cool air, breasts rising and falling with each of your breaths. A patch of hair hid your womanhood from his prying eyesâ but no matter, once he had you in his bedchambers every part of you was sure to be bared.
In another life you could have been royalty with looks like those, he was sure. Or perhaps you could have been something else all together.Â
You could have been one of those seductresses the fairytales so often warned about, luring both boys and men to their deaths.
But instead you had been born to a lowly peasant family.
Lucky him.
The King of Curses stood up from his throne and closed the distance that separated him from his new object of interest.
He towered over you in both height and width. You had to jut your chin upwards just to look him in the eyes.
He had crossed one pair of arms across his chest while a third hand took a lock of hair between his fingers.Â
âWhere was she found?â Sukuna asked.
âIn her home on the outskirts of the city.â
âThe outskirts, hm?â He hummed, gripping your chin and angling your head every which way to get a good look at you. âThe poorest of the poor. You must have been a real gem all the way out there. Tell me, little one, how many suitors do you have?â
You didnât answer.
âMore than two?â
â⌠Yes.â
A chuckle rumbled in his chest at your reply.
âAre you a prostitute?â
You sneered at the King, âI would have killed myself before I was that desperate.â
It seemed he had touched a nerve.
âAnd why is that? You could have turned a pretty coin by working in a brothel. Would have given you buckets of gold if I ever stumbled upon a delicate thing such as yourself.â
âI would rather become a penniless old maid before letting monsters like you touch me,â you spat.
He laughed loudly at your words. âMust have been nice to have a choice, murderess.â He took a step back, âTake her to my chambers,â he commanded, turning back around and making his way to his throne once again. âLetâs finish these hearings quickly. Next.â
â
The pattering of rain existed in the far distance as the King of Curses gazed upon you within the quiet, dimmed room.
You kneeled on his bed, head cast down since he had stepped inside and dismissed the guards.Â
Perhaps you regretted not showing him the proper respect earlier.
He did wish youâd look at him now, standing completely bare before you, both of his thick cocks hanging heavy and hard all on display just for you after having shed his robe the moment he saw your naked form once more.
Gooseflesh pimpled along your skinâ you must have been freezing in his cold chambers for the few hours you had waited. He bet those lovely perky buds of yours were still stiff and hard as they were earlier, shame he couldnât tell as you hid your nakedness the best you could behind your hair.Â
âYou refuse to look upon me now little one?â
You shrunk further in on yourself at the low, gravelly timbre of his voice.
âWhy not kill me?âÂ
âNow why would I do that?â He hummed, reaching a hand out and capturing a lock of hair once more.
âEveryone said you would,â you breathed out, hands fisting against your thighs.
âYou should be grateful,â he tugged lightly on your hair, âA beauty like you shouldnât die so young.â
You sniffledâ it made his cocks twitch, listening to your suffering.
âYouâre letting me live⌠because Iâm pretty?âÂ
âIs that not the answer you desired?â
âYou would have sentenced anyone else to death. I should be no differentâ Iâve earned it.â
He sighed, dropping the lock of hair. Your mind seemed to be a whirlwind at the moment, concerning yourself with things he quite frankly didnât give two shits about.
âBeauty is a currency, little one. And you have overpaid your toll.â He kneeled against the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. His finger slipped beneath your chin, jutting it upwards.
Your eyes locked with his. Watery and vulnerable, lashes clumping together with your tears. It was such a stark difference from earlier that it stole his breath. âOverpaid indeed.â
He sealed his lips against yours, claiming your mouth in a bruising clash of teeth and tongue, pushing you backwards into the plush bedding beneath you.
You whimpered, the sweet little sound being swallowed by the King.
You didnât fight or struggle against him to which he found both shocking and pleasing, but you didnât participate either. You simply allowed him to lick into your mouth and nip at your lips.
He pulled away slightly, strings of spit connecting your mouth to his grin as one hand stroked your cheek and another pair maneuvered your legs around his waist.
âAre you a virgin, little one?â
You tore your gaze away from him, features blank, hiding any emotion you had dared to show him just minutes before.
âNo.â
âAnd who did you give it to? One of your many suitors?â
âIt was stolen from me. I apologize, my King, but you are hardly the first man to rape me.â You spat bitterly.
He hummed, a soft chuckle of sorts as his long, pointed thumbnail traced beneath your eye. âBut Iâm sure to be the last.â
You shrieked, losing your composure at the sensation suddenly felt between your legs. You grasped at the bed sheets, looking to Sukuna for an answer.
âDonât tell me you are unaware of the rumors?â He taunted.
Your eyes widened at the implication as the feeling of a large moistened tongue lapped between your folds, another strangled cry releasing from your lips.
If that one was true, thenâ
You attempted to look down, but his manhood had been hidden by the ruffled bed sheets. âDoes that mean?â
âAll in due time, little one.â
Your head fell back into the soft pillows, softer than any pillow you had laid your head upon, but unable to appreciate it in itâs fullness as the wet muscle nestled between your legs laved over your clit.
You chewed at your bottom lip, attempting to hold back your wanton moans.Â
âTell me,â he hummed, sucking bruises along your unblemished neck, âWhy did you do it?â
You didnât answerâcouldnât-Â not while his second mouth worked against you as all four of his hands grasped and kneaded any and all exposed flesh they could reach.
It wasâ dizzying.
âIâve asked you a question,â he stated firmly, nipping at your neck.
You opened your mouth to provide an answer but an unrestrained moan tumbled free instead as he began to suck on your clit. The sensation stealing the breath from your lungs.
You blinked quickly in an attempt to stifle your tears.
It shouldnât feel good.
âYou donât want to anger me little one.â He murmured warningly.
âTheyâ mmh, they sold me tooâ ah- a brothel!â You choked out, before biting into your lip once more, tasting blood on your tongue.
âAnd you found death preferable to that fate,â he hummed in understanding.
The irony was not lost on either of you.
You were such a delicate little thing beneath him, being dwarfed deliciously by him. Sukuna found it quite the mystery as to how you werenât eaten up sooner.
He liked how desperately you tried to hold back your cries, and heâd entertain you in that venture for now.
But he would break you by the time he was through with you tonight. He was sure to have you in tears, moaning freely as you took his cocks.
But this little game was entertaining as well.
You began to pant like a bitch in heat as he continued to suck and flick at your clit, a sheen of sweat now layering your skin. Hips twitching against his abdomen, if it wasnât for the firm hold he had on you he was sure youâd be halfway up the headboard by now.
His gaze travelled down the length of your neck before landing on your breasts. Little buds just as stiff as he remembered.
He dipped a head down, latching onto the pert nipple and sucking on it with a groan against your chest.
He continued his ministrations, not necessarily working you towards an end, pulling back every time you were close to cumming. You didnât understand why he was drawing this out longer than it had to be.
Your breath hitched at what followed. The wet muscle between your legs licked lower and lowerâ
âWhat are youâ AH!â Your eyes flew open, entire body going stiff as a board, trying in vain to pull away from his tongue as he licked over your puckered rim. âWhy thereâ!?â You exclaimed, hands releasing the bed sheets as you tried to push him away.
He chuckled lowly, as you yelped once more while he began to press the tip of the muscle inside, past the fluttering hole. He released your nipple with a wet smack, grinning âGotta get her ready too~â he lilted, taunted, admiring how your face screwed up in panic at the unfamiliar sensation.
He watched as the realization dawned on you and real, tangible fear flooded your features.Â
âNo, I donâtâ I canât do that-â
âOf course you can, little one.â He stroked your hair, voice dripping in patronization. âYou have two precious little holes down there and I have all the time in the world to stretch them open for me.â
You couldnât hold the tears back this time, letting them paint your face in shiny trails only for Sukuna to lick them up before shoving his tongue back into your mouth.
You trembled beneath him as he spent a cruel amount of time playing with you, stretching you open. Bringing you to the brink of an orgasm and taking it away just as quickly.
This was what madness felt like.
You were sure of it.
You were caught in a daze, time had become nonexistent, trying and failing to hang onto any of your senses.Â
But they were all flooded and overwhelmed by him.
You hardly recognized the feeling of a cock stroking through your folds after what felt like hours of only his mouth until the thick tip breached your entrance.
Your glassy eyes found his.Â
He groaned softly with a breath as he slowly pushed in an inch of his throbbing cock, captivated by you once moreâ caught under some sort of spell that any weaker man would have crumbled under. âYou have,â he breathed, cupping your jaw and once again stroking his thumbnail beneath your eye, âThe most bewitching eyesâ how many men have fallen to their demise under your power?â He lowered his face to yours, trailing a nose along your cheek.
âPower?â You sniffled, staring off behind him, âThis isnât power.â
âHm,â he hummed, pressing another inch into you, listening to the prettiest whimper get caught in your throat. âItâs a power you havenât learned to use properly. Like a child who has been handed a sword but never taught how to wield. Born in a better situation, you would have figured out how to make men kill for youâ a cleverer woman would have never had to kill her parents by her own hand.â
Your face screwed up in discomfort, breath catching as a hand began guiding his second cock into your other hole.
You gnawed on your lip, digging your nails into his arms as you tried to mull over his words. âB-beautyâ nghâ is a curse.â You gasped out at the incredibly large and painful stretch both his cocks had inflicted.
His grin widened, teeth poking out, âExactly.â
In one slow yet fluid motion he pushed into your cunt and ass.
Your back arched, body going stiff once more as you clung to him for stability. Your breath caught in your throat struggling to breathe through this inconceivable sensation.Â
You had never been so full, stretched so wide you were convinced heâd tear you in two if he began fucking youâ he was too big, too much.
You trembled like a leaf beneath his much larger and opposing frame, a fresh wave of tears pricking, stinging at your eyes.
It hurt.
You tilted your head, nose bumping against his own. Your eyes, the eyes he seemed to be going mad over, searched his desperately. âMy Kingâ please, I canât. Please show me mercy.â
A chuckle bubbled up in his throat as he grinned amusedly as you. His lower pair of arms grasped you by the back of your thighs and pushed them upwards, pressing them into your tits.
You were nothing more than a rag doll to him and the idea that he thought you possessed any sort of power tasted bitter on the back of your tongue.
âAnd whyâŚâ He began, sitting back up, now staring at where is two cocks disappeared into your tight holes with a rumble of delight deep within his chest, ââŚwould I do that, murderess?â
He provided little warning before reeling his hips back and pushing back in with a forceful thrust that had any sort of control you had over your own vocal cords disappear as you cried on his cocks.
It was only fitting, you supposed, that the punishment for your crime was to have the King of Curses himself fuck you into unconsciousness.
Youâve heard stories of his concubines while growing up. He has had countless of them but none lasting more than a year before he was ultimately finished with them, slicing them up after cumming in them for the last time.
You would not allow yourself to succumb to the same fate.
The wet slaps of skin smacking against skin mixed with his grunts and your uncontrollable yelps made you want to curl up, the repetitive filthy sounds making you sick.
Why couldnât he have just killed you.
âI think you might just be the tightest and prettiest little thing Iâve ever stuck my cocks into,â he growled, driving his hips harder against yours, forcing a broken sob free from your lips, body jolting upwards with each of his thrusts, âA goddess for my own pleasure.â
âG-goddesses areâ hnghâ worshipped!â You choked out.
âIs this not worshipping?â He grunted, pressing your thighs further into your chest, leaning his weight into you and speeding up his thrusts. âI believe if you saw how I treated my concubines, youâd think this was the highest form of worship.âÂ
You didnât know what to say, not that you even could as he forced out higher and higher pitched whimpers and cries from your lips.
âHow did you kill them, little one? Câmon, hahâ tell me,â he growled, suddenly lifting your legs and putting you into a mating pressâ mounting you like a beast.
âIâ hm!â You choked as one of his hands winded between your legs and played with your clit, rolling it beneath the pad of his thumb. His face was close to yours once more, sharp gaze searching your tearful one. âWeâ ahâ w-we had an ax!âÂ
The King quirked an eyebrow in interest, the idea of you lifting and swinging an ax hard enough to kill your own parents amused him. You would have had to hit them more than once, no doubt.
He found the image of you standing above your parents, holding an ax, covered in their blood startlingly arousing.
Perhaps heâd hunt down the men that had raped you in the past and watch you kill them yourself before he fucked you⌠or perhaps heâd make them watch him fuck you first before having you kill them.Â
His mind reeled with the possibilities.
âA goddess indeed.â
He continued his brutal thrusts into you, the stretch still feeling wildly unnatural even as some of the pain subsided.Â
You were close.
And you hated it.
You screwed your eyes shut as both holes fluttered and clenched around his cocks, only forcing Sukuna to grow rougher with you, which in turn drove you closer to your end.
And this time he didnât pull your orgasm away from you as he did when he used his tongue, instead he found you teetering along the edge of oblivion and pushed you off without hesitation.
The air was knocked out of you, causing your back to arch almost inhumanly so as your vision went stark white. Your cunt clenched around him like a vice, barely registering the wet splashes that escaped you and hit your skin.
He fucked you like an animal during your seemingly endless fall. He groaned out curses and praises about your cunt, repeating over and over again how the gods he hadnât believed in sent him a goddess to play withâ to worship in his own sick way.
His own orgasm hit him harder than any jujutsu technique ever had.
You were better than any of his concubinesâ milking him like he had never cum before, strings of white painting your womb and he had even entertained the thought of his very own brat growing within you, knocking up a goddess.
Your power was unmatched.
He had crushed you beneath his weight after his orgasm subsided, never having felt so weak in his life.Â
The idea was unthinkableâ The King of Curses weak.
âWhat are you, little one?â He whispered breathlessly against your neck.
His tone had taken you aback even within the hazy daze your mind was caught up in, he sounded so reverent.Â
ââM nothing b-but a peasant⌠with a pretty face,â you panted.
âHm,â he hummed, breathing against your neck. âIf I find you were sent to distract me⌠I will cut you down without hesitation.â
Your breath had caught in your throat. âYouâll only be giving me what I want.â
âA goddess who is a murderess⌠and craves death herself,â he dragged his nose along your neck, moving upwards until his lips caressed your ear, âPerhaps you are even fit to be my Queen.â
You stared at the canopy above you, absorbing his words. What you had said next had only earned you a patronizing chuckle and a kiss to your neck.
Can you write a Part 2 of the pantalone and dottore oneshot where dottore finds the reader and brings them back?
Oh boy CAN I. This isn't super well edited because I've taken much longer than anticipated writing this, but it's 4k words and editing it properly would take maybe another 1-2 days fhjghjkghjkg also excuse any inaccuracies with the Harlow's monkey experiment, I'm rolling mostly off my recollection and a quick skim of a wiki page.
Cut Me Open, Bleed Me Dry
Continuation to Gilded Cage, which can be read here.
Thatâs the first thing your mind registers when you come to. The second, is the throbbing and insistent pain behind your temples as consciousness slowly comes back to you.Â
Thereâs a sour taste in your mouth. Your tongue feels like cotton, your fingers tingle with pins and needles as numbness slowly fades from them, and you immediately know youâve been drugged. Even with the fog of sleep and the drug still clinging to your mind; even as your thoughts are waterlogged and youâre treading water just to piece them together, you know where you are.
Dottore always did like to use the same drug every time he sedated you.Â
Thereâs a blindfold covering your eyes, pressing uncomfortably against your lashes when you try to open them, but thereâs no gag to accompany it. That must mean he wants you to talk.Â
You decide to stall. If you thrash, beg, or scream, heâll know youâre awake. And youâll be subjected to whatever it is heâs going to do to you a lot sooner. So⌠you donât do that. Instead, you keep your breathing steady, holding still against the cold metal table youâre strapped to.Â
Sure, itâs only just delaying the inevitable, but youâve gotten good at drifting away whenever you wake up on his operating table. Itâs the only thing you can do to cling to the frayed threads left of your sanity.Â
In a way, the blindfold helps. Dottore usually doesnât blindfold you, but PantaloneâŚÂ
You close your eyes, focusing on the pressure of the fabric covering your eyes to distract yourself from the bite of cold metal against bare skin, and you drift.Â
Youâre in bed. Itâs warm, if only under the sheets. Youâre not⌠home, but if youâre being honest with yourself (you rarely are, these days), you donât really remember what home was like, anymore. So you settle for the empty imitations of it; the dreary and beautiful halls of Pantaloneâs mansionsâ he had to move you around, a few times, but never told you why, when youâd asked. You know now.Â
Youâre⌠in bed. Itâs cold. Youâre shivering. You can hear Pantalone across the room; heâs saying something, but you canâtâ you canât hear him. Why canât youâŚ?
Youâre in bed, and you feel gloved hands tracing up your arms, fingers pausing to tap playfully against your pulse, and then your head is being lifted so deft fingers can untie the knot holding the blindfold.Â
The fabric is pulled away, and red eyes meet your own.Â
Youâre not in bed. Youâre with Dottore, strapped to an operating table. Reality crashes into you like a bucket of icewater, and your trembling increases tenfold.Â
âEnjoy your rest?â He asks, monotone. Heâs not smiling, and itâs the first time, you realize, that he hasnât smiled when heâs had you on his exam table.Â
You donât respond, and Dottoreâs face stays carefully blank as he regards you. â...Hm.âÂ
The Doctor steps away, out of sight, but you donât try to follow him with your gaze, listening instead to his receding footsteps.Â
It still doesnât feel real. Undoubtedly, part of you knew that, as tightly as Pantalone held on, it was only a matter of time before Dottore sunk his claws into you once more.Â
But part of you wanted to hope that it wouldnât happen, that Pantalone would be able to shield you from him forever. Because though Pantalone treated you more like a beloved pet than a person, it was still better than this: pinned under the microscope and picked apart piece by sinewy piece by Dottore.Â
Dottore returns to your side, and you count ceiling tiles, willing the ground to open up and swallow you into the abyss. Or better yet, to swallow him, so he can be surrounded by darkness as deep as the pitch of his soul.Â
Youâd pray if there were any gods to hear you. But you know better. The prick of a needle, chased by the burn of whatever heâs injecting into you, and you know that the godsâ or perhaps just the blasphemous parody of gods that had sunk their teeth into Teyvat long agoâ had abandoned you.Â
Gloved fingers trace a slow path down your sternum, pausing just below your diaphragm and pressing down until you wince in discomfort, stopping when you do but not yet easing up.Â
âComfortable?â
âNo,â Comes your hoarse whisper. Your eyes stay pinned on the ceiling tiles overhead. Thereâs specks of blood you can barely see from where you lie. You wonder how much of it is yours.Â
âPity.âÂ
The hands continue their slow descent over bare skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. He pauses again once he reaches your pelvic bone, drumming his fingers there before pulling away entirely. Glass clinks against glass when he steps away again, and you feel a hand grabbing your chin before the narrow mouth of a test tube is pressed against your lips.Â
âOpen,â He says, grip tightening on your chin, and you do. You know better by now than to fight him.
The liquid inside of the tube sloshes out as he pours it a little too quickly, and the rest of it burns the whole way down your throat, sickly-sweet. Dottore pulls the tube away when heâs sure youâve swallowed it all, wiping the excess dribbling down your chin with his thumb before dipping into your mouth to smear it against your tongue.Â
It doesnât take long for you to figure out what it was he gave you. You think he injected you with a muscle relaxantâ you realize too late when your fingers stop responding to your attempts to twitch them (not that you could do much to struggle otherwise. The straps pinning you to the table hold firm).
As for what he poured down your throatâŚÂ
Dottore is across the room washing his hands when you begin to sweat. You can hear the sound of running water, and while youâre sure itâs only for a minute, it feels like an eternity as the chill of the room begins to hurt, turning sharp and biting.Â
He comes back over when you whimper, with a fresh set of gloves and a scalpel. You regret looking, forcing your gaze back to the ceiling and breathing through your teeth. You try to count the blood specks on the ceiling, the cracks, the tilesâ anything and everything to distract yourself.Â
The blade of his scalpel grazes your wrist, leaving what youâre sure is no bigger than a papercut, but it burns so much more than it should, ripping a muted whine from your throat.Â
Dottore hushes you, continuing to cut through the straps. You know he could just undo them, instead of ruining them by cutting through the leather, but he wants to see you squirm.Â
He doesnât nick you again, but it doesnât matter. The pain of the cut on your wrist stings so insistently you canât manage to drift, to distance yourself, away from him and from what heâs doing to you.Â
When he finishes with the last strap, he sets the scalpel down on a tray beside the tableâ one you refuse to look at, not wanting to see the tools laid out there; to see what he intends to do to you. Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is bliss, you tell yourself, and you try to believe it.Â
Youâre lifted and positioned so youâre lying on your stomach now on the table, and he has the barest amount of mercy left in him to turn your head to the side so your nose doesnât smash against the metal surface.Â
âNow, this is going to sting a bit, dear,â He starts, once youâre positioned how he wants you, âBut youâve suffered worse, hm? Bear with it.â
Itâs detached, the way he speaks to you; so unlike the usual underlying excitement that drips from his voice whenever heâs laid you out on this table in the past. Itâs.. horrifying. The safety net of his obsession thatâs saved you from worse in the past no longer feels safe, anymore. If ever it did.Â
Cool metal ghosts over your spine, the flat of the scalpel dragging over skin before stopping to rest below your shoulder blade. He pulls away and you hope thatâs it, that heâs just going to toy with the threat of hurting you instead of actually doing so, but then cold metal returns and itâs the only warning you get before sharp pain bursts from just below your shoulder blade as he begins to cut.Â
It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and you canât focus on anything but the white-hot pain as it spreads from the tip of your scapula to the tail.Â
It hurts. You think you must be sobbing something similar, but if your cries are coherent, Dottore doesnât pay them any mind. Thereâs a ringing in your ears that drowns everything out, your vision blurs, and youâre still reeling from the pain of the first incision when Dottore moves to your other shoulder.
You taste copper and you realize you must have bitten your tongue at some point, but the pain doesnât compare to the sensation of fire lapping at your backâ to the nerves firing off, overloading your senses with undiluted agony.Â
Something is forced between your teeth and you bite down immediately out of instinct. Heâs saying something to you, now, but his voice is muffled, like your head is underwater. Youâre drowning. You canât breathe, swallowed up by the capsizing waves of sensation.
Pain traces a blazing trail down your spine. Your head is swimming, black spots dancing in your vision, and you close your eyes to succumb to the mercy of unconsciousness.
Youâre not granted that mercy.Â
Instead, the sensation of ice chases away the heat, the fiery agony dimming as a freezing numbness settles in.Â
A voice cuts through the fog. âOpen your eyes before I decide to remove them.â
You open your eyes, looking back towards Dottore through the film of tears over your eyes, the blur of pain. Dimly, you can feel his hand gripping your jaw again, but the feeling is distant, disjointed.Â
âGood.â Red eyes scan over your form, less cold, this time, as he appraises his work. âIâd like you present for this.â
You mumble a slurred âWhere elsh would I be?â around the gag stuffed in your mouth.
âThis-â Thereâs a harsh pinch to your arm that you can hardly muster a wince for, too exhausted from the pain heâd already put you through. From the corner of your eye you can see the glint of amusement in his eyes fade at your lack of reaction, â-is here. But this-â Gloved fingers tap at your temple, â-is not. Stay present. Iâm being gentle with you.â
Heâs not. Heâs really not, but you know he could be doing so much worse, so you nod and make him a promise you canât keep, like youâve done a thousand times before.Â
Dottore stares at you for a long moment, and you resist the urge to let your eyes glaze over, to stare off into the distance. You level your unsteady gaze at him instead, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. Your efforts are rewarded with a dispassionate simper, and Dottore picks back up the knife.Â
You stop looking.Â
The pain ignites anew, duller now, no longer white-hot. Itâs still insistent, inescapable, and you wish you could crawl out of your own skin.
A line drawn down your back with the knife, like your body is a canvas, your blood the ink, and Dottore the persevering composer.Â
Thereâs a study that comes to mind. You remember reading about it, one rainy afternoon as you took shelter from the rain in a quaint library in Sumeru, procrastinating your own studies. Before everything⌠before this.Â
The study was done on monkeys. They were separated from their mothers young, placed in cages with a wire mother, which provided milk, and a cloth mother, which provided nothing but comfort.Â
Survival or comfort. That was the study. The monkeys chose comfort, only going to the cloth mother for food when they were hungry and spending the rest of their time with the cloth mother.Â
Youâd always wondered, then, what you would choose. As Dottore pushes something into one of the incisions, gloves slick with your own blood, you think you know.Â
Dottore stops. âSay again?â
Itâs hard to get the words out around the gag, but Dottore seems to understand you regardless.Â
âOh. Poor thing,â Itâs a cold comfort, the blood-slicked hand that pats your head. His voice is flat, not condescending or patronizing like when Pantalone simpers at you. But you can hear the amusement creeping into his tone, and itâs enough. âWeâre almost done. Iâll give you something for the pain in a moment.â
Something for the pain, he says, as though he hadnât already given you something, turning the low burning flame of shallow incisions into a raging inferno.Â
Thereâs a cut to your arm, this time, deeper than the rest. It burns, but itâs overshadowed still by the throbbing and insistent agony in your back. Something else is pressed into your arm, and Dottore finally sets down the knife.
The room is spinning.Â
A hand returns to pet your head once more, matting it further with your own blood. You slowly become aware of just how cold the room is, heightened by the sheen of sweat covering your bare skin. You want to go home. âŚYouâre not sure where home is, anymore.Â
Thereâs another needle, a sharp sting and then a dull ache settling in like a bruise at your nape. It doesnât take long for the pain to dull, and you fight the wave of exhaustion that chases on the heels of relief, not wanting to aggravate him further by slipping into unconsciousness before he lets you.Â
You try to stay awake. You really do. But with your heartbeat echoing in your ears, the warm hand resting atop your head, and the pain dulling, unhooking its claws from your consciousness, you drift.Â
When you wake, youâre still in the nightmare. Youâve been moved to a stiff, sterile bed, lying on your stomach to not agitate the wounds on your back. It feels like Dottore must have cleaned and bandaged you up alreadyâ a small comfort.
The injuries ache dully, but more concerning is the feeling of fingers digging into your hips.
âGlad to see youâre finally awake, my dear.â A pause, then a lewd squelch as he pulls his other hand out from between your thighs. âI was starting to get bored.â
Dottore thumbs at the edge of the bandages encircling your back, humming. âThat spoiled brat thought he could hide you from me forever.â He leans down, pressing his nose against the nape of your neck and causing the skin to prickle with goosebumps. You shiver at the contact and he smiles against your skin.Â
âOh, but donât worry.â You cringe when his hand, still wet, taps you on the cheek. âIâve already made something to keep him busy. You donât mind that I took a bone and tissue sample while you slept, do you?â
Itâs a rhetorical questionâ one that you donât bother to answer and that he doesnât care to hear the answer to, regardless. Instead, Dottore seems to be interested in the space between your legs once more, hand running down to smear the arousal heâd coaxed out of you in your sleep against your inner thighs.Â
âPity that youâll have to be on your stomach for this,â He muses, chuckling quietly at the way you flinch when he slides two fingers back into you, âI do so love seeing your reactions.â
You bite your lip to stifle a groan when he curls his fingers against your walls, grinding his thumb against your clit. It aches, just a little bit. Like youâre sore. Like heâs been doing this for a while.
Itâs almost mortifying, actually, how well he knows your body. The building pleasure drowns out the lingering ache of your injuries, and itâs hard to focus on the shame coiling in your gut when thereâs something else coiling faster and brighter than the shame.Â
âMm, faster than Iâd expected.â Dottore mutters from behind you, increasing the pace of his fingers as his other hand slips beneath you to press down on your stomach, right over where his fingers curl against your walls.Â
Your thighs spasm, trying to close around his wrist, and he tsks, moving his other hand to hold one thigh against the bed as he presses a third finger around you. Your vision whites out, and Dottore doesnât stop pumping his fingers inside you until youâre whimpering and twitching from overstimulation.Â
âThere. Good.âÂ
Thereâs a wet pat to your thigh, and you hear him walk off to grab something from the other end of the room. He returns with a jar of⌠something pink, some kind of salve, and dips his clean hand inside the jar to scoop out a generous amount of it.Â
He applies it between your legs, over your clit, pressing some of it inside you and deliberately rubbing his fingers against your g-spot, eyes crinkling in delight at the oversensitive spasm that runs through you. It doesnât take long for you to figure out what it does.Â
It burns. Not in the same way as the pain did when youâd woken up on the operating table, but suddenly it feels like your cunt is on fire, all of your attention forced to the way Dottoreâs hands feel as he rubs the excess off against your labia.Â
You barely register the sound of Dottore unzipping his pants, but you do register the sheer, overwhelming relief you feel when he immediately presses inside of you, the head of his cock dragging against your walls before coming to a halt just below your cervix.Â
He begins to thrust, mercifully not commenting on the keen you let out the second he starts moving.Â
Dottore sets a brutal pace, snapping his hips against yours, grabbing one of your thighs and lifting it higher on the bed to get better leverage. You can feel his balls slap against your clit with each snap of his hips, the sound of it drowned out by your hiccuping moans.Â
Your second orgasm is ripped out of you suddenly, embarrassingly fast. You choke on a moan and tighten around him, distantly hearing the doctor laugh as he fucks you through it. Itâs getting hard to think, to focus on anything but his cock hammering into you.Â
Unfortunately, Dottore seems keen to talk, while youâre still coherent enough to listen. Â
âYou know,â he begins conversationally, gloved fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh as he slows his pace to a slow, maddening grind inside you, âThe femoral artery is right about-â he fumbles for a second, then his fingers are digging bruisingly into the flesh, â-here. If I were to cut you here,â You feel him lean down to breathe against the shell of your ear, âIt would take about⌠Oh, I donât know, three, four minutes for you to bleed out.â
You go still beneath him, holding your breath and he slows to a stop, relishing the way terror makes you tighten around him. Itâs hard to focus, to think through the fog of lust, but the sudden, blatant threat still manages to cut through the haze like a knife.Â
âI wonât, of course,â He tells you after a beat, laughing cruelly at the tentative sigh of relief you let out. âNot to you, that is. Youâre my favorite test subject, after all.â
Dottore resumes his pace, loosening his grip on your leg and letting it drop limply back against the table.Â
You think thatâs the end of it, until he speaks up again, halting his thrusts briefly to tuck your legs under you and cant your hips up higher. âWhat wouldnât kill you, howeverâŚâ
One hand finds its way to your stomach again, tracing light circles around your navel. âI could remove most of your small intestine, and you would survive.â
âN-â You begin to protest, but another harsh thrust cuts you off.
âNot comfortably, of course, depending on how much I remove.â His hand floats down, pressing harshly against your clit and forcing another sudden orgasm from you. He waits for you to come back down before he speaks again. âIf I take too much, weâd need to adjust your diet. ButâŚâÂ
His breathing is picking up now, getting more labored. âI could, hah-â He leans down, breathing hotly against your neck and trapping you against the bed with his body. The movement drags against the bandages, agitating your injuries. âI could⌠Take just a little bit. A few feet.â
âNo-âÂ
âQuiet.â He snaps his hips harder against yours and you bite your tongue, drawing blood again, to stifle the sob that bubbles up. âI could take a few feet, make a leather collar out of it⌠Make you wear it, sew it to your skin if I must-â
His fingers continue circling your clit and you blink back overstimulated and terrified tears, his hand on your hip tightening painfully. You can feel the next high approaching and you desperately hold it back. Itâs hard to think. In the back of your mind you know you need to say something, do something to stop his train of thought before he decides to act on it-
Dottore growls against your shoulder. You can feel his scowl as he presses his weight harder against you, but it twists into a smile at your responding pained gasp when the bandages drag against the incisions. âAh- hah, I wonât, of course,â He pants, nipping at your throat, âI could do that to just any test subject of mine, my dear, but youâre more than that now, arenât you? Just tell me, again, that you love me.â
Again?Â
âYouâve already said it before. Once more wonât kill you.â
It takes you several long moments, not helped at all by Dottore continuing to rut into you distractingly, but you remember. Heâs right. When he was cutting into you, when you were desperate and delirious from the pain, youâd choked out the three damning words around the gag.Â
It was done out of desperation. Youâd wanted the pain to stop, and it had. Dottore had stopped after youâd said it, taking pity on you instead.Â
One more time couldnât hurt, right? Itâs such a small price to pay, a white lie so he doesnât hurt you further.Â
âI- ah, nnnm-â He doesnât slow down his pace for you to get the words out without stuttering, but youâre too exhausted to feel ashamed of the way that your voice cracks with pleasure. âI love- love you.â
âYes,â Dottoreâs cock twitches inside of you, and he snarls against your neck. âGood. You donât have to mean it, yet. But you will. You will.â
Itâs spoken like a promise; one youâre unable to dread as your mind starts to blank, focus drifting to your next orgasm as Dottoreâs thrusts become wild, desperate.
The head of his cock batters against your g-spot with every stroke, pleasure and overstimulated pain lancing through you. Your thoughts are fuzzy from lust, unable to focus on anything but the heaving breaths against the shell of your ear, the wet slap of skin-on-skin, the hiccuping moans and noises of pleasure he pulls from your throat.Â
Teeth sink into your shoulder at the same time Dottore pinches your clit, and your eyes roll back as white-hot pleasure lances through your veins. .Â
He growls, the sound vibrating against your shoulder, and you shudder when you feel him cum after you, cock twitching as he shoots his load deep inside your cunt.Â
The world comes back to you slowly, in jagged pieces. When you crack your eyes open once more, youâve been moved so your legs are no longer tucked up under you, lying comfortably flat on your stomach once more.Â
Dottore comes back from the other side of the room with a vial, and your face scrunches in revulsion as he presses it to your abused hole, collecting the cum that oozes out. A gloved hand pats your head affectionately before he pulls away.Â
âGet some rest. I have something that I need to⌠attend to.â Sleep. You can do that, certainly.
He waves his hand, and you vaguely hear him speaking to the clone that immediately comes into viewâ who was probably stationed in the corner the whole time, taking notes or something. You wouldnât put it past him, and from the way some of them stare at you a little too long, a little too intensely, youâre sure many of his clones would like to do a little bit more to you than just watch and take notes.
As Dottore leaves, and his clone wipes you down with a rag, knuckles brushing against the inside of your thighs a little too deliberately to be innocuous, youâre reminded of the cloth monkeys again.Â
The clone moves to rest his hand atop your limp one once heâs sure Dottore has left, and you curl your fingers around his own. His hands are cold without the gloves, just like his progenitorâs.Â
âDo not mistake this for affection.â he warned, his voice low and rough. âI am still who I am. I am still the monster you should fear.â
But you could only nod, your heart aching with a mixture of sorrow and hope. âI know,â you whispered. âI know, but Iâm still here.â
And for the first time, you thought you saw a hint of softness in his eyes, a flicker of something that could almost be⌠understanding. Maybe, just maybe, you were starting to reach him, one fragile step at a time.
GENRE: alternate universe - heian era;
WARNING/S: nsfw, angst, one sided romance, conflicted feelings, hurt/no comfort, unhappy marriage, hurt, physical touch, character death, mourning, loneliness, pain, grief, unhappy ending, depiction of one-sided relationship, depiction of grief, depiction of complicated relationship, depiction of illness, depiction of canon related violence, depiction of loneliness, mention of grief, mention of illness, mention of loneliness, heian! sukuna, long suffering concubine! reader;
WORD COUNT: 11k words
NOTE: this was always going to be long, because it's heartbreaking. and heartbreaking ones have to be something that has to be expressed well. i listened to this in a audio software like its a podcast and i actually liked it. the other woman by nina simone was the constant in the writing. also, this is the aftermath of ashes of love, which is a series i did about heian sukuna. anyway, i hope you enjoy this!!! i love you all <3
YOU KNEW THAT YOU WERE THIS UNLUCKY. The moment you were born, there would be a bleak fate for you to live. You were an accidental child, and multiple times, your own mother had nearly miscarried. Perhaps even as a fetus, you had always known this. How cursed you were. Even if you had done nothing.Â
When your mother brushed your hair as a child, she would tell you of how you were born. She said that when you breathed the air for the first time, you were melancholic in the silence to the world. Somehow knew that you were built for this miserable world. And every day since that day, you knew. You were meant to live life without true joyous jubilation.
It did not help that the day you were born, there was a lone dark star in the morning sky, one which had been considered a bad omen. And with that, the whispers of fate echoing long before you had even had consciousness to know. Your village nestled in the shadowed valleys of Hida province, a place of whispered dread and ancient pacts. And for the longest of times, the once prosperous Hida province was in turmoil.Â
And so, in those days, if there was anyone who controlled the ruins of Hida, it was that god-like curse user Ryomen Sukuna. His name alone was a talisman against the unknown horrors that lurked beyond the mountains, a deity whose power and wrath commanded fear and reverence in equal measure. And all either quivered at the sight of him or drew fanatic fervor.Â
The Ryomen clan, his kin at one point, were at warâembroiled in brutal conflicts with neighboring clans for so long. And this had been going on before you were even born. The blood had soaked the earth for so long that the soil seemed to thirst for it. And the people were exhausted.Â
The clan struggled to maintain control over Hida for a long time now, their influence fraying like an old tapestry torn at the seams. And with that, a power vacuum had long been in existence. The chaos of the era was a tide that threatened to drown them all, and Ryomen Sukuna's protection became the last fragile hope for those who called this land their home.
Your parents spoke in hushed voices of the offerings, the sacrifices made by the villagers to appease their god, the man who can save them, this man to fear and worship, Ryomen Sukuna. To ensure his protection, they said. For years, the sacrifices continued, the chosen ones becoming mere footnotes in a history written in blood and fear.Â
It came upon you rather quickly when you were young and it struck youâthat the villagers saw you not as one of their own, but as a piece on a board, a pawn destined for slaughter. A sacrifice to their god. You would be among the countless, one more life to be cast into the jaws of the demon god they all feared.
The day of your sacrifice came as the sky was painted with hues of blood and gold, a cruel irony that did not escape you. The air was heavy with incense and prayer, but there was no comfort in their muttered words, no solace in the chants that pleaded for Sukuna's mercy. They adorned you in ceremonial robes, marked with symbols and sigils, your skin painted with the sacred ink that was supposed to cleanse your soul before the offering.
You were led through the village, a procession of death that seemed to stretch on forever. The eyes that watched you pass were filled with a mixture of pity and reliefârelief that it was not them, not their child, not their blood that would be spilled today. Mothers held their children close, men bowed their heads, and the elders chanted in a low, continuous hum that sent shivers down your spine.
At the shrine, they bound you to the altar, thick ropes biting into your skin as you stared at the sky, searching for a sign, a miracle that never came. The high priest began his incantation, his voice rising above the murmur of the crowd. You could feel the cold seep into your bones, the air around you thickening as if the very world held its breath.
And then, you felt itâthe shift in the air, the heavy presence that pressed against your chest like a vice. You had never seen him before, but you knew it was Sukuna. The villagers gasped, a collective intake of breath as his form materialized from the shadows, a figure cloaked in malice and power.
His eyes, crimson and unforgiving, swept over you like a cold blade. You felt your heart hammer against your ribcage, fear clawing at your throat. You were nothing to him, just another offering, another desperate plea from a village clinging to survival.
Ryomen Sukuna smiled, a slow, cruel smile that sent a tremor through the crowd. He stepped forward, each movement a ripple in the air, as if reality itself bent to his will. You met his gaze, defiant in your fear, knowing that you were one of many. Countless lives had been given to him, countless souls lost to his hunger.
YOU HAD NEVER EXPECTED TO MEET THE MAN IN THE FLESH. But before you stood this man, this god, with dark crimson eyes. Taller than any tree, intimidating than any curse. Frightening than hell itself. You could remember when you were younger. The whispers reached you before you even stepped foot in the shrine, everyone has. Tales of Ryomen Sukuna had traveled through the villages like the wind, carrying with them rumors that were both terrifying and tragic.Â
You had always known that the man was delighted with the worship of the human people. But they said he had taken no other concubines, that he showed no interest in any woman who dared come near him.
And if he did, they were more likely to be servants than anything close to a concubine. And some were not so lucky. Some spoke in hushed tones, their voices trembling with fear, that he was a monster of unspeakable debauchery, one who had killed the women for even daring to breathe in his presence.
But the truth, as you had come to understand it, was far more tragic. At least from how you see it. The people of Hida knewâoh, they believedâthe story was told long ago. There was someone who had been so loved long ago and most of all, by Sukuna.
Ryomen Hiromi, the one who had captured Sukuna's heart, the one he had loved beyond reason. There was another Sukuna a long time ago, many were aware. But there was nothing proven.
If anything, the children of Hiromi reject any notion of such a relationship. But the tale was woven into the very fabric of tales told, whispered among the elders late at night and shared in riddles among the children who barely understood the weight of what they spoke.
Hiromi, they said, had been his sun, his moon, his stars. A woman of beauty and strength, whose laughter could calm the wildest storms and whose voice was like the sweetest song. She had been the only one to ever touch his heart, to see the man beneath the demon god. But she was gone now, lost to time and tragedy, leaving Ryomen Sukuna to languish in his grief.Â
No one dared speak her name aloud, not when Sukunaâs rage could split the earth itself. People have seen it. It was said he mourned her loss every day, that his fury was born from the emptiness she left behind. And that was why he would not tolerate any other woman. No one was going to be like her. None would match her wit, her beauty. Why should the king of curses settle for less when he had the world?Â
As you lay on the cold altar, the ropes cutting into your skin, your thoughts were consumed by the stories. What kind of manâno, what kind of creatureâwas Sukuna? You wonder about this paradox of a man, this creature like god.
Did he truly mourn, or was that just another tale spun by terrified villagers to make him seem more human? What was he, actually? You had a million questions, and you know they will never truly be answered.
A gust of wind stirred the trees around you, the leaves rustling like whispered secrets. You heard the shuffle of feet, felt the eyes of the villagers upon you, their fear palpable. Then, you heard his voice. You could feel it all, that powerful cursed energy, coming from one direction. For a moment, you had no words. Only uncertainty.
"Why do they send another?" Sukuna's voice was like a low growl, rumbling through the air with the force of a storm. "Do you think I am so easily appeased, you fools?"
You dared to lift your head, the ropes pulling at your skin as you met his crimson gaze. He was tall, imposing, and every bit as terrifying as the stories had painted him. But there was something else thereâsomething in his eyes that spoke of deep, simmering pain.
"Do you truly want to know why they sent me?" you found yourself saying, your voice steady despite the fear clawing at your throat.
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you thought he might strike you down then and there. But he didnât. Instead, he tilted his head, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Speak, then, girl." he said. "Tell me why I should not turn you to dust where you lie."
You swallowed, gathering your courage. "They send me because they fear you, because they believe you will protect them if they give you what you want. But⌠no one knows what you truly want, do they? No one speaks of her. Of Hiromi."
His expression shifted, a shadow passing over his face, and you knew you had struck a nerve. The air grew colder, a chill that seemed to seep into your very bones.
"Hiromi is dead." he said, his voice quiet but filled with an edge that could cut through steel. "And no one speaks her name. It is what I command.â
"But you still mourn herâŚ." you continued, unable to stop yourself. "Do you not, my lord?â
His dark gaze bore into you, the weight of it almost unbearable. For a long moment, he said nothing, and the silence stretched on like an eternity. Then, slowly, he laughedâa sound that was bitter and hollow.
"You dare ask?" he repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. "What do you know of it all, little one? What do you know about such a life lived?"
You felt a tremor run through you, but you did not look away. "I know enough, my lord." you replied softly. "I know enough to see that your anger is not born of hatred, but of grief."
Sukuna's cruel smile quickly faded, and for a brief moment, you thought you saw something in his eyesâa flicker of vulnerability, quickly swallowed by the darkness. He hated how you said it, you know it too well. But there was no other choice. You were here for a purpose and you must fulfill it. You must.Â
"You are bold, little one." he murmured. "BoldâŚ.for someone so close to death."
"Perhaps, my lord." you whispered back to him. "But if I am to die, I would rather die knowing who you truly are, rather than the monster they say you are."
He stared at you for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then, he stepped closer, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the power that thrummed through him like a thunder strike.
"Then you are a fool, little one." he said quietly. "For believing that I am anything more than a monster."
But there was something in his voice, something that made you wonder if perhaps⌠he wished you were right.
For the meantime, you were lucky to have your life, despite speaking so boldly, despite saying her name aloudâthe name that everyone else dared not utter. Sukunaâs silence stretched on, his crimson eyes still locked onto yours, unreadable, cold yet burning with something darker beneath the surface. He could have ended you with a flick of his wrist, reduced you to ashes for your insolence. And yet, he did not.
He leaned closer, the edges of his form blurring into the shadows that seemed to ripple around him like stabbing waves in the ocean. His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. You felt your heart pound in your chest, each beat a drum that signaled your fragile hold on life.
âPerhaps you are simply foolish. Many have died for far less than what you dared to speak.â Sukuna finally said, his voice low, almost contemplative. âHuh, you speak brashly.â
The villagers around you seemed to hold their breath, waiting for his judgment. They looked at you with a mixture of horror and awe, unable to believe you were still alive after uttering the forbidden name. You, a mere sacrifice, a lamb thrown to the wolf, had survived what so many others had not.
âWhy do you think I will let you live?â Sukunaâs voice cut through the tense silence, his tone curious, but with a dangerous edge. âDo you think I find you interesting? Amusing? Or perhaps I see something of her in you, something worth sparing?â
You swallowed hard, the reality of your situation settling in. You had survived speaking out of turn, but you were still bound to this altar, still at the mercy of a being who could destroy you on a whim. Yet, something in his words gave you pause, a flicker of something unspoken that lingered just beneath his surface.
âI do not presume to know your reasons, my lord.â you replied carefully, choosing each word like a step on thin ice. âBut if you see something of her in me⌠then perhaps I am not so different from you after all.â
Sukunaâs gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing. âNot so different?â He laughed, a sound that was both mirthful and bitter, filled with a deep, aching emptiness. âYou compare yourself to me? To Ryomen Sukuna? You are a child, a mere mortal who knows nothing of gods or demons, of love that scorches the soul and burns the world to ash.â
âAnd yetâŚ..â you dared to continue, feeling the tightness in your chest. âIf my lord felt nothing, you wouldnât care enough to be angry⌠or to remember.â
He stiffened, and for a moment, his expression faltered. The shadows seemed to deepen around him, his aura flickering like a candle flame caught in a strong wind. You sensed that you were dancing on a razorâs edge, but you could not stop now. There was something here, something raw and real beneath the monstrous exterior.
âEnough.â Sukuna hissed, his voice a sharp command. The air grew colder, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. âYou dare much, human. Too much.â
You pressed your lips together, bracing yourself for the inevitable blow, the moment when his patience would finally snap. But instead, Sukunaâs lips curled into a faint smile, one that did not reach his eyes.
âPerhaps I will spare you.â he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. âIf only to see how long that fire burns before it is extinguished. Or perhaps to see if you will end up like the restâbroken, hollow, pleading for mercy where there is none.â
He turned away from you then, his back a wall of power and darkness, his form towering against the dim light of the shrine. The villagers started, stunned, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.
âYou will reside in my temple.â Sukuna commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. âYou will remain there, under my watch. Let them see what comes of those who speak of things best left forgotten.â
A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mixture of fear and shock. They did not understand why he had spared you, why you, of all people, were allowed to live. Perhaps they thought you were cursed, or perhaps they thought Sukuna had some darker plan in mind. But you knew better. You knew that, in some small way, you had touched on a wound that had never healed, a scar buried deep beneath his monstrous exterior.
And as Sukuna vanished into the shadows, you realized that your fate was no longer in the hands of the villagers, or even in the hands of the gods they prayed to. No, your fate was now bound to hisâa god who mourned like a man, a monster who remembered what it was to love.
IN A WAY, IT IS NOT SO BAD, BEING HIS CONCUBINE. You spent your days in isolation, your life confined within the walls of Sukuna's palace. You were nothing more than a servant, though they called you a concubine. The title meant little, for you were given no special privileges, no adornments, no tokens of affection.Â
But it was a life. Your life. And it lived in some comfort, more than what is experienced by the rest of Hida province. You had multiple meals a day, you had rooms to yourself and even servants that address every bit of your needs.
Still, your world was small, your days filled with the quiet tending of the gardens, watching the shifting sky as the hours bled into one another. The flowers you nurtured became your only friends, their petals a fragile comfort against the cold indifference that surrounded you.
Perhaps the peace came from the fact that you did not see Sukuna often, and when you did, his gaze never lingered on you for long. He had no interest, no affection, no fondness to spare. You were simply there, like a shadow in the corner of his realm.
A figure lost amidst the vast emptiness of his domain. And perhaps that was for the best. It was better than being forced into Sukunaâs bed. You think that all women in the harem think that it was better that way.
But slowly, ever so slowly, something changed. His dark scarlet eyes began to linger, just a fraction longer than before. You felt the weight of his gaze like a chill running down your spine.
The other servants noticed it too, their whispers growing louder, bolder. You finally caught his attention. But it wasnât because he had come to care for you, to see you as anything more than the nothing you were.
No, the truth was much crueler than that.
You were a spitting image of Ryomen Hiromi, the woman who haunted his every step, the ghost who lived in the shadows of his mind. At least thatâs what the people say. But you did not want to believe them. Yet, looking at the murals at the glass gardens, the resemblance was uncanny.
It was obvious somehow. It was similar, everything. Your eyes, your hair, the curve of your smile. Every feature, every gesture seemed to remind him of her. And though you knew you could never be her, you had become a cruel echo, a reflection of something he had long lost.
And soon enough, the people talked. Of course, they did. They always talked. You tried to shut them out, but the more they whispered, the more people listened. And the more they listened, the more people spoke. Â
âShe reminds him of Hiromi, I am certain!â they whispered. âShe is nothing but a shadow, a poor replacement for the one he truly loved. She lives in her image, as if she could ever hope to fill her place.â
You became the other woman, even when you didnât want to be. No, not even that. You were a pale imitation, a mockery of a woman who had captured the heart of the king of curses. Every glance Ryomen Sukuna spared you was not a look of admiration or desireâit was the gaze of a man staring into the past, into a memory that was forever out of reach.
And so, you lived your life as another woman. No, the other woman. To a dead woman. To a love that had died long ago, but never truly left.Â
Sometimes, in the dead of night, when the silence was so thick it pressed against your skin like a heavy shroud, you would wonder about her. About Ryomen Hiromi. Who was she, really? What had she meant to him, this fearsome god, this creature of darkness who now watched you as if searching for something he had lost in her eyes, now reflected in yours.
He never spoke of her. He does not want to. He does not dare to. Not to you, not to anyone. Some servants have been here longer than you and they have seen people killed over even a mumble of a prayer for the lady. And so you donât ask.Â
Not even when there were times he would come closer, when his dark eyes lingered on your face, searching, always searching. Yet he will never truly find it. He knew this, as much as you did. But it was as if he was trying to see her again, trying to find her in your skin, in your voice, in the way you moved through the gardens like she once had, perhaps. It was hope, a foolish hope. And yet you cannot escape this foolish hope.
The weight of her memory suffocated you. You were not allowed to be yourself, to have your own name, your own identity. You were always, always compared to her, measured against a ghost that you could never be, never touch. And Sukuna, with his cold gaze and his empty eyes, reminded you of it every day.
"Youâre not her, little one." he said once, his voice low, more to himself than to you, as if testing a truth he could not fully accept. âYouâll never be her.â
His words cut deeper than any blade, leaving you with the bitter taste of something unnameable, something that tasted like defeat, or perhaps longing, or perhaps both. You had never wished to be her, to be anyone but yourself. But here, in his domain, under his shadow, you were not allowed that freedom.
You were trapped, forever bound to a life that was not your own, in the shadow of a dead woman who would never release you, and a man who could never let her go.
Days bled into nights, a blur of routine and solitude, and you began to feel like a ghost yourself, haunting the corners of Sukuna's palace, where life seemed to move around you but never through you. The servants kept their distance, wary of your resemblance, as if fearing you might be some ill omen, cursed to echo the tragedy of the past.
And Sukuna⌠he watched you, always watching, his eyes a deep crimson that saw too much and yet revealed nothing. He was like a storm contained within the fragile walls of the palace, his presence a force of nature that you could neither escape nor fully comprehend. His mood was mercurial; one day, he would barely acknowledge you, and the next, his gaze would linger on you, heavy with something you couldnât name.
âDo you enjoy the garden?â he asked one afternoon, his tone deceptively casual, as if he were simply inquiring about the weather.
You glanced up, surprised that he had addressed you at all. He rarely spoke directly to you, even when his eyes seemed to follow your every movement. âI do,â you replied, careful, measured. âIt is quiet there. Peaceful.â
âQuietâŚpeaceful.â he repeated, almost as if tasting the word. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it did not reach his eyes. âYes, she liked the quiet too. Always wandering among the flowers. Trees too. Sheâd like that then.â
You stiffened at the mention of her, the ghost you lived with every day, who lingered in every corner of this place. âI am not her, my lord.â you said, a tremor in your voice. You had repeated these words to yourself countless times, but they sounded fragile, almost insignificant when spoken aloud.
Sukuna's expression did not change. If anything, his gaze grew sharper, like a blade pressed against your skin. âNo, little one.â he agreed softly, almost mockingly, âYou are not her. But you will do⌠for now.â
You swallowed the lump in your throat, refusing to let him see the fear that coiled within you, like a snake waiting to strike. âWhy do you keep me here?â you dared to ask, your voice barely more than a whisper. âWhy do you watch me as if you expect me to become someone else?â
He laughed then, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. âYou misunderstand, little one. I do not expect you to become her. I know you never can. But you⌠remind me of her. And that is enough⌠for now.â
The way he said it, the way his eyes darkened with something unreadable, made your blood run cold. You were nothing more than a stand-in, a living, breathing reminder of something he had lost. A cruel joke played by fate, a shadow dancing in the place of the one who truly mattered. To be kept alive, your village kept alive â because you look like a ghost.Â
âI am not a replacement, my lord.â you insisted, your voice firmer this time, surprising even yourself with the strength behind it. âI hope my lord knows that I will not live my life as a mere echo.â
His smile faded, his expression turning serious. âYou think you have a choice?â he asked, leaning in closer, his face so near to yours that you could feel the warmth of his breath. âYou are here because I allow it. You exist at my whim, not because of who you are, but because of who you resemble. Do not mistake this for anything more than it is.â
The reality of his words hit you like a blow, the finality of it sinking deep into your bones. You were nothing to him, nothing but a passing fancy, a painful reminder of a past he could not reclaim.
âI am not her, my lord.â you repeated, your voice shaking with defiance, with a spark of something that refused to be extinguished. âAnd I will not be her for you. You must understand.â
For a moment, something flickered in Sukuna's eyes, something almost like surprise, perhaps even respect. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the cold, unfeeling mask he always wore.
âBrave words, little one.â he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. âBut words mean little here, in my domain. You will learn that soon enough.â
He turned away from you then, leaving you standing alone in the empty hall, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands trembling at your sides. The silence closed in around you, heavy and oppressive, and you knew that nothing had changed. You were still trapped, still living in the shadow of a dead woman, still bound to the whims of a god who mourned like a man.
And yet, deep inside, something stirredâa flicker of defiance, of hope. You might be a ghost to him, a reflection of a lost love, but you were still alive. You were still you, and as long as you drew breath, you would not allow yourself to be consumed by his shadows. Not without a fight.
Time passed slowly in Sukunaâs palace, and with it, your heart began to change. You did not notice it at first; how could you? Day after day, the monotonous routine of your existence lulled you into a sort of numbness. The gardens became your refuge, the sky your solace.
Yet even as you tried to find comfort in these simple pleasures, you found your thoughts wandering back to himâRyomen Sukuna, the fearsome god, the monster, the man who mourned like a human.
At first, you hated him, hated him for what he represented, for what he had made you into: a replacement, a mere shadow of someone who had meant everything to him. But as you watched him, as the days turned to weeks and weeks to months, you began to see more.
You began to notice the things others did notâthe subtle tension in his jaw when he was angry, the way his eyes softened just a fraction when he spoke of her, the quiet moments when he thought no one was looking, and the mask slipped, just a little.
You were in the garden one afternoon, trimming the roses, when you heard footsteps approaching. Sukuna rarely came to the garden, but today he seemed restless, pacing along the paths with a dark expression on his face. He stopped by the old cherry blossom tree, his eyes distant, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Without thinking, you moved closer. "Is something troubling you, my lord?" you asked quietly, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. You had learned not to provoke him, to keep your words soft and your gaze steady.
Sukuna looked at you sharply, as if surprised you had dared to speak. "Why do you care?" he snapped, his tone harsh, but you had seen the flicker of something elseâa fleeting vulnerability, perhaps? âSuch matters are none for you to care about, little one.â
You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. âI see you every day, my lord.â you replied softly. âI see how you⌠struggle over something. And I cannot help but⌠care.â
He scoffed, but it was a hollow sound. âCare?â he echoed, almost mockingly. âYou think you understand me, mortal? You think you can comprehend the depths of what I am, of what I have lost?â
You bowed your head, feeling the sting of his words but refusing to back down. âI donât pretend to understand, my lord.â you murmured. âBut I see the pain in your eyes, the way you linger in places she once loved, the way you⌠look at me.â
He was silent for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he turned away, his shoulders tense, his hands unclenching. âYou are a fool, little one.â he muttered, almost too softly for you to hear. âA fool to think you can feel anything for me.â
And maybe you were a fool. A fool to care for a man who did not care for you, who saw you only as a shadow of someone else. But you could not help it. You could not stop the way your heart ached when you saw him, the way your breath caught when he looked at you with those sad, tired eyes.
Day by day, you found yourself drawn to him, not by his power or his beauty, but by the quiet moments when he thought no one was watching. The moments when his face softened, and you saw the man beneath the monster, the man who had loved so deeply and lost so terribly.
You saw the cracks in his armor, the places where he had been wounded, and you wanted, desperately, to reach out and touch them, to soothe the pain you knew he carried.
You found yourself thinking of him when you were alone, wondering what had made him this way, what had broken him so completely. You imagined him before all of this, before the darkness, before the loss, and you felt a strange, deep sorrow for the man he might have been.
One evening, as you were leaving the garden, you saw him standing by the cherry blossom tree again, his face turned upward, staring at the pale blooms against the darkening sky. He looked so lonely, so unbearably alone, that you felt your heart tighten in your chest.
Without thinking, you approached him, moving slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal. âMy lord, look.â you said softly, and he did not turn away. âThe blossoms⌠theyâre beautiful this year.â
He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. âHiromi loved them.â he said quietly, his voice thick with something you could not quite name. âFond of them.â
You nodded, your heart aching for him. âI imagine she did, my lord.â you replied. âTheyâre⌠peaceful.â
He was silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the flowers. Then he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. âShe was⌠my peace.â he admitted, his tone so raw, so vulnerable, that it made your chest tighten painfully. âAnd now⌠there is only emptiness.â
You wanted to reach out to him, to touch his hand, to tell him that he was not as alone as he thought, but you knew he would not accept it. So you stood there, beside him, sharing the silence, hoping that maybe, in some small way, your presence could ease the ache in his heart.
And slowly, painfully, you realized that you were falling into the saddest position in the world. You were beginning to care for him, truly care for him, despite knowing that he did not, and could not, care for you. You were beginning to understand him, to see the depths of his sorrow, to feel the weight of his loss as if it were your own.
You were living as a shadow, and yet⌠you found yourself wishing, hoping, that someday he might see you as something more. Even if you were just a reflection of a memory, even if you could never be her, you wished, desperately, that you could become someone to him.
But as you looked at him, at the emptiness in his eyes, you knew that day might never come. And still, you could not help but care.
Days continued to slip by in a blur of silent moments and stolen glances, and though you tried to keep your heart guarded, you felt it slipping further and further away from you, like water through your fingers. You had resigned yourself to your fateâa concubine in name, a ghost in truth. You had accepted that Sukuna would never see you as anything more than a mere echo of what he had lost.
But as time passed, you noticed a subtle change in him. It was in the way his gaze lingered on you a moment longer, or how his tone softened when he spoke to you. It was in the quiet moments when you would catch him watching you, his expression inscrutable, as if he were trying to decipher some mystery he could not quite solve.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in shades of crimson and gold, you found yourself in the garden again. Sukuna was there, seated on a low stone bench beneath the cherry blossom tree, his face turned upward as if searching for something in the dying light.
You approached cautiously, unsure if he wanted your presence or not. He did not turn to look at you, but he did not send you away, either. You took it as a small mercy, a silent invitation to sit beside him.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you like a fragile thread, delicate and unbroken. Finally, Sukuna spoke, his voice low and contemplative. âYou are always here, little one.â he murmured. âAlways watching. Why?â
You hesitated, searching for the right words. âBecause I see you, my lord.â you replied quietly. âI see the way you carry your pain, the way you hide it behind your eyes. I⌠I understand it, in a way.â
He turned to you then, his gaze piercing, searching your face as if trying to find the truth hidden within your words. âAnd what do you think you understand?â he asked, a note of challenge in his tone.
You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his stare. âI think you loved her more than life itself, my lord.â you said softly. âAnd I think losing her broke something inside of you that will never heal.â
He was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he laughedâa harsh, bitter sound that cut through the stillness like a knife. âYou presume to know my heart, mortal.â he said, but there was no true malice in his voice, only a deep, hollow emptiness. âYou think because you look like her, you can speak of love and loss?â
âI do not pretend to be her, my lord.â you answered, your voice steady, even as your heart pounded in your chest. âBut I know what it is to lose, to live with emptiness. I know what it means to be alone, even in a crowded room.â
His eyes softened, just for a moment, and you could almost see the man beneath the monster, the one who had loved and lost, who had once been capable of kindness, of tenderness.
âYou think you know loneliness?â he asked, his voice quiet, almost vulnerable. âYou think you know what it is to love someone so deeply that their absence is like a knife in your soul, cutting you with every breath?â
âI think Iâm starting to understand, my lord.â you whispered. âMore than I ever wanted to.â
He looked away, his jaw clenched tight, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. âYou are a fool.â he muttered, but there was no heat in his words, only a weary resignation. âYou should hate me. You should despise me for what I am, for what I have made you.â
You shook your head slowly. âI canât, my lord.â you admitted, your voice breaking. âI donât know why, but I canât. Maybe itâs because I see the pain in your eyes, the way you look at me⌠the way you remember her. I canât hate you for that. I just⌠I wish things were different.â
He turned to you sharply, and for a moment, there was something raw and desperate in his gaze, something that spoke of a longing he had buried deep within himself. âDifferent?â he repeated, almost scoffing. âThere is no âdifferentâ for us. This is the world we have been given, and we must live in it.â
You felt your heart clench painfully, knowing he was right, knowing that no matter how much you wished for it, you could never truly reach him, could never become more than what you wereâa shadow, a reflection of a woman long gone.
But you could not stop yourself from caring, from hoping that somehow, someway, he might see you, truly see you, not as a ghost or a replacement, but as a person in your own right.
You sighed, turning your gaze to the blossoms above. âI know, my lord.â you murmured. âI know that better than anyone. But I still⌠I still want to understand you. I still care, even if you donât care for me.â
He was silent, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, you feared you had said too much, crossed a line you could never return from. But then, slowly, he reached out and took your hand in his, his grip firm but surprisingly gentle.
âYou are a strange one, little one.â he said quietly, almost as if to himself. âTo care for a monster⌠to care for a man who has nothing left to give.â
You felt a tear slip down your cheek, and you did not bother to hide it. âMaybe Iâm just a fool, my lordâ you whispered. âBut I canât help it. I canât help but care for you, even when I know you canât care for me.â
He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, as if looking for some answer he could not find. Then, without a word, he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gesture so tender it took your breath away.
âDo not mistake this for affection.â he warned, his voice low and rough. âI am still who I am. I am still the monster you should fear.â
But you could only nod, your heart aching with a mixture of sorrow and hope. âI know,â you whispered. âI know, but Iâm still here.â
And for the first time, you thought you saw a hint of softness in his eyes, a flicker of something that could almost be⌠understanding. Maybe, just maybe, you were starting to reach him, one fragile step at a time.
TIME FLEW BY AND WITH THAT, YOU AGED TOO. Slowly, like the steady drip of water carving its path through stone, Ryomen Sukuna began to accept your presence as something constant in his life. At first, it was subtleâthe way he no longer sent you away when you appeared by his side, the way he allowed you to linger in his chambers or the garden without a word of complaint.
Over time, it grew into something more. He began to call for you, not often, but enough that you noticed. Sometimes, it was just to sit in silence while he read or stared into the fire, and other times, he would speak to you, his voice low and distant, as if he were speaking to himself rather than you.
He did not love you; you knew that much with painful certainty. His heart belonged to another, to a woman whose name he whispered in his dreams, whose memory seemed to haunt his every step. You were not her, and you never would be. You were a shadow of what he had lost, a pale reflection of a love that had burned too bright and consumed itself in the flames.
But he tolerated you, and in this dark, twisted place where fear ruled and love was a forgotten dream, that was enough. You had learned to find solace in the little thingsâthe way his gaze would occasionally soften when he looked at you, the rare moments when his voice held a note of something other than indifference.Â
You knew you would never escape Hiromiâs shadow. Her ghost lingered in every corner of this place, in every whispered word and hushed breath, in the way his eyes darkened whenever he spoke of her.
You were not foolish enough to think you could ever replace her in his heart, nor did you wish to. You had come to terms with your fate, with the cruel twist of destiny that had brought you here, to this palace where the walls seemed to whisper her name.
For the finite years of your mortal life, you would be what you were to himâan echo, a shadow, a living memory of something lost. You could have fought against it, could have railed against the injustice of it all, but you chose not to. You chose to make peace with what fate had given you, to find what small joys you could in the fleeting moments he allowed you to be near him.
There were times when the weight of your existence threatened to crush you, when you longed to scream, to demand that he see you for who you were, not for the woman you resembled. But those moments were few and far between, and you had learned to push them down, to bury them deep within your heart where they could not hurt you.
Instead, you found contentment in the little thingsâin the way his presence filled the room, in the rare, unguarded moments when he would speak to you of things he had buried deep within himself. You listened to his stories, the ones he told in quiet tones when he thought no one was listening, and you treasured them like precious gems, tiny fragments of the man he had once been.
You learned to be grateful for what you had, even if it was not what you had dreamed of. You accepted that you would always live in the shadow of Hiromi, that you would always be the "other woman"; the one who was not loved, but merely tolerated. And for as long as you had breath in your lungs and life in your veins, you chose to find peace in that.
You sat beside him by the fire, you felt a strange sense of calm settle over you. He was quiet, his eyes fixed on the flames, his expression thoughtful. He did not look at you, but you could feel his presence, warm and solid beside you, a reminder that you were not entirely alone in this world.
You turned your gaze to the fire, letting the heat warm your face, and you whispered, almost to yourself, âI do not ask for more than this. I am⌠content with what I have.â
He glanced at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to understand your words. âContent?â he repeated, a hint of incredulity in his voice. âYou are content being nothing but a shadow?â
You smiled softly, a hint of sadness in your eyes. âContentment is a choice, my lord.â you replied. âI chose to be content with what fate has given me. It is not happiness, but it is enough.â
He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then he nodded slowly. âPerhaps you are wiser than I thought now, little one.â he murmured. âTo find peace in a place like this⌠it is no easy feat.â
You nodded, knowing he spoke more to himself than to you. You had accepted that you would never be more than a shadow in his life, but even shadows had their place, their purpose. You would be content with that, for as long as your mortal years allowed.
The days passed with a creeping heaviness that settled into your bones, a fatigue that no amount of rest could cure. You began to feel the strain in every step, the way your breath came shorter, the way your limbs feel heavy and uncooperative. At first, you dismissed it as exhaustion, a lingering effect of sleepless nights and endless thoughts that twisted in your mind like shadows.
But then came the coughing fits, each one more violent than the last, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth and a sharp pain in your chest. You ignored it at first, waving away the concerned glances of the servants who attended you. You kept your back straight and your face serene, refusing to acknowledge the way your body seemed to betray you.
Yet it grew harder to hide. The pain became more frequent, stabbing through your lungs like a knife with every breath, every step. The first time you coughed up blood, it was a shockâa bright, vivid red staining your hand. Your heart raced as you stared at the crimson stain, panic rising like bile in your throat.
You quickly wiped it away, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. Thankfully, you were alone in your chamber, and you pressed a trembling hand to your chest, willing yourself to calm down. There was no reason to be afraid, you told yourself. It was just a momentary lapse, nothing more.
But it wasnât. It happened again, and again. You found yourself waking in the night, gasping for air, your throat raw and burning. The servants began to notice the dark circles under your eyes, the way you would clutch your side when you thought no one was looking, the way you moved a little slower, a little more carefully.
There was a day that you sat in the garden, trying to find solace in the soft petals of the cherry blossoms, a violent fit seized you. You doubled over, coughing hard, and felt something wet and warm splatter against your lips. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and saw the unmistakable smear of blood.
A sharp gasp came from behind you. One of the younger servants had seen, her eyes wide with fear and concern. She rushed to your side, her hands trembling as she reached out to steady you.
âMy lady, oh my!â she whispered, her voice filled with worry. âYouâre⌠youâre bleeding.â
You shook your head, forcing a smile that felt like a grimace. âIt is nothing.â you said, your voice hoarse. âDo not worry yourself over me.â
The servant looked unconvinced, her brow furrowed with concern. âI must tell Lord Sukuna.â she said quickly, glancing toward the entrance of the garden as if she expected him to appear at any moment. âHe must knowââ
âNo, noâŚ..â you cut her off sharply, your voice firmer than you had intended. âThere is no point in that.â
She hesitated, confusion clouding her eyes. âBut, my lady⌠you are unwell. He shouldââ
âHe would not care, little girl.â you said softly, looking down at your blood-stained hand. âThere is no use in troubling him with this. It would make no difference. Sukuna does not love me, nor does he care for me in that way. Do you think he would be moved by something as trivial as this?â
The servant bit her lip, clearly torn between her duty to you and her fear of Sukunaâs wrath. âBut⌠if he knew, he mightââ
âMight what?â you interrupted, your voice edged with a quiet resignation. âSend a healer? Take pity on me? No, he would not. I am nothing more than a reminder to him, a shadow of a past he cannot let go. He tolerates me, yes, but that is all.â
The servant looked at you, her eyes filling with tears, but she nodded slowly, understanding the weight of your words. She knew as well as you did that Sukunaâs heart was a barren, desolate place, filled with ghosts and haunted memories. There was no room for you there.
âPromise me, little girl.â you whispered, reaching out to touch her arm gently. âPromise me you wonât tell him.â
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, her expression tight with worry. âI promise, my lady.â she murmured, though you could hear the doubt in her voice.
You leaned back against the tree, closing your eyes and letting the cool breeze brush against your skin. You knew there was no point in hoping for more than what you had. Sukuna had given you a place by his side, but it was not out of affection. He had lost the woman he truly loved, and you were only a semblance of herâa shadow he tolerated, nothing more.
You were dying, that much was clear. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, a way to free yourself from this liminal existence, to escape the torment of being a living reminder of what he had lost. You could find peace in that, you thought. At least, you could try.
You would not burden him with your illness, with your slow, inevitable decline. You would carry it quietly, with dignity, for whatever time you had left. After all, what was one more life in the grand, cruel scheme of his world? You were just another fleeting moment in the endless march of timeâanother sacrifice, another offering to a man who had already lost everything he had ever cared for.
YOU DECIDED TO LET FATE RUN ITS COURSE. You let time pass by, letting the illness be hidden in the shadows of low whispers and painful tears in your long suffering days and nights. And sure enough, Ryomen Sukuna had returned from his long and exhausting trip within the next few days.
He had been famished from his trip and sent word that he would be having supper with you that night, which you had obliged without another word. You dressed in your finest, watching the servants prepare the table in your chambers and calmly thanked them one after another as they left.
The evening had settled into its usual quiet rhythm, with the two of you sharing dinner in the dimly lit chamber. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the walls, and the scent of roasted meat and simmered vegetables filled the air.
It was a routine you had come to accept with a resigned sort of familiarity, a ritual that offered a small measure of normalcy in your otherwise constrained existence.
You sat across from Sukuna, picking at your meal with an absent-mindedness that spoke more to your weariness than any lack of appetite. His presence was imposing, yet tonight, he was unusually subdued, his attention focused on the food in front of him rather than on you. And somehow, you were a bit more grateful for it.
As you took a sip from your cup, you looked up at him, your expression earnest. "My lord, do you not think you should be more understanding of your subjects?" you began, your voice gentle but firm. "I must implore you once more to be more lenient with the people. The fear you instill is one thing, but mercy could win you their loyalty and respect."
Sukuna's eyes, dark and inscrutable, met yours. He did not respond immediately, his gaze lingering on you as if weighing your words. This was not the first time you had made this plea, and it was not likely to be the last. You had grown accustomed to his silence, to the way he would listen but rarely act upon your suggestions.
"It is not for me to coddle them, little one." he said finally, his voice low and dismissive. "Fear is a more effective tool than mercy. It ensures obedience."
You sighed softly, knowing well that your words often fell on deaf ears. Still, you persisted, driven by a conviction that even the smallest act of kindness could make a difference. "I understand your perspective, my lord, but sometimes even the harshest rulers find strength in showing compassion. It canâ"
Before you could finish your thought, a sudden, sharp pain gripped your chest. You gasped, doubling over slightly, and a violent coughing fit overtook you. You struggled to steady yourself, but the force of it was too strong. Blood splattered onto the table, the vibrant red stark against the white of your kimono and the pale wood of the dining surface.
Your heart raced as you quickly wiped the blood away with your sleeve, hoping to hide the evidence of your distress. You tried to maintain your composure, but your hands were trembling as you looked up at Sukuna, who had gone still, his eyes fixed on the crimson stain.
For a moment, there was a silence so thick it felt like a physical presence. Ryomen Sukunaâs gaze was heavy and unyielding, his red eyes locked onto the blood that had marred the table and your attire. You could feel the weight of his scrutiny, his silence, a heavy burden that pressed down upon you.
"It's nothing, my lord." you said hurriedly, forcing a weak smile as you tried to brush off the incident. "Just a momentary lapse. Please, continue with your meal."
Sukunaâs expression was unreadable, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. He did not speak, but there was a flicker of something in his gazeâperhaps surprise, or concern, or something deeper that he quickly masked.
You could feel the tension between you, an invisible thread connecting your quiet plea to his unspoken thoughts. It was clear that your condition had not gone unnoticed, even if he chose not to acknowledge it openly. You had always been a presence in his life, but tonight, the reality of your fragility seemed to cut through the usual indifference.
He took a deep breath, his gaze finally shifting away from you as he turned his attention back to his meal. The silence that followed was filled with the soft clinking of utensils and the low murmur of conversation from the servants who hovered at the edges of the room, their eyes darting to you with barely concealed concern.
You ate in silence, each bite of food tasting like ash in your mouth. The pain in your chest had subsided, but a deep weariness remained, a lingering reminder of your deteriorating health. You glanced at Sukuna from time to time, but he was absorbed in his meal, his expression unreadable.
The conversation you had tried to initiate was now buried beneath the weight of your illness, and you knew better than to press further. The battle for his leniency would have to wait for another day, another time when you were not so overshadowed by your own suffering.
As the meal drew to a close, you felt the oppressive silence settle around you once more. Sukunaâs gaze was distant, his thoughts seemingly occupied with matters beyond the confines of the dining room. You could only hope that, in some small way, your presence had made a difference, even if it was not the kind you had hoped for.
When the servants cleared away the dishes and the room began to empty, you excused yourself, retreating to your chamber with a heavy heart. You knew that your time here was growing shorter, that the end was approaching with each passing day. But for now, you would carry on, finding what small measure of peace you could in the fleeting moments you had left.
And as you lay down in your bed, staring up at the ceiling, you could not help but think of the blood you had tried to hide, of the way Sukunaâs eyes had lingered on it. You could only hope that someday, he might see you not as a mere shadow or a reminder of what he had lost, but as a person who had tried, in her own way, to make a difference in his world.
The next morning, you awoke to a disorienting cacophony of shouts and harsh reprimands. The once-familiar silence of your quarters was shattered by the sounds of chaos from the courtyard. Your heart sank as you stumbled out of bed, a sharp pain reminding you of the night before.
As you made your way through the hallways, the noise grew louder, mingling with the harsh, angry tones of Ryomen Sukunaâs voice. Your mind raced, dreading what you might find. You knew it already. You have seen it in the other households of the other concubines. And you can only know what had caused such a commotion. When you reached the courtyard, the scene before you was both startling and terrifying.
Your servants were gathered in the center of the courtyard, their faces pale with fear and their postures crumpled under the weight of Sukunaâs wrath. He stood at the center of the commotion, his expression thunderous as he raged at them. His anger was palpable, his words a relentless storm of fury directed at those who had failed to inform him of your condition.
Your breath caught in your throat, and without thinking, you stepped forward, your heart pounding in your chest. The courtyard fell into a stunned silence as Sukunaâs gaze shifted to you, his eyes dark with a mixture of surprise and irritation.
"My lord, please." you began, your voice trembling as you bowed deeply, your forehead nearly touching the ground. "This is my fault, not theirs. I beg for your forgiveness and mercy for my servants."
Sukunaâs eyes narrowed as he took in your contrite posture, his anger momentarily faltering. He regarded you with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity, his dark, unforgiving, gaze sharp as he assessed your sincerity.
"It was my decision to hide my illness, my lord." you continued, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I did not want to trouble you or cause unnecessary concern. Please, spare them your anger. They were only following my wishes."
Ryomen Sukuna remained silent for a moment, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. The servants, though still shaken, dared to lift their eyes to you, their expressions a blend of relief and apprehension.
Finally, Sukuna's gaze softened, a hint of resignation creeping into his expression. He took a deep breath, his anger dissipating as he looked at you with a new intensity. "You would take the blame for them?" he asked, his voice low and edged with incredulity.
You nodded, maintaining your bowed position. "Yes, my lord. It was my choice, my responsibility. I could not bear the thought of them being punished for my actions."
Sukunaâs expression hardened slightly, but the fury in his eyes had dimmed. After a moment of consideration, he gave a curt nod. "Very well. You will accept any punishment I shall put upon you.â
You swallowed the bile down your throat. âYes, my lord.â
âThen I will call for healers. You will see them immediately." He says, as though it was the final verdict. âYou will see them, all of them. Do you understand?â
âYesâŚyes, my lord.â You whispered back to him.
He turned away from the servants, his gaze now fixed on you with an inscrutable intensity. "Go." he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "See to your health, you foolish girl. Your servants too can go. They will tend to you, no matter what you ask.â
You straightened slowly, a mixture of relief and trepidation washing over you. You dared to look up at Sukuna, meeting his eyes briefly before turning to address the servants.
"Thank you, my lord." you said quietly, your voice filled with gratitude. "You have done nothing wrong. Please, return to your duties."
With a final, respectful bow, you turned and headed back toward your quarters with the help of your servants. As you entered your quarters, you felt like you had lived a thousand lifetimes in that one moment. Your servants were bowing at your feet, asking for your forgiveness. But you had all but shooed them away, telling them it was your duty as their master.
You wanted to be alone right now. At least when you still had the chance. When the healers arrive, you would have a life to yourself any longer. You would be stuck in their mercy, with their potions and their whims.
You must prepare yourself for the arrival of the healers. You groaned lowly as you clutch your chest, a wave of pain hitting one after the other. It will be over soon, thatâs what you hoped. Thatâs what you want. You want to be free from this pain. You wanted nothing more than to be free.
THE PAIN WAS RELENTLESS. The days dragged on in a relentless cycle of pain and futile hope. Despite the best efforts of countless healers, none seemed able to bring you any real relief.
If anything, your condition worsened, each new treatment only seeming to accelerate your quick decline. Ryomen Sukunaâs frustration was palpable; his anger had become a regular presence, casting a long shadow over the already bleak atmosphere of the estate.
You had heard the whispers of the fate that befell each healer who failed to improve your condition. It was a grim reminder of Sukunaâs volatility, a dangerous mix of desperation and rage. The once-bustling quarters were now filled with an air of fearful tension as new healers arrived, only to face Sukunaâs wrath when their efforts proved ineffectual.
On one of the rare days when you felt well enough to leave your bed, you chose to sit by the garden. The fresh air and the sight of the vibrant blooms were a welcome distraction from the constant ache in your body. You had managed to position yourself on a stool under the gentle shade of a cherry tree, finding some small comfort in watching the birds flit about, their cheerful chirping a stark contrast to the turmoil that had become your life.
Sukuna appeared in the garden, his presence as imposing as ever. He walked with a deliberate pace, his gaze scanning the surroundings with an air of detached observation. As he neared, you looked up and greeted him with a smile, though the effort felt heavy, as if each movement was a strain against the burden of your illness.
âMy lord.â you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper. âThe skies are beautiful today, arenât they?â
Sukuna stopped, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in your serene expression. The silence stretched between you, an unspoken tension that lingered like the heat of a summer day. He said nothing in response, his gaze fixed on you with an inscrutable intensity.
After a moment, he broke the silence. âHow is it that you can accept death with such⌠calm?â His voice was low, edged with curiosity and something else you couldnât quite place.
You blinked, taken aback by his question. A laugh escaped you, soft and brittle, more out of surprise than genuine amusement. âAccept death, my lord?â you repeated. âI havenât accepted death, in truth. But there is no way to avoid it.â
Sukunaâs eyes remained on you, his expression unreadable as he listened. You continued, your voice tinged with a philosophical resignation. âDeath will come for all of us, eventually. Itâs a natural end to this life. We all must face it in our own time. In that way, we are all freed from the burdens of this world.â
He studied you with a mixture of skepticism and something akin to contemplation. âYou speak as if it is an inevitability you embrace, little one.â
âNot embrace, my lord.â you corrected gently, sighing. âBut acknowledge. Itâs a part of life, as much as the beginning is. We can fight it or we can accept it, but it will come regardless.â
Sukunaâs gaze softened slightly, though his expression remained stoic. He seemed to be weighing your words, his usual fierceness replaced by an unusual quiet. âAnd you are not afraid, then?â
âFear?â You tilted your head, considering the question. âI suppose I am afraid of the pain that might come before the end. But fear of death itself? Not so much. Itâs merely another step in the journey, my lord. That is what I believe, at least.â
For a moment, there was a stillness between you, punctuated only by the distant chirping of birds. Sukunaâs eyes flickered to the sky, perhaps contemplating the vastness of existence you had spoken of. The anger that had once seemed so consuming in his presence now appeared subdued, replaced by a contemplative silence.
âI see.â he said finally, his tone carrying a trace of grudging respect. âYour words are⌠unusual.â
You smiled faintly, a tired but genuine expression. âPerhaps. But sometimes, facing the truth can be a way to find peace, my lord.â
Sukuna stood there for a while longer, his presence a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the gardenâs tranquility. Finally, he gave a curt nod and turned to leave, his demeanor less harsh than before. The sound of his footsteps gradually faded as he walked away, leaving you alone once more with your thoughts and the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze.
As you sat there, watching the birds and the shifting clouds, you felt a small measure of contentment. Sukunaâs visit had brought a moment of introspection, a reminder of the fragile balance between life and death. Even in your suffering, you found a semblance of peace, understanding that acceptance was not about surrendering to fate but about finding a way to live with it, even as the end loomed ever closer.
And just like that, the day you had dreaded finally arrived. And truly, you were left feeling an unbearable weakness that signaled the end was near. The once-familiar confines of your quarters now seemed like a distant world, and the pain of your illness was a constant, gnawing presence. Each breath was a struggle, each moment of consciousness a battle against the encroaching darkness.
To your surprise, your lord Sukuna appeared by your side as you lay on your bed, his imposing figure contrasting sharply with the fragility of your own condition. He had not been a part of your daily existence in the past weeks, his visits sporadic and his presence usually marked by anger and frustration. But now, he was here, seated beside you in a rare display of stillness.
You looked at him through the haze of pain and weakness, your voice a mere whisper. âMy lord, it seems this is my time to part from you.â
Sukunaâs eyes were steady, his gaze betraying an emotion you could not fully decipher. âI know, little one.â he replied simply, his voice holding a note of finality.
A pained laugh escaped your lips, the sound mingling with a shuddering breath. âI only wish⌠I could avoid being reborn into such misery again. To be the other woman, to be nothing to you.â
Sukunaâs silence stretched between you, a weighty pause that seemed to deepen the divide between you. After a moment, he spoke, his voice low but firm. âYou were something.â
You shook your head, the effort to move even slightly causing a fresh wave of agony. âYou lie easily, as you breathe, my lord.â you said with a faint, sorrowful smile.
The silence that followed was heavy and palpable, filled with the unspoken complexities of your relationship. As you lay there, the end drawing closer with each passing moment, you found a strange clarity in the finality of your situation.
âI love you, my lord.â you said softly, the words carrying a weight that transcended the physical pain. âAs sad as it is, I do. But I have no intention of having it returned. I hope that, in the next life, I never meet you again.â
Sukunaâs expression remained impassive, but there was a softness in his gaze that belied his usual stoic demeanor. As you took your final, labored breaths, his sigh was a mix of resignation and something deeper, something that spoke to the complexity of your intertwined fates.
âI hope so too, little one.â he said quietly, his voice carrying a rare touch of vulnerability.
With those words hanging in the air, you felt a sense of release, the weight of your suffering beginning to lift. As your consciousness faded and the pain finally ebbed away, you left behind the world that had been both your prison and your refuge. Ryomen Sukuna looked at your lifeless body, pursing his lips into a flat line.
âLive on in a better life, little one.â He whispered, his fingers brushing against your hair. âMay you be loved by someone who loves you. May we never meet again, my other woman."
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Before Sukuna died, he had a thought⌠or rather, a memory of someone, something he once had. He was born starving, screamingâa curse that had been discarded. He knew they were all right to fear him. Not in a way of self-pity, but in a way that acknowledged the truth: yes, he was a curse. He was not ashamed of who he was. Yes, he had four eyes, yes, he had four arms, and yes, the side of his face was burnt and monstrous.
But he had someone once. He had forgotten her face, or the child they had together, but he had never forgotten her voice. And now, he could hear it.
"Sukuna, love, it's okay⌠just let go⌠we are waiting for youâŚ"
Sukuna didn't have any weaknesses; he would eliminate them from the root.
You were ten, and Sukuna was thirteen when you two first met. Just like him, you were different. You had boarded a ship that came to Japan for trade, and they left you there. You learned the language rather quickly and started working, but you were still a child.
You worked as a cleaner in a geisha house, but they didnât let you stay, so you were homelessâand so was he. He always covered half his face and wore strange clothes. You could tell he was hiding something, and if you looked closer, you could even see red, demon-like eyes.
Many of the kids stayed away from both of you because he was considered a demon, and now you were a witch, his âwife.â You were rather calm and never affected by their comments, but he was not. He was hot-headed, angry, and now flustered that you were considered his wife.
He would chase them around and hit them, but nothing changed.
As you both grew into your teenage years, your madam began training you in the ways of the geisha and womanhood, as she saw you were beginning to attract many men. You had grown into a very beautiful woman, and being a foreigner, the men were curious.
By this time, you and Sukuna were very close and lived together, both homeless and saving money. He found himself a job building houses and doing manual labor. You knew Sukuna's secret. You had once walked in on him naked and saw everythingâhis extra arms, his large stomach. You had asked what he was, and he told you everything. But he insisted that he was still human and would never become what he feared.
When you told him you would be moving out to live in the geisha house, he lost it.
He screamed in your face that you would be a whore and no one would marry you if you did that, accusing you of selling your body. By this time, you were furious. No man wanted to marry you anyway. Yes, they were curious, but they saw you as nothing more than a fantasy. At least with this life, you would be comfortable and taken care of.
He had said nothing after that, just breathed heavily, looking down at you from his towering height. He had grown up so much.
He dragged you by your neck. It was night, raining, and mud covered the ground. You were both soaked to the bone, and you screamed at him to let go.
Then he stopped at a dark shrine, still dragging you up.
"You will marry me, and that is the end of it."
There was nothing you could have done. But you did love him; otherwise, you wouldnât have felt this giddy and blushy.
Sukuna had loved you since he first saw you. You had always been very mature and responsible, even if he was older. Every time someone would point out how close you two were, he would get mad and flustered, but that was really to hide his weakness. He knew the world was cruel, and he did not expect you to love him. If his own mother had thrown him out the minute he was born, why should he expect a strange woman to love him?
He got a good job just so you could be a little safer and live with him. You two were always outcasts, so it was natural for you to be close. He didnât want to scream or yell at you, but in his mind, it was the only way to get your attention. If he could help it, he would have you quit that job and find something else. He knew what went on in there; he knew the men, and he knew how they thought.
You two were already living together without being married, which everyone thought was scandalous, but since you lived in the forest, out of sight, it was bearable.
So imagine his surprise when his love, his heart, decided that she was grown and could think for herself. The horror he felt was unimaginable. Once you went into that house, you would never come back. So why not marry you? He loved you, and over time, you would come to love him. He would take care of you and any baby you might have. It would be a nice life, really.
And so, in the pouring rain, under the dim light of the shrine, he made a vow. His hands were firm but gentle, and his eyes, for once, werenât filled with anger but something softer, something almost like fear.
By the time you were seventeen and he was twenty, the two of you had married. Not too long after, you found out you were expecting. Just as he had promised, he made you quit your job at the geisha house, much to the madamâs displeasure. Once you were pregnant, you stayed home. The house wasnât quite a home yet, but it was getting there. Every day, Sukuna would come home, kiss you on the forehead, and talk a little about his day. Sukuna couldnât have been happier; he had married the girl he wanted, she was carrying his child, and they were living a quiet life.
He was a surprisingly affectionate man, and even after being married, there was still so much love, tension, and shyness between the two of you. You could feel his gaze linger on you, his touches tender but hesitant, as if he was still unsure if he deserved to hold you this close.
Your first pregnancy gave you twin boysâtwo fat, healthy babies who came unexpectedly but were full of life. They were copies of Sukuna but with your hair texture, with wild, curly pink locks that framed their small, chubby faces. The boys were loud and mischievous, just like their father, but there was a softness in their gaze that reminded you of yourself.
Your second child was a baby girl, a little bundle of fierce energy who you loved more than life itself. She, too, looked just like Sukuna, even inheriting his temper, but she had your hair color. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and filled with the same intensity that he carried, but when she smiled, she softened just like you did.
Just when you thought you were done, Sukuna couldn't keep his hands to himself. He was insatiable, always pulling you close, whispering things in your ear that made your heart race. He couldnât get enough of you, and it wasnât long before you were pregnant again.
Despite the chaos of raising young children, he remained loving, never straying far from you. There was a sense of fulfillment in his eyes, a contentment you had never seen before. He would hold you close at night, his large hands resting on your belly as he dreamed of the future. You would fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, feeling safe, loved, and cherished.
Sukuna might have been a curse to the world, but to you, he was everythingâa husband, a father, and the man you loved more than words could ever express.
--
And then they came.
Sukuna had warned you and the children never to wander off and, if they saw anything unusual, to run straight home. He knew you could see curses, but you didn't have the energy or power to fight them. His children, however, were differentâthey had inherited some of his strength and abilities. He also knew that if someone ever exposed him, then all of you could be hunted down.
The day they came into town, they arrived with a purpose. Rumors had spread of a curse living among them, and they claimed they were there to eliminate the threat. The townsfolk, always wary of monsters and strange things, became skittish, whispers of fear and suspicion spreading like wildfire.
Sukuna was terrified for you and the children. He even told you it might be best for all of you to leave the village. But you were defiant; for the first time, an argument erupted between you. You refused to abandon your home, the life you had built together. "If we leave suddenly," you reasoned, "it will look even more suspicious."
At first, he was furious, unable to see past the immediate danger. His heart raced at the thought of losing you or the children, of being hunted down like animals. But as he listened, he realized you were right. The eyes of the village were already on you bothâyour foreign looks and his strange appearance had always set you apart. They had asked him countless times about his red eyes and why he kept half of his face covered. He had lied, saying it was a birth defect, a disability, but he knew they didnât believe him.
He knew, deep down, that their suspicions were growing.
The night it happened, Sukuna might have forgotten the details, or perhaps his mind chose to bury them, as if the memory was too great, too painful to bear. Sometimes the brain does thatâit takes away the privilege of remembering what hurts the most.
You were all sleeping soundly, the children nestled on the opposite side of the room. Sukuna always wanted to hold you close, to kiss you goodnight before sleep. The days were often chaotic with the children, but at night, in the quiet, it was his time to feel your warmth and presence, to have you to himself, if only for a few moments.
Then, the fire started.
How he didnât wake at the first sign was a mystery he would never solve. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe the flames crept up too silently, too deceptively. By the time he noticed it, the smoke was thick, suffocating. He bolted upright, a frantic urgency coursing through his veins, and shook you awake. You were heavily pregnant, but you grabbed your daughter immediately, eyes wide with panic. Sukuna rushed to the boys, scooping them up, and darted toward the door, every muscle in his body taut with fear and desperation.
But the moment he reached the door, he saw them.
They were already there, waiting. A ring of figures, their faces shadowed in the flickering light of the flames, surrounding the house like a dark, suffocating noose. They stood, silent and menacing, ready to finish off whatever or whoever remained inside.
Trapped.
The realization struck him like a physical blow. There was no way out. They were surrounded, and he knew what this meant. They had come for him, for the curse they believed lived among them. Sukunaâs heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with frantic thoughts. He could feel the heat closing in, could hear the crackling of the wood as the fire consumed their home, their sanctuary. He felt you gripping his arm, your eyes filled with terror.
He would not let them take you. He would not let them harm his children.
He felt truly helpless. And it was this feeling of helplessness that drove him to where he is now. That night, something in him brokeâsomething essential and human. He had erased his humanity, severed it from himself to never feel this way again. He vowed to never be weak, to never allow himself to be vulnerable. Even if the memory of what happened had faded, the emotion never left him. It lingered like a shadow over his soul, fueling his hunger for power, for dominance. To never be cornered, to never be looked down uponâhe would be the one who stood above all, untouchable.
He had screamed, fought, and cried his very soul out when they killed you. He remembered the sound of their laughterâthose heroes who saved the town from a supposed curse, as they tormented him, believing he was incapable of feeling, of grieving. But oh, he felt everything. The agony tore through him as they dragged you away, your screams mingling with the terrified cries of your children. He felt his heart being ripped apart, torn from his chest. The things they did to you, to his children, were unforgivable. But to them, they were saviors, champions of righteousness.
He remembered throwing up, the bile burning his throat as he choked on the rawness of his grief. He could still hear your voice sometimes, your soft, gentle voice, and the cries of his children. It echoed in his mind, an unending torment.
Even now, he found himself in tears, wracked with emotion he couldn't place, couldn't understand. How could a curseâa being born of hatred and fearâfeel so deeply? He was supposed to be beyond such things, yet he found himself on his knees, broken by the memory of a life that was taken from him.
The truth was, he had never stopped feeling. His curse was not his monstrous form or his powerâit was his heart that had been shattered beyond repair, a heart that still remembered love, even after all this time.
--
He still sometimes yearns to return to that forest, to the house where you once lived. He dreams of finding you there, waiting for himâstill pregnant, the kids running to him with their joyful laughter. Maybe, just maybe, youâre still there.
He wants to ask you if the kids are doing well. Are they behaving? Are they happy?
Are you happy?
Do you still love him?
<^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^>
i am literally crying like I'm going to miss him so much. my heart hurts. this is how I see sukuna background ig.
[Trigger Warning: Sukuna is a red flag, mentions of sex, mentions of killings (its Sukuna so duh), borderline abusive relationship in the middle. Also, be prepared for the angst because I love the pain.]
1,2,3,4,5âŚ
Ryomen Sukuna never got married in his lifetime. Nor did he fall in love. He was the king of curses after all, a being incapable of love. However, it was known that he kept many concubines, lived a debauched lifestyle at his prime during the Heian era. You were one of those concubines. Your beginnings were humble, you were but a mere gift given to Sukuna by your father, the chief of a village he conquered in return for sparing the lives of the people. Sukuna was not a kind person, but he was fair. He allowed those who were able to run away from the village within a given amount of time to leave with their lives.
You never saw your family again, being stuck in Sukunaâs lavish palace, being an abandoned concubine after he merely spent one night with you to enjoy taking your innocence. You were not particularly gorgeous after all, and you did not meet his standards. You were 18 years old when you were given to Sukuna and the first time, he truly noticed you was when you were 20. You had nothing better to be spending your time on, so you decided to help the servants with their chores. You were never the type to flaunt your status as concubine, specially given you did not have Sukunaâs favor. So, you made the decision to live a humble life in the palace. You were drying the laundry at the gardens where concubines normally go on walks to enjoy the view. It was spring, and Sakura season, and Sukuna noticed you while taking a walk around the estate himself. He found a curious target to alleviate his boredom.
87,88,89,90,91âŚ
Sukuna did recognize you. He had great memory after all, he remembered that you were one of the worthless concubines he had, the ones who normally waste his resources. He did consider asking Uraume to cook you into a decent meal, however, you had piqued his curiosity. âWhy are you doing the chores designated to the servants?â he asked you. Watching you flinch was amusing, it was obvious you didnât notice him approach you. Your words were more than interesting as well as you stammered out a response, saying something about making yourself useful and alleviating your boredom. Immediately, he assumed that you were the resourceful type. He could respect that, no matter how lowly you are.
He left without further words that day, though it seemed that fate had different plans in motion as he kept finding you in his way more frequently. It was always an awkward interaction on your part and more of an annoyance on his. However, he found the way you acted intriguing and somewhat amusing. He even let out a chuckle the other day, when he saw you choke on a Sakura petal while yawning while feeding the koi at the koi pond. By the end of the Sakura season, he called you to bed for the second time. It was a mere curiosity after all, one that could be quenched through carnal means.
172,173,174,175,176âŚ
By the end of the next few months, by some miracle, Sukuna found himself more eager for your presence in his bed. You were different from the other women he had. The way you scrunched your face when he pounded into you, the unadulterated gasps and moans that left your lips, it was all surprisingly raw and pleasing. There were no words of praise from you, no honeyed words of affection, none of those schemes to curry favor with him that even his favorites were guilty of. In terms of beauty, you didnât hold a candle to them but⌠You were convenient. Somehow more pleasurable as you didnât have unrealistic expectations from him. These days, he enjoyed you far more than the most beautiful women in his harem. With you, it was all about pleasure, and not politics.
Besides, you were oddly endearing. Whatever conversation he had with you were mostly about your interests, which was surprising. Most women try to be âunderstanding and caringâ with him, letting him rant about how much he enjoys war or killing and pretends thatâs normal, however you were different. You ranted so much about yourself given the opportunity that he barely had the space to speak. It was somewhat nice though; your voice was pleasing to the ear and your interests were⌠somewhat useful. You were well versed in the usage of herbs and had a good amount of knowledge on poisons. It seemed your hobby was collecting herbs and gardening, something he decided to spoil you with. You did seem rather bored in the palace. So, he gave you a section of the gardens to plant whatever you wanted in. Of course you turned that into an herb garden.
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Was it just him or were you always so vibrant? Why did your smile look brighter than the sun when you explained the use of the new foreign herbal plant that he acquired for you? Did he not almost abandon you because you seemed dull? Was he truly that blind? These questions plagued Sukunaâs mind at that moment as you cheerfully showed off your little garden to him. It was so mundane, yet surprisingly tranquil. Perhaps he should spoil you more, give you more of these useless plants if it makes you as happy as a child with mochi.
Rumors spread around the palace lately that you were on your way to becoming the kingâs new favorite. Then again, Sukuna never paid mind to such things. Who cares if the other concubines are green with jealousy? He rather enjoys the squabbles over who gets his attention. He wondered how you would deal with it.
524,525,526,527âŚ
Five years passed and it seemed like your radiance had no intention to dim. In fact, it only seemed to be brighter in Sukunaâs eyes. You were like the sun, like a source of light in his dark life, like a moment of respite amongst the constant need of violence that dictated his life. For the longest time, he hated this weakness, and it reached a boiling point. For days, lately, he sat awake in his bed, watching you sleep, convincing himself that it would be so easy to choke the life out of you. Yet, his hands felt weak when he wrapped them around your throat. His fingers didnât move, he only felt the softness of your skin, and not the crack of a broken larynx. His hands had never shaken at the thought of taking a life before, so why now?
Some days, he felt the need to be cruel. He left you alone for days, yet he would find himself calling for you like you were a drug he was addicted to. He was brutal during sex. He wanted to hurt you, physically, emotionally. He wanted to break you, break this vicious cycle of weakness that wasnât befitting of him. Yet, through the tears flowing from your eyes, you looked at him like he was his lifeline. Was this love? How dare you love a monster like him? Did you have no self-preservation? You should die for this crime of putting yourself in danger, for placing yourself so deep within his rotten heart. Yet, he could only hurt you, mark you as his own with all the bruises and bites littered onto your body. Even when he lost control, he could only almost choke you to death. What curse did you have on him that prevented him from being done with you?
690,691,692,693âŚ
You were 29 years old when the king of curses came to terms with this weakness. He did not love you. No, of course he did not. He was incapable of it. You were simply important to him. Like how breathing is important to him. His brutality towards you came to an abrupt stop the day the palace healer announced that you were expecting his child. Yes, only you were deserving of giving him an heir. Only you were the one with any worth in this palace other than Uraume. Perhaps he could use a queen as well? That thought was quickly abandoned though. It would make you a target after all. He wouldnât allow that.
Turned out, showing you the importance that you deserved all along made him learn more silly things about you. You were the sentimental kind after all. Why else would you store a jar full of Sakura petals from the day he first spoke to you all those years ago when you were doing some menial chores? He didnât even remember that interaction till you mentioned it. âI saved a petal for every day of spring, to remember every Sakura blooms I spent by your sideâ, was what you told him with that soft smile of yours. How foolish, how endearing. He hoped his heir would not inherit this trait from you. He needed a strong heir after all, one who could protect you alongside him.
756,757,758,759,780âŚ
Sukuna always took pride on his ability to see through people. He was a very intelligent person after all. It was as he expected, you were targeted, despite him never making you his wife. Even the fact that he allowed you to carry his child spoke volumes about your place in his life, aside from the fact that he rarely spent time with the other concubines these days. He took the precautions, he really did. Starting from the extra guards, having you sleep in his chambers every night, having Uraume oversee your food, he did put all the stops. However, he knew he underestimated the human capacity for evil, despite he himself being evil incarnate. He knew jealousy was a powerful motivator but managing to swap the food Uraume made for you with a poisoned bowl of rice? The severed heads of his concubines were hung at the palace entrance for months. While you managed to survive thanks to his reversed cursed technique, the child did not.
He did not care much about the death of his unborn child. How was he supposed to love something he never met? Yet, it was a painful realization when he saw the lifelessness in your eyes that you loved that thing. Why were you simply not happy about surviving? Was he not enough for you to live for? Why did the endless plethora of gifts, the rare plants he bought for you not make you give that idiotic smile to him anymore? The Sakura always dimmed in beauty compared to you and yet, this spring, all he could notice was your lifeless expression as you sat at the gardens, thinking of your loss. The spring lost its beauty alongside your smile.
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You never produced a child again. He tried to have you bear him another heir but it seemed the poison had damaged your immune system far too much. He stopped trying the moment the palace doctor said you may die giving birth. He simply stopped touching you. Sukuna could not fathom the idea of breathing in a world without you. You took it personally at first, words were thrown at each other as your insecurities reared its ugly head. Arguments only lasted so long after all. You had years to live, and Sukuna had years to find a way to make you go back to your normal self. And he was partially correct. You did go back to your normal self not long later. While Sukuna never laid with you again, you were constantly present in his life. Constantly by his side. It was a learning experience for Sukuna that affection comes in non-carnal ways, even holding you brought him peace after all. Besides, he had a harem full of women to satisfy him. Why risk your safety for his selfish desires?
25 blissful years passed faster than he could imagine. It was worrying, seeing one, and then two, and many more grey hairs peeking out of your soft locks. The smile lines made him realize the passage of time, though he was glad you had reasons to smile. He himself never grew older, because he had his ways of stopping his aging. Yet, when he offered you immortality, you refused. âI wish to grow old, my lord. I wish to be one with nature someday and I wish you would mourn for me when I passâ you told him with that cheeky smile. He did not take you seriously. It was foolish of you. He decided to make you immortal anyway when the time was right. Perhaps do some ritual to turn you into a cursed spirit. He waited patiently for the day you would tire of your aging and ask him for it. He was sure you would.
994,995,996,997,998,999,1000.
A thousand Sakura petals was what you left behind in that jar you kept. All perfectly dried to retain its shape as he counted the last one. It was the result of three decades with him, the testament to the relationship you had with him. It was a beautiful way to commemorate it, a sentimental way, just the way you always were. So why did he have tears in his eyes? You never asked him to make you immortal, and at the ripe age of 50, he found you dead in your sleep in your chambers this morning. He should have noticed the signs, the way your little herb garden was not being taken care of for the past month, the way those rare plants withered. He had the head of the palace doctor for not being able to revive you. He had the heads of everyone who crossed him, everyone who even mentioned having to bury your corpse. He didnât understand you at all. Was being his so painful that you chose death over immortality? Was it really necessary making him mourn for you? Was it necessary to bring him to his knees? Does this satisfy your pride?
No, Ryomen Sukuna never loved you. You were simply the air in his lungs, the beating of his heart, the blood in his veins. It wasnât love at all.